Blue Labyrinth (25 page)

F
or the second time in less than a week, Lieutenant D’Agosta found himself in the gun room of the mansion on Riverside Drive. Everything was the same: the same rare weaponry on display, the rosewood walls, the coffered ceiling. The other attendees were the same, as well: Constance Greene, dressed in a soft organdy blouse and pleated skirt of dark maroon, and Margo, who gave him a distracted smile. Conspicuous in his absence was the owner of the mansion, Aloysius Pendergast.

Constance took a seat at the head of the table. She seemed even more of a cipher than usual, with her stilted manner and old-fashioned accent. “Thank you both for coming,” she said. “I’ve requested your presence this morning because we have an emergency.”

D’Agosta eased into one of the leather chairs that surrounded the table, a sense of foreboding filling his mind.

“My guardian, our friend, is unwell—indeed, he is extremely sick.”

D’Agosta leaned forward. “How sick?”

“He is dying.”

This was greeted with a shock of silence.

“So he was poisoned, like the guy in Indio?” D’Agosta said. “Son of a bitch. Where’s he been?”

“In Brazil and Switzerland, trying to learn what happened to
Alban and why he himself was poisoned. He had a collapse in Switzerland. I found him in a Geneva hospital.”

“Where’s he now?” D’Agosta asked.

“Upstairs. Under private care.”

“My understanding is that it took users of Hezekiah’s elixir months, years, to sicken and die,” Margo said. “Pendergast must have received an extremely concentrated dose.”

Constance nodded. “Yes. His attacker knew he would get only a single chance. It’s also a fair assumption—based on his even quicker decline—that the man who assaulted Pendergast in the Salton Fontainebleau, and is now dead in Indio, got an even stronger dose.”

“That fits,” Margo said. “I got a report from Dr. Samuels in Indio. The dead man’s skeleton shows the same unusual compounds I discovered in Mrs. Padgett’s skeleton—only in much more concentrated amounts. It’s no wonder the elixir killed him so fast.”

“If Pendergast is dying,” D’Agosta said, rising, “why the heck isn’t he in a hospital?”

A narrow stare met his look. “He insisted on leaving the Geneva hospital and flying home via private medical transport. You can’t legally hospitalize someone against his will. He insists there’s nothing anyone can do for him and he will not die in a hospital.”

“Jesus,” said D’Agosta. “What can we do?”

“We need an antidote. And to find that antidote, we need information. That’s why we’re here.” She turned to D’Agosta. “Lieutenant, please tell us the results of your recent investigations.”

D’Agosta mopped his brow. “I don’t know how relevant some of this is, but we traced Pendergast’s attacker to Gary, Indiana. Three years ago, he was a guy named Howard Rudd, family man and shop owner. He got into debt with the wrong people and vanished, leaving his wife and kids. He appeared two months ago with a different face. He’s the guy who attacked Pendergast and probably killed Victor Marsala. We’re trying to account for that gap in his history—where he was, who he was working for. Brick wall so far.” D’Agosta glanced at Margo. She had said nothing, but her face was pale.

For a moment, there was silence. Then Constance spoke again. “Not quite.”

D’Agosta looked at her.

“I’ve been compiling a list of Hezekiah’s victims, on the assumption that a descendant was responsible for the poisoning. Two victims were Stephen and Ethel Barbeaux, a married couple, who succumbed to the effects of the elixir in 1895, leaving three orphaned children, including a baby who was conceived while Ethel was taking the elixir. The family lived in New Orleans, on Dauphine Street, just two houses down from the Pendergast family mansion.”

“Why them, in particular?” said D’Agosta.

“They have a great-grandson, John Barbeaux. He’s CEO of a military consulting company called Red Mountain Industries—and a wealthy and reclusive man. Barbeaux had a son—an only child. The youth was a musical prodigy. Always of delicate health, the boy fell ill two years ago. I haven’t been able to learn much about the details of the illness, but it apparently baffled an entire corps of doctors and specialists with its unusual symptoms. A titanic medical effort failed to save his life.” Constance looked from Margo to D’Agosta and back again. “The case was written up in the British medical journal
Lancet
.”

“What are you saying?” D’Agosta asked. “That the poison that killed John Barbeaux’s great-grandparents jumped down through the generations to kill his son?”

“Yes. The boy complained of the stink of rotten flowers before he died. And I’ve found a scattering of other similar deaths in the Barbeaux family, going back generations.”

“I don’t buy it,” said D’Agosta.

“I do,” said Margo, speaking for the first time. “What you’re suggesting is that Hezekiah’s elixir caused epigenetic changes. Such changes can and do get passed down the generations. Environmental poisons are the leading cause of epigenetic changes.”

