Blue Labyrinth

The cabbie nosed his vehicle to the curb. Constance Greene pushed some money through the sliding window, collected the bag, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. She stood for a moment, considering. Across Washington Avenue stood a wrought-iron fence, and beyond that the dark trees of the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. Even though it was nine thirty, the traffic on Washington Avenue was steady and there were pedestrians on the move.

Slinging the bag onto one shoulder by its strap, Constance smoothed down the pleats of her dress and brushed the hair from her face. She walked to the corner, waited at the crosswalk for the light to change, and crossed to the other side.

Here the wrought-iron fence surrounding the garden stood about waist-high and was topped with dull spikes. Casually strolling along the fence, Constance walked to a spot midway between streetlights: a dark zone where overhanging tree limbs cast additional shadows. Setting down her bag, she took out her cell phone on the pretense of checking it and waited until there was no one in view. Then, in one smooth movement, she grasped two of the spikes and swung herself over, dropping down on the far side. Reaching over the fence, she retrieved her bag. A quick jog carried her into the protective darkness of the trees, where she paused to look back to see if her movements had attracted attention.

All seemed normal.

Opening the duffel, she removed a small satchel from it and hid it beneath some ground cover. Then she began moving through the darkness. She had not brought a flashlight: the waxing moon was just rising over the trees, and in any case her eyes were unusually well adapted to darkness from the many years of living in the basement corridors and crawl spaces underneath 891 Riverside Drive.

She had downloaded a map of the Brooklyn Botanic Garden from the institution’s website and carefully memorized it. Ahead of her lay a border of dense shrubbery that formed a natural wall. She eased into the shrubbery and pushed her way through, emerging in an isolated corner of the Shakespeare Garden. Trampling through a dense patch of irises, their crushed scent rising around her, she gained a brick path that wound through the plantings. Here she paused again to listen. All was dark and quiet. She had no idea what kind of security might be present in the garden, and she moved with exquisite care, instinctively employing skills sharpened from roaming the New York docks as a child, stealing food and money.

Staying off the main paths, Constance continued past a bed of primroses and another course of shrubbery, followed by a low stone wall. Scaling this, she arrived at the edge of the main pathway leading up to the Palm House, a stately Tuscan Revival building of iron and glass. Beyond it were the greenhouse complexes, including the Aquatic House, home to Hodgson’s Sorrow. But the main path was broad and too well lit to make for a good approach. She waited in the shrubbery, watching for security and puzzled to see none. It occurred to her that this might be evidence of Pendergast’s claim that Barbeaux would get there before her; if so, he would have neutralized the security.

This was good to know.

Then again, this was a botanical garden, not an art museum. Perhaps there wasn’t any night security at all.

Keeping to the shadows of the plantings, she passed between the Fragrance Garden and the Japanese Hill-and-Pond Garden. A night breeze carried the scent of the honeysuckle and peonies toward her. Making her way past a dense planting of azaleas, she could see the Magnolia Plaza ahead, the trees already off their spring bloom. Beyond lay the waters of the Lily Pool, glimmering in the moonlight.

While examining the map of the Botanic Garden, Constance had mentally sketched out a route of approach. The best point of entry would be the elegant Palm House, much of which had been converted from greenhouse into an event space for hosting social functions. The building had large, single-paned glass windows. The newer greenhouses, on the other hand, had smaller windows, some of them with double-paned glass.

She darted across the Magnolia Plaza and regained the shadows along one long wing of the Palm House. The grand old Victorian structure was composed of a central dome and two glass wings. She paused to peer through one of the panes. This wing of the Palm House had been set up for an elegant wedding that was apparently to take place the next day, with long tables covered in white linen, opulent place settings, candelabras, glassware, and unlit candles. There was no obvious sign of a security system. Kneeling, she slid the backpack off her shoulder and onto the ground. She slid a small leather wallet out of one external pocket of the backpack, and from it she extracted a glass cutter and a suction cup. Fixing the cup to the center of the large glass pane, she carefully cut an incision around the pane’s periphery. A few sharp taps knocked out the glass, and she carefully laid it aside, pushed the backpack through the opening, then crawled in after it, tucking her dress around her so it would not snag.

Collecting the bag again, she made her way among the silent tables, through the great central glass dome, across a parquet dance floor, toward the far wing. There was a door leading into the next wing that she tested and found to be unlocked. Throughout her passage, she had been prepared to retreat quickly at the first sound of a tripped alarm, but the Palm House remained silent and shadowy.

She pushed the door ajar, listened, looked, then ducked through. This was the Bonsai Museum, supposedly the greatest outside of Japan. Beyond it lay her destination: the Aquatic House and orchid collection.

The Bonsai Museum offered few hiding places, the dwarf trees arranged on pedestals in rows along the front and rear walls, leaving an open central aisle. Crouching behind a pedestal, Constance paused. There remained no evidence of security — or of Barbeaux. It was cooler here in the Bonsai Museum, and there was a soft hum from fans set near the roof.

She moved swiftly past the twisted little trees and paused at the next door. Cracking it open slightly — once again, it wasn’t locked — she hesitated. All was silent. She slipped through and found herself in an entrance lobby. To her right rose the Steinhardt greenhouse complex, with its huge Tropical Pavilion, and straight ahead lay the entrance to the Aquatic House.

Creeping across the dark lobby, she advanced to the entrance to the Aquatic House: a pair of glass doors that were shut. She approached the closest one, crouched in the shadows, and peered within.

All was silent. And then, after the most careful scrutiny of the space beyond the doors, her eye began to make out the faintest outline of a man standing perfectly still. She could not see him directly; rather, she saw his reflection off a watery surface glimmering in the moonlight. The outline of a gun was in his hand.

So Pendergast was right after all. That Barbeaux knew about her coming here was startling. As best she knew, she had discussed the location only with Margo. But clearly, their plan had been leaked and there was a traitor in their midst. Barbeaux knew she was coming for the plant in this greenhouse. He was waiting for her.

She thought about Margo, and her own mission within the Museum basement. Was it possible Barbeaux knew about that, as well? Of course it was. She could only hope Margo’s vast knowledge of the Museum’s secret places would help keep her safe.

Ever so slowly, she shifted her position, and in so doing spied a second dim figure in the Aquatic House. This one had an assault rifle slung over his shoulders.

These men were clearly professional soldiers, and they were heavily armed — alarming, but not surprising, given Red Mountain’s stock-in-trade. Barbeaux was leaving nothing to chance.