“I’ll take your silence as assent. And now’s as good a time as any to meet your new partner. Agent Coldmoon, would you mind joining us?”
At this, the silent young man sitting in the far corner stood up, snugged the towel around his waist, and — bathed in a sheen of sweat — came over to stand before them. His skin was a light olive brown, and his features were fine and, in some respects, almost Asiatic. He glanced dispassionately at the men seated before him. Trim and erect, he looked almost a model agent. Only his hair — jet black, worn rather long, and parted in the middle — did not fit the image. Pickett smiled inwardly. His pairing of these two was a masterstroke. Pendergast would be in for a surprise.
“This is Special Agent Coldmoon,” Pickett said. “He’s been with the agency eight years, and already he’s distinguished himself in both the Cyber Division and the Criminal Investigative Division. The fitness reports submitted by his superiors have never been short of exemplary. Eighteen months ago, he was awarded the FBI Shield of Bravery for meritorious service during an undercover operation in Philadelphia. I wouldn’t be surprised if someday he collects as many commendations as you have. I think you’ll find him a quick study.”
Agent Coldmoon remained expressionless under this panegyric. Meanwhile, Pickett noticed, the strange look had left Pendergast’s face, to be replaced with a genuine smile.
“Agent Coldmoon,” Pendergast said, extending his hand. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise.” Coldmoon shook the proffered hand.
“If your credentials are anything like ADC Pickett here describes,” Pendergast continued, “I’m sure you will prove a great asset to what promises to be a most interesting case.”
“I’ll do all I can to assist,” Coldmoon said.
“Then we shall get along famously,” Pendergast said. He glanced back at Pickett. Except for a single bead of moisture on Pendergast’s forehead, the heat didn’t seem to have affected him in the slightest: the man’s shirt and suit looked as crisp as ever. “We leave for Miami first thing tomorrow morning, you say?”
Pickett nodded. “Ticket and a summary of your orders are waiting on your desk as we speak.”
“In that case, I had better prepare. Thank you, sir, for considering me for this case. Agent Coldmoon, I shall see you on the morrow.” He nodded at each in turn, then stood and exited the sauna — with the same light, easy movements with which he had entered.
Both men watched the sauna door close behind him. Pickett waited a full minute before speaking again. Then, when he was sure Pendergast was not coming back, he cleared his throat. “Okay,” he said to Coldmoon. “You’ve just heard me outline your cover. You’re going to play second fiddle on this case.”
Coldmoon nodded.
“Any questions about what your real assignment is regarding Pendergast?”
“None.”
“Very good. I’ll expect regular reports.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That will be all.”
Without another word, Special Agent Coldmoon turned and left the sauna. Pickett picked up another dipperful of water, poured it over the cherry-colored stones, then leaned back once again, sighing contentedly as another blast of steam filled the cedar-lined room.
3
Mrs. Trask wheeled the tea cart carefully down the shadowy hall leading from the kitchens of the mansion at 891 Riverside Drive, New York City. It was unusual, serving tea at this time of the afternoon, not quite three o’clock — normally, Pendergast preferred it late rather than early. But such had been his request, along with a lavish presentation: instead of the usual ascetic green tea and ginger biscuits, today there were Bath buns with lemon curd, scones, clotted cream, madeleines — even miniature Battenberg cakes. As a result, it was the first time in ages she’d had to serve afternoon tea on a cart instead of a simple silver tray. She felt fairly certain this was all meant to please his ward, Constance — despite the fact she ate like a bird and would probably touch little of it.
Indeed, since their rather abrupt return to the mansion just over a week before, Pendergast had seemed especially attentive to Constance. Even Proctor, Pendergast’s stoic chauffeur-cum-bodyguard, had mentioned it to Mrs. Trask. Pendergast had been more than usually talkative, drawing Constance out on her favorite subjects late into the night. He had assisted with her long-term task of researching the complex and — it seemed — often mysterious Pendergast family tree. He had even professed an interest in her latest project: a terrarium devoted to the propagation of imperiled carnivorous plants.
Mrs. Trask moved from the corridor into the reception hall, the wheels of the tea cart creaking over the marble floor. From the direction of the library, she could hear the low tones of Pendergast and Constance in conversation. Just this quiet sound gladdened her heart. She didn’t know why Constance had left so suddenly for India last December, or what had occasioned Pendergast’s own recent trip to bring her home. That affair was between Pendergast and his ward: Mrs. Trask was simply pleased the household was together again. And though even that was about to be interrupted — with Pendergast’s abrupt news that he was bound for Florida — Mrs. Trask took comfort in knowing the journey was merely business.
It was true she rather disapproved of Pendergast’s “business” — but that was something she kept to herself.
Now she wheeled the cart into the library, with its deep mahogany tones; cabinets laden with rare fossils, minerals, and artifacts; and walls of leather-bound books rising to a coffered ceiling. A large fire was blazing on the hearth, and two wing chairs had been pulled up close to it. They were empty, however, and Mrs. Trask searched for the room’s occupants. As her eyes adjusted to the flickering light, she made them out. They were together in a far corner, heads almost touching as they bent over something of evident interest. Of course — it must be the new terrarium. Even now, Mrs. Trask could hear Constance speaking of it, her contralto voice just audible over the crackle of the flames. “... I find it ironic that Nepenthes campanulata — which for fifteen years was believed extinct — is now merely considered threatened, while Nepenthes aristolochioides, then barely recognized as a species, is presently critically endangered.”
“Ironic indeed,” Pendergast murmured.
“Note the peculiar morphology of the aristolochioides. The peristome is almost vertical — rare among pitcher plants. Its feeding mechanism is most interesting. I’m still awaiting a shipment of native insects from Sumatra, but local rhinoceros beetles seem a satisfactory diet. Would you care to feed it?” And Constance held out a pair of forceps, almost a foot long, which glinted in the firelight, with a wriggling beetle at the end.
There was the briefest of hesitations. “I’d much prefer to watch your more practiced hand at work.”
Mrs. Trask chose this moment to clear her throat and trundle the tea cart forward. Both occupants turned toward her.
“Ah, Mrs. Trask!” Pendergast said, turning from the glass-walled terrarium and approaching her. “Punctual as always.”
“Rather more than punctual,” Constance said, coming up behind Pendergast, her violet eyes scanning the cart. “It’s just gone three. Aloysius, did you request this cornucopia?”
“I did indeed.”
“Are we having the Trojan army for tea?”
“I’m giving myself a sending-off party.”
Constance frowned.
“Besides,” Pendergast went on, sitting down and helping himself to a madeleine, “you look thinner, subsisting on that monastic diet.”
“I ate very well, thank you.” Constance took a seat in the opposite wing chair, bobbed hair swinging at the motion. “You know, I really wish you’d let me come to Florida. This case that’s suddenly been dropped in your lap — it sounds intriguing.”