Cold Vengeance

D’Agosta stared in pure disbelief. A freakish dead tree trunk, here in the middle of nowhere, miles from any live trees. If he had passed this before he would surely have noticed.

But wasn’t he on the trail…?

As he looked around in the gathering gloom, scrutinizing the trail, he began to realize that what he’d thought was a path was just a collection of random patches of sand and gravel interspersed among the bogs.

Now it was really getting dark. And the cold was deepening. It might even go below freezing.

His colossal stupidity in venturing alone out on the moors began to sink home. He was still in a weakened condition. No flashlight, no compass, his solitary sandwich long-since eaten. His concern for Pendergast had led him to take foolish risks and push himself to the edge… and then over it.

What the hell now? It was already so dark that trying to continue would be stupid. The landscape had dissolved into a dim, mottled gray and there was no hope of identifying any cairn now. God, he’d never been so cold in his life. It felt like the cold was hardening the very marrow of his bones.

He would have to spend the night on the moors.

He looked about and saw, not far off, a pair of boulders. Shivering, teeth chattering hard, he went over and hunkered down between them, out of the wind. He tried to make himself as small as possible, curling up into a fetal position, forcing his hands under his arms. The rain pounded on his back, creeping in rivulets around his neck and down his face. And then he realized it was no longer raining but sleeting, the heavy drops of slush splattering on his mac and sliding down its surface.

Just as he was thinking he couldn’t stand the cold anymore, he began to feel a creeping warmth. Unbelievable — the strategy was working, his body was responding. Adjusting to the intense cold. The warmth began at his very core and slowly, slowly, radiated outward. He felt sleepy and strangely peaceful. He grew calmer. He might just be able to weather this night after all. And in the morning the sun might be up, it would be warmer, and he could start afresh and pick up the trail.

Now he was feeling quite warm and his mood soared. This was going to be a piece of cake. Even the ache of his injury was gone.

Darkness had fallen and he felt unbelievably sleepy. It would be good to get some sleep, the night would pass a lot faster. As the darkness became complete, the sleet tapered off. More good luck. No — it was now snowing. Well, at least the wind had died down. God, he was sleepy.

And then in adjusting his position, he glimpsed it: a faint light in the fields of blackness — yellow, wavering. D’Agosta stared. Was he seeing things? It had to be Glims Holm — what else could it be? And it wasn’t all that far off. He should go there.

But no; he was so wonderfully sleepy he’d spend the night here, and go in the morning. Good to know it was close by. Now he could go to sleep in peace. He drifted off into a deliciously warm sea of nothingness…

CHAPTER 16

Antigua, Guatemala

THE MAN IN THE LINEN SUIT AND WHITE STRAW FEDORA sat at a small table in the front courtyard of the restaurant, eating a late breakfast of huevos rancheros with sour cream and jalapeño sauce. From his vantage point he could see the Parque Central, fringed with green, tourists and children gathered around the rebuilt fountain at its center. Beyond lay the Arco de Santa Catalina, the rich deep yellow of its arch and bell tower more suited to Venice than Central America. And still farther — beyond the pastel-colored buildings and brown roofs — rose huge volcanic peaks, their dark crowns smoked by banks of cloud.

Even at this hour, music echoed faintly from open windows. Cars passed in the street, stirring up occasional bits of trash.

It was a warm morning, and the man removed the fedora and placed it on the table. He was tall and imposing, and the linen suit could not fully hide the massive, sculpted physique of a bodybuilder. His movements were slow, almost studied, but his pale eyes were alert, taking in everything, missing nothing. His deeply ta

The waitress took away his plate, and he thanked her in fluent Spanish. Glancing around once more, he reached down into a worn briefcase that stood between his feet and pulled out a thin folder. He took a sip of the iced espresso, lit a cigarillo with a gold lighter, then opened the folder, wondering at the urgency of its delivery. Normally, these things went through cha

It was, he mused, the only way they could be positive — one hundred percent positive — that it reached him personally.

He took another sip of espresso, placed the cigarillo in a glass ashtray, then plucked a silk handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket and mopped his brow. Despite his years living in tropical climes, he had never grown accustomed to the heat. He frequently had dreams — strange dreams — of his childhood summers in the old hunting lodge outside Königswinter, with its rambling corridors and its views of the Siebengebirge hills and the Rhine Valley.

Stuffing the handkerchief back in his pocket, he opened the folder. It contained a single newspaper clipping, printed on the tawdriest grade of newsprint. Although the article was dated only a few days before, it was already yellowing. An American newspaper with a ludicrous name: the Ezerville Bee. His eye turned to the headline and opening paragraphs:

Mystery Couple Surfaces After Years in Hiding

By Ned Betterton

MALFOURCHE, MISSISSIPPI — Twelve years ago, a woman named June Brodie, despondent after losing her job as executive secretary at Longitude Pharmaceuticals, apparently took her own life by jumping off the Archer Bridge, leaving a suicide note in her car…

The man lowered the clipping with nerveless fingers. “Scheisse,” he muttered under his breath. Raising the clipping again, he read it in its entirety twice. Folding the article and placing it on the table, he glanced carefully around the square. Then he pulled the lighter from his pocket, lit one edge of the article, and dropped it in the ashtray. He watched it carefully, making sure it burned to a cinder, then crushed the ashes with the end of his cigarillo. He took a deep drag, pulled a cell phone from his pocket, and dialed a long string of numbers.

The call was picked up after one ring. “Ja?” said the voice.

“Klaus?” the man said.

He could hear the voice on the other end of the line stiffen as his own was recognized. “Buenos dias, Señor Fischer,” said the voice.

Fischer continued in Spanish. “Klaus, I have a job for you.”

“Of course, sir.”

“There will be two phases to the job. The first is investigative. The second will involve wet work. You are to begin immediately.”

“I am at your command.”

“Good. I will call you tonight from Guatemala City. You will receive detailed orders then.”

Although the line was secure, Klaus’s next question was coded. “What color is the flag on this job?”

“Blue.”

The voice stiffened further. “Consider it already a success, Señor Fischer.”

“I know I can count on you,” Fischer said, and hung up.

CHAPTER 17

The Foulmire, Scotland

D’AGOSTA SEEMED TO BE SHROUDED IN GREAT DEPTHS of comfort, drifting on a tide of warmth. But even as he was suspended in a quasi-dream-state, that small, rational part of his brain spoke again. A single word: hypothermia.