Cold Vengeance

Thanks to his new friend Lowe, Pendergast had learned there were probably only a few crew members on board. Most had gone ashore that afternoon, leaving, the general manager believed, only four on the vessel. How accurate this information was remained to be seen.

According to Lowe’s description, one of the men was undoubtedly Esterhazy. And then there were the supplies Lowe had observed being loaded recently, including a long stainless-steel dry-goods box large enough to hide an unconscious person — or, for that matter, a corpse.

Pendergast briefly considered what he would do to Esterhazy if the man had already killed Constance.

Esterhazy sat on an engine room bulkhead next to Falkoner, the redheaded woman whose name he did not know, and four men carrying identical Beretta 93R machine pistols configured for automatic three-round burst action. Falkoner had insisted they retreat to the engine room — the most secure place on the boat — for the operation. Nobody spoke.

Soft footfalls approached outside the door, and then a triple knock sounded lightly, followed by a double knock. Falkoner rose and unlocked the door. A man with a cigarette in his mouth stepped inside.

“Put that out,” said Falkoner sharply.

The man quickly stubbed it out. “He’s on board,” he said.

Falkoner looked at him. “When?”

“A few minutes back. He was good — arrived on a floating piece of trash. I almost didn’t catch it. He climbed onto the swim platform and now he’s in the aft deck area. Vic up on the flybridge is keeping track of him with the infrared night-vision setup.”

“Does he suspect anything?”

“No. I pretended to be drunk, like you said.”

“Very good.”

Esterhazy rose. “Damn it, if you had an opportunity to kill him you should have taken it! Don’t get cocky — this man is worth half a dozen of you. Shoot him at your first chance.”

Falkoner turned. “No.”

Esterhazy stared at him. “What do you mean, no? We already discussed—”

“Take him alive. I have a few questions before we kill him.”

Esterhazy stared. “You’re making a huge mistake. Even if you manage to take him alive, he won’t answer any questions.”

Falkoner gave Esterhazy a brutal smile, which stretched the already repulsive mole. “I never have problems getting people to answer questions. But I wonder, Judson, why you would have a problem with that? Afraid we might find out something you’d rather keep hidden?”

“You’ve no idea who you’re dealing with,” Esterhazy said quickly, a stab of familiar fear suddenly freighting his anxiety. “You’re a fool if you don’t kill him right away, on sight, before he figures out what’s going on.”

Falkoner narrowed his eyes. “There are a dozen of us. Heavily armed, well trained. What’s the matter, Judson? We’ve taken care of you well enough all these years — and now you suddenly don’t trust us? I’m surprised — and hurt.”

The voice was laden with sarcasm. Esterhazy felt the old fear grow in the pit of his stomach.

“We’ll be in open water on our own boat. We’ve got the advantage of surprise — he has no idea he’s walking into a trap. And we’ve got his woman tied up below. He’s at our mercy.”

Esterhazy swallowed. As am I, he thought.

Falkoner spoke into his headset. “Take her out to sea.” He looked around the group gathered in the engine room. “We’ll let the others take care of him. If things go awry, then we’ll make our move.”

Pendergast, still crouching behind the tenders, felt a rumble shudder through the yacht. The engines had been turned on. He heard some voices forward, heard the faint splash of a mooring pe

Pendergast pondered the coincidence of his arrival and the boat’s departure, and decided it was not a coincidence after all.

CHAPTER 68

Aboard the Vergeltung

ESTERHAZY WAITED IN THE ENGINE ROOM with Falkoner. The twin diesels, now ru

He checked his watch. Ten minutes had passed since Pendergast came on board. The air of tension was gradually increasing. He didn’t like this — didn’t like it at all. Falkoner had lied to him.

He’d taken exquisite care in reeling Pendergast in. Constance had done precisely what he’d expected, escaping her loose bonds, writing a note and tossing it out the window of the safe house to his plant in the next garden. And since Pendergast was now on board, he had clearly swallowed the bait so carefully dangled—“vengeance,” which of course in German translated to Vergeltung. It had been a balancing act, giving Pendergast just enough information to locate the boat but not enough to suspect a trap.

But now Falkoner was insisting on taking Pendergast alive. Esterhazy felt a twinge of nausea: he knew that one reason Falkoner wanted this was because he enjoyed torture. The man was sick — and his arrogance and sadism could still mess everything up.

Esterhazy felt the old sense of fear and of paranoia increase. He checked his handgun, racked the slide. If Falkoner didn’t follow through at the first opportunity, he’d have to do it himself. Finish what he’d started on the Scottish moors. And do it before Pendergast — intentionally or otherwise — did in fact reveal the secret Esterhazy had kept from the Covenant for the past decade. Christ, if only Pendergast hadn’t examined that old gun; if only he had let sleeping dogs lie. The man had no idea, no idea, of the madness he’d unleashed. Maybe he should have let Pendergast into the awful secret years ago, when he first married his sister.

Too late now.

Falkoner’s radio crackled. “It’s Vic,” came the voice. “I don’t know how, but we seem to have lost him. He’s not behind the tender anymore.”

“Verdammter Mist!” Falkoner said angrily. “How the hell could you lose him?”

“I don’t know. He was hiding where we couldn’t see him. We waited awhile and nothing happened, so I left Berger on watch in the main cabin and went to the sky deck to look from a better angle — and he was gone. I don’t know how — we would’ve seen him no matter which way he went.”

“He must still be down there somewhere,” said Falkoner. “All the doors are locked. Send Berger onto the aft deck; cover him from your position on the flybridge.”

Esterhazy spoke into his own radio headset. “A locked door is no impediment to Pendergast.”

“He couldn’t have gotten past the main cabin door without us seeing him,” said Viktor.

“Flush him out,” Falkoner repeated. “Captain, what’s our position?”

“We’re just coming into New York Harbor.”

“Maintain cruising speed. Head for open ocean.”

Viktor crouched on the flybridge of the Vergeltung, three stories above the surface of the water. The boat had just passed the site of the fast-rising One World Trade Center and was rounding the southern tip of Manhattan, the Battery on their left, lit up by a cluster of spotlights. The buildings of the financial district rose like clusters of glowing spikes, casting an ambient light across the water, bathing the boat in an indirect radiance.

Below him, the aft deck of the Vergeltung was softly illuminated in the glow of the city. Two outboard tenders — small motorboats used for coming and going when the yacht was at anchor — lay side by side on the port stern deck, each in its launching cradle, covered with canvas. There was no way for Pendergast to have gone forward without crossing the open deck. And they had been watching that deck like a hawk. He must still be back in the stern area.