“Thank you,” said Constance.

Another brief silence settled over the room.

D’Agosta rose to his feet and began pacing restlessly, his mind racing. “Okay. Let’s put this together. You’re saying Barbeaux poisoned Pendergast with the elixir as a way of getting revenge, not only for his ancestors, but for his
son
. How did Barbeaux get the idea? I mean, it’s unlikely he’d even have known about what happened to his great-grandparents, who died more than a century ago. And this entire revenge plot—killing Alban, sticking a piece of turquoise into him, luring Pendergast all the way across the country—it’s baroque in complexity. Why? Who could have dreamed it up?”

“A man named Tapanes Landberg,” said Constance.

“Who?” asked Margo.

“Of course!” D’Agosta smacked his palm against the other and turned. “Alban! As I told you, he made a trip to New York—to the Albany area, according to Lieutenant Angler’s case file—over a year before he was killed!”

“Red Mountain Industries is located in Adirondack, New York,” Constance said. “An hour and a half’s drive from Albany.”

D’Agosta turned again. “Alban. The crazy fuck. From what Pendergast has told me, this is exactly the kind of game he’d love to play. Of course, brilliant as he was, he’d have known all about Hezekiah’s elixir. So he went out, found a descendant of a victim—somebody with both the motive for revenge and the means to carry it out. He hit pay dirt with Barbeaux, whose son died. Alban must have learned something of Barbeaux’s personality; he’s no doubt the eye-for-an-eye kind of fellow. It would be beautiful in a different context: both Barbeaux and Alban being revenged on Pendergast.”

“Yes. The scheme reeks of Alban,” said Constance. “He may even have researched the Salton Fontainebleau and the turquoise mine. He could have told Barbeaux: Here’s the setup. All you have to do is synthesize the elixir and lure Pendergast to the spot.”

“Except that, in the end, Alban got double-crossed,” said Margo.

“The big question,” D’Agosta went on, “is how the hell will all this help us develop an antidote?”

“We’ve got to decipher the formula for the elixir before we can reverse its effects. If Barbeaux was able to reconstruct it, then so can
we.” Constance looked around. “I’ll search the basement collections here, the files, the family archives, and the old chemistry laboratory, looking for evidence of Hezekiah’s formula. Margo, will you do more work on the bones of Mrs. Padgett? Those bones contain a vital clue—given the great lengths Barbeaux went in getting one.”

“Yes,” said Margo. “And the coroner’s report on Rudd might also help unravel the formula.”

“As for me,” said D’Agosta, “I’m going to check up on this Barbeaux character. If I find he’s responsible, I’ll squeeze him so hard the formula will pop out of—”

“No.”

This was said by a new and different voice—little more than a cracked whisper, coming from the doorway to the gun room. D’Agosta turned toward it and saw Pendergast. He stood unsteadily, leaning on the door frame, wearing a disordered silk dressing gown. He seemed almost corpse-like, save for the eyes—and these glittered like coins above puffy, blue-black bags of skin.

“Aloysius!” Constance cried, standing up. “What are you doing out of bed?” She hurried around the table toward him. “Where’s Dr. Stone?”

“The doctor is useless.”

She tried to usher him out of the room, but he pushed her away. “I must speak.” He staggered, righted himself. “If you are correct, then the man who did this was able
to kill my son
. He is clearly an extremely powerful and competent adversary.” He shook his head as if to clear his mind. “You go after him, you’ll place yourselves in mortal danger. This is my fight. I, and I alone… will follow through…
must
follow through…”

A man abruptly appeared in the doorway—tall and thin, wearing tortoiseshell glasses and a chalk-striped suit, a stethoscope around his neck.

“Come, my friend,” the doctor said gently. “You must not exert yourself. Let’s return upstairs. Here, we can take the elevator.”

“No!” Pendergast protested again, more feebly this time—clearly, the effort of leaving his bed had exhausted him. Dr. Stone bore him
off, gently but firmly. As they vanished down the hall, D’Agosta heard Pendergast saying: “The light. How glaring it is! Turn it off, I beg you…”

The three remained standing, looking at each other. D’Agosta noticed that Constance, normally remote and unreadable, was now flushed and agitated.

“He’s right,” D’Agosta said. “This Barbeaux is no ordinary guy. We better think this through. We need to stay in close touch and share information. A single mistake might get us all killed.”

“That’s why we won’t make one,” said Margo quietly.

