“I can only imagine those duties,” said Constance.
When there was no response, she continued. “You released Morax. You set that cycle of violence into motion.”
“You are correct. I did help that poor, abused creature escape his tormentors. I had no idea he would react the way he did. All I wanted was to sow a little confusion. Distract my brother. And thus allow myself… to get a closer glimpse of you.”
Constance shook her head. She was beginning to lose her self-possession. She tried once again to marshal her anger. “Distract your brother? You killed your brother.”
“No,” came the voice, sorrowful once again. “There you are wrong. It does seem my brother is dead. But that was never my intention. I know a little of the feelings you two have, or had, for each other: forgive me, but I was quite relishing the competition. I’m sorry, it’s crude of me to say so — it’s a brotherly thing, you know.”
“You…” Constance stopped. Another silence ensued. All her accusations, all her suspicions, all her objections, seemed to have been deflated, and with this deflation rose confusion.
“So… Why are you here? Why?” she stammered at last.
“Can it be that you still don’t understand?” came the voice out of the velvety darkness. “My purpose in being here is quite simple. I am in love with you, Constance.”
23
At Goderre’s Downeaster in Cutler, Maine, Dwayne Smith sat on the bed, eyeing the four burner phones arranged on the coverlet. Even with the window open and the heat turned down, he was sweating and anxious. Dalca had made contact with the FBI via email. The reaction had been surprising and gratifying. It was just as Filipov had predicted: the FBI seemed to be acceding to their demands, with only token threats and resistance. They would do just about anything to keep their man alive. This special agent was, clearly, a high-value asset.
Filipov had said the FBI would insist on talking to someone. They had. And that someone was Smith. It had all been arranged: he was to call this man named Longstreet at the New York FBI headquarters in five minutes on one of the burner phones. The thing that made him most nervous was the timing. The FBI, Filipov had explained, could triangulate a call in as little as thirty seconds. So he had twenty seconds to conduct this conversation. And then he had to hang up, disable and destroy the phone. Four phones: four twenty-second conversations.
Using his watch, he readied the timer for twenty seconds. As soon as its alarm went off, he’d pull the battery from the back of the burner phone, terminating the call. He picked up one of the burners — one was as good as another — and removed the battery cover. He opened his penknife and laid it on the coverlet, ready to jerk the battery out. Even a few seconds’ delay in killing the phone might be fatal.
The appointed time had arrived. He dialed, at the same time starting the timer.
The call was answered immediately. “Longstreet,” came the terse voice, and before Smith could even respond, the man went into his script. “We’re going to do everything you want. But it’s going to take us a couple of days to process and transfer Arsenault from Sing Sing to the Metropolitan Correctional Center, so we can get him to JFK airport for the flight to Caracas.”
The Metropolitan Correctional Center. Ten fucking seconds left. “When are you moving him?”
“None of your business.”
“Well it is my fucking business. You demanded that we talk. Now I have a demand of my own. Exactly when are you moving him? I want details or we kill Pendergast now.”
A pause. Five seconds left.
“Tomorrow at—” a pause— “three thirty PM, the transport van from Sing Sing will be pulling into MCC, Cardinal Hayes entrance.”
“Put Arsenault in the right-hand window.”
“In return I want—”
The alarm went off. Smith shut off the phone, wedged the knife in, flipped out the battery. Then, working methodically, he opened the SIM card case, pulled out the card, and held it over an ashtray while he used a lighter to melt it into a small puddle of plastic and metal contacts. The room had a charming brick fireplace, where, later that evening, he would burn the phone as well, just to be safe.
He felt elated. This guy Longstreet had caved — and fast. Filipov was right: they really had the FBI by the balls. Amazing how easy it was, when you had one of their top guys. If it was some other schmuck, they wouldn’t be playing so nice. And now, with the transfer to Manhattan, Dalca would be able to confirm with his own eyes if the FBI was just jerking their chain or serious about doing the deal.
24
The soft echoes of this declaration by Diogenes slowly faded away, leaving the room in silence.
Constance was momentarily stunned. It had seemed sincere: a genuine confession of love. But she quickly shook off that impression. Diogenes had already humiliated her with his extraordinary capacity to lie, and this was merely a reprise.
Even as this thought went through her mind, she wondered: why would he even think he could succeed at such a charade again? Besides, Diogenes was incapable of love.
… I not only admire you, but I’m afraid of you.
… We’re alike in so very many ways. In others you are my superior. Is it any wonder, then, that my reverence for you has only grown?
“If what you say is true,” she said coldly, “then have the courage of that sentiment. Show yourself.”
This was greeted by a moment of stillness. Then Constance heard the scritch of a match from behind. She whirled around. And there he was: standing in the tapestried entrance to the music collection, leaning, arms crossed, beside a newly lighted wall sconce holding a burning taper. He looked almost the same — the thin features, so like his brother and yet so different; the modeled chin, the well-formed pale lips, closely trimmed russet beard; and the strange, bicolored eyes, one green, the other cloudy whitish blue. The only difference was an ugly scar that now marred the otherwise chiseled perfection of his left cheek, traveling from hairline to jaw. An orchid boutonnière was tucked casually into a lapel of his jacket: she recognized it as Cattleya constanciana, the white-and-pink flower that had been named after her.
Constance stared, struck dumb by the abrupt appearance of this spectral figure out of her past. And then, quite suddenly, she leapt at him, swift as a bat, stiletto in one raised hand, aiming for his eyes.
But Diogenes had been expecting this. With a deft move, he ducked away from the blow; as her blade arm flashed past he grasped it in a grip of steel; then spun her toward him, pinning her other arm to her side, holding her in a tight embrace. The stiletto clattered to the floor.
She had forgotten how quick and strong he was.
She turned her face away from his, struggling furiously, fruitlessly.
“I’ll release you,” he said in a calm, steady voice, “if you’ll hear me out. That’s all I ask — that you hear me out. And then, if you still wish to kill me, so be it.”
There was a moment of stasis. At last — mastering her anger — she nodded.
Letting go of one hand, Diogenes knelt to retrieve the stiletto. Constance thought briefly of kicking him in the face, but realized it would be hopeless: physically, she was overmastered.
She might as well let him speak.
Diogenes rose again. He released her other arm and stepped back.
She waited, flushed and breathing hard. He stood still now, in the light of the sconce, as if awaiting her reaction.