T
he office was spartan, functional, and—as befitted the personality of its occupant—contained more than a hint of military efficiency. The large desk, gleaming with polish, held nothing beyond an old-fashioned blotter, a pen-and-pencil desk set, a phone, and a single photo in a silver frame, arranged in orderly ranks. There was no computer or keyboard. An American flag stood on a wooden stand in a corner. The wall behind contained bookshelves racked with volumes of military history and Jane’s yearbooks and annuals:
Armour and Artillery
,
Explosive Ordnance Disposal
,
Military Vehicles and Logistics
. Another wall displayed an array of framed medals, awards, and commendations.

A man sat behind the desk, wearing a business suit, crisp white shirt, and dark-red tie. He sat erect, and he wore the suit as one might wear a uniform. He was writing with a fountain pen, and the scratch of the nib filled the otherwise silent office. Outside the single picture window lay a small campus of similar buildings, clad in black glass, surrounded by a double set of chain-link fences topped with razor wire. Past the outer fence was a line of trees, rich and green, and, in the farther distance, a splash of blue lake.

The phone rang and the man picked it up. “Yes?” he said curtly. His voice was full of gravel, and it seemed to come from deep within his barrel chest.

“Mr. Barbeaux,” came the secretary’s voice from the outer office. “There are two police officers here to see you.”

“Give me sixty seconds,” he said. “Then show them in.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man hung up the phone. He sat at his desk, motionless, for another few seconds. Then, with a single glance at the photograph, he rose from his chair. He was just over sixty years of age, but the motion was made as effortlessly as by a youth of twenty. He turned to examine himself in a small mirror that hung on the wall behind his desk. A large, heavy-boned face stared back: blue eyes, lantern jaw, Roman nose. Although the tie was perfectly knotted, he adjusted it anyway. Then he turned toward the door to his office.

As he did so, it opened and his secretary ushered in two figures.

Barbeaux looked at them in turn. One was tall, with dark-blond hair that was slightly windblown. He moved with authority, and with the grace of a natural athlete. The other was shorter and darker. He returned Barbeaux’s look with an expression that betrayed absolutely nothing.

“John Barbeaux?” said the taller man.

Barbeaux nodded.

“I’m Lieutenant Peter Angler of the NYPD, and this is my associate, Sergeant Slade.”

Barbeaux shook the proffered hands in turn and returned to his seat. “Please, sit down. Coffee, tea?”

“Nothing, thanks.” Angler sat down in one of the chairs ranged before the desk, and Slade followed suit. “This is quite the fortress you have here, Mr. Barbeaux.”

Barbeaux smiled at this. “It’s mostly show. We’re a private military contractor. I’ve found that it pays to look the part.”

“I’m curious, though. Why build such an extensive operation way out here, in the middle of nowhere?”

“Why not?” Barbeaux replied. When Angler said nothing, he added: “My parents used to come up here every summer. I like the Schroon Lake area.”

“I see.” Angler crossed one leg over the other. “It is very pretty country.”

Barbeaux nodded again. “In addition, land is inexpensive. Red Mountain owns more than a thousand acres for use in training, warfare simulations, ordnance testing, and the like.” He paused. “So. What brings you gentlemen to upstate New York?”

“Actually, Red Mountain. At least in part.”

Barbeaux frowned in surprise. “Really? What possible interest could the NYPD have with my company?”

“Would you mind telling me what it is that Red Mountain Industries does, exactly?” Angler asked. “I poked around a bit on the Internet, but your official site was rather short on hard data.”

The surprised look had not left Barbeaux’s face. “We provide training and support to law enforcement, security, and military clients. We also do research in advanced weapons systems and cutting-edge tactical and strategic theory.”

“Ah. And would that theory extend to counterterrorism?”

“Yes.”

“Do you provide on-the-ground as well as back-office support?”

There was a slight pause before Barbeaux answered. “At times, yes. How, exactly, can I be of help to you?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment, if you’ll permit me just one or two more questions. I assume the U.S. government is your biggest client?”

“It is,” said Barbeaux.

“And so it would be fair to say that maintaining your reputation as a security contractor is of great importance to you? I mean, all those congressional oversight committees and that sort of thing.”

“It is of paramount importance,” replied Barbeaux.

“Of course it is.” Angler uncrossed his legs and sat forward. “Mr. Barbeaux, the reason we’re here is because we have uncovered evidence of a problem in your organization.”

Barbeaux went very still. “Excuse me? What kind of problem?”

“We don’t have the details. But we believe there is a person or persons—it might be a small cadre, but it’s more likely to be a rogue individual—who has subverted Red Mountain’s resources and may be involved in unauthorized doings. Perhaps private arms dealing, training, or mercenary activity.”

“But that’s simply not possible. We vet all new employees extensively, with the most exhaustive background checks available. And all ongoing employees must submit to yearly lie detector tests.”

“I understand it must be hard for you to accept,” Angler replied. “Nevertheless, our investigations have led to this conclusion.”

Barbeaux was silent for a moment, thinking. “Naturally, I’d like to help you gentlemen. But we are such a scrupulously careful outfit—you have to be, in this business—that I just don’t see how what you say could be.”

Angler paused briefly before continuing. “Let me put it in a different light. If we’re right, wouldn’t you agree that—whatever the specifics—it would leave Red Mountain vulnerable?”

Barbeaux nodded. “Yes. Yes, it would.”

“And if it were true, and news leaked out… well, you can imagine what the fallout would be.”

Barbeaux considered this for a moment. Then he slowly released his breath. “You know—” he began, then stopped. And then he stood up and came around the desk. He looked first at Angler, then at Sergeant Slade. The shorter man had been silent throughout the conversation, letting his superior do the talking. Barbeaux looked back at Angler. “You know, I think we should have this conversation someplace else. If I’ve learned anything in my life, I’ve learned that walls can have ears—even in a private office such as this.”

He walked to the door, led the way through the outer office, to the hallway beyond, and then to the elevator bank. He pressed the
DOWN
button, and the nearest set of doors whispered open. Ushering the two police officers in ahead of him, Barbeaux stepped in himself and pressed the button marked
B3
.

“B3?” Angler asked.

“The third level below ground. We have a couple of ordnance proving ranges down there. They are soundproofed and otherwise hardened. There we can talk freely.”

The elevator descended to the lowest level, and the doors opened onto a long concrete corridor. Red lightbulbs within metal cages threw a crimson glow over the hallway. Stepping out of the elevator,
Barbeaux walked down the hallway, passing the occasional windowless door of thick steel. At last he stopped before one marked simply
PR-D
, opened it, flicked on a row of light switches with the back of his palm, then satisfied himself that the room was unoccupied before showing the two officers in.

Lieutenant Angler entered and looked around at the walls, floor, and ceiling, which were all lined with some kind of black, rubberized insulating material. “This looks like a cross between a squash court and a padded cell.”

“As I said, we won’t be overheard.” Barbeaux closed the door and turned to face the officers. “What you say, Lieutenant, is very disturbing. However, I’ll cooperate as best I can.”

“I felt confident you’d say that,” Angler replied. “Sergeant Slade has done a background check on you, and we feel you’re the kind of man who would want to do the right thing.”

“How can I help, exactly?” Barbeaux asked.

“Launch a private investigation. Let us help you unmask this operative or operatives. Mr. Barbeaux, the fact is we’re not interested in prosecuting Red Mountain. We came into this sideways, through a murder investigation. My interest is in a potential suspect, connected to the murder, whom we believe may be involved with rogue elements in your company.”

Barbeaux frowned. “And who is this suspect?”

“An FBI agent whom I’d rather not name, for the present. But if you cooperate, I’ll see that Red Mountain is kept out of the papers. I’ll bring the FBI agent to justice—and you’ll see your firm rid of its rotten apple.”

“A rogue FBI agent,” Barbeaux said, almost to himself. “Interesting.” He glanced back at Angler. “But this is all you know? You have no more information on the identity of this rotten apple inside my own company?”

“None. That’s why we’ve come to you.”

“I see.” Barbeaux turned to Sergeant Slade. “You can shoot him now.”

Lieutenant Angler blinked, as if trying to parse this non sequitur. By the time he turned toward his associate, Slade had his service piece
out. Raising it calmly, he fired a quick double tap into Angler’s head. The lieutenant’s head snapped back and his body crumpled to the floor, a fine mist of blood and gray matter settling over it a moment later.

The sound of the shots was strangely muffled by the proving chamber’s soundproofing. Slade looked at Barbeaux as he put his weapon away. “Why did you let him go on for so long?” he asked.

“I wanted to find out just how much he knew.”

“I could have told you that.”

“You did well, Loomis. You’ll be compensated accordingly.”

“I hope so. The fifty grand a year you’ve paid me so far doesn’t cut it. I’ve been working overtime, covering your butt on this. You wouldn’t believe the strings I had to pull behind the scenes just to make sure that the Alban Pendergast case was assigned to Angler.”

“Don’t think it isn’t appreciated, my friend. But now there’s some pressing business to attend to.” Barbeaux walked to a phone that hung near the door, picked it up, and dialed a number. “Richard? It’s Barbeaux. I’m in Proving Range D. I’ve made quite a mess. Please send Housekeeping down to deal with it. Then get the Ops Crew assembled. Set up a meeting in my private conference room for one
PM
. We’ve got a new priority.”

He hung up the phone and carefully stepped over the body, lying in a rapidly spreading pool of blood. “Sergeant,” he said, “take care not to get any of that on your shoes.”