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  “First,” Pendergast said, “let me extend to you our deepest sympathies. This is a terrible loss, not just for Nigeria, but for all peace-loving people.”

  Obaje made a gesture of thanks.

  “It’s my understanding that you knew Dr. Adeyemi well,” Pendergast continued.

  Obaje nodded again. “We practically grew up together.”

  “Excellent. My colleague, Lieutenant D’Agosta, has just a few questions he’d like to ask you.” With this, Pendergast turned pointedly toward D’Agosta.

  D’Agosta understood immediately. He was champing at the bit to peel off the veneer of holiness and get the dirt on Adeyemi; Pendergast was kindly giving him the lead to do so. The ball was in his court. He shifted in his chair.

  “Mr. Obaje,” he said. “You just told us you and Dr. Adeyemi practically grew up together.”

  “A figure of speech. We went to university together. Benue State University, in Makurdi—we were both part of its first graduating class in 1996.” A smile of pride briefly broke through the pained expression that was practically graven onto his face.

  D’Agosta had taken out his notebook and was jotting this down. “I’m sorry. Benue?”

  “One of the newer Nairobi states, created in 1976. ‘Food Basket of the Nation’—”

  “I see.” D’Agosta continued his scribbling. “And you knew her well at the university?”

  “We were reasonably well acquainted, both at school and in the years that followed immediately after.”

  Immediately after. Good. “Mr. Obaje, I realize this is a very difficult time for you, but I must ask you to be as candid with us as possible. We are trying to solve a series of murders here—not just that of Dr. Adeyemi, but several others as well. Now, everything I’ve heard about Dr. Adeyemi has been laudatory in the extreme. People are practically calling her a saint.”

  “In Nigeria, that is, in effect, what she’s considered.”

  “Why is that, exactly?”

  Obaje spread his hands as if the reasons were too numerous to list. “All this is a matter of record. She herself became the youngest governor of Benue State, where she instituted numerous measures aimed at reducing poverty and improving education, before ultimately moving to Lagos. She went on to establish a series of HIV clinics across West Africa. In addition, she almost single-handedly instituted a wide range of educational programs. Despite constant threats of violence, and without thought to her own safety, she courageously pursued a message of peace across our neighboring countries. All these initiatives have saved many thousands of lives.”

  “That sounds impressive.” D’Agosta continued to scribble. “But I’ve often noted, Mr. Obaje, that when somebody rises particularly fast in life, they do so by stepping on somebody else’s toes. I hope you’ll excuse the question, but did Dr. Adeyemi achieve her success at the expense of others?”

  Obaje frowned, as if he didn’t understand the question. “I’m sorry?”

  “Did she walk over other people in order to secure her personal successes?”

  Obaje shook his head vigorously. “No. No, of course not. That was not her way.”

  “What about her past? Her family? Did you ever hear any rumors about them? You know—misdeeds of one sort or another? Perhaps her father made his fortune through unscrupulous business dealings, for example?”

  “Her father died when she was twelve. Not long afterward, her mother entered a convent and her only brother enrolled in a seminary, eventually becoming a priest. Wansie made her own way in the world—and she made it honestly.”

  “Left on her own at such a young age—that’s hard no matter where you live. Did she perhaps cut corners in order to get ahead, or—you’re a man of the world, Mr. Obaje—find that she had to supplement her income via certain, ah, time-honored ways?”

  The look of sorrow on Obaje’s face turned to one of surprise and affront. “Of course not, Lieutenant. Frankly, I’m disturbed and shocked by this line of questioning.”

  “My apologies.” Better back off just a little. “I’m just trying to establish if she had any enemies who might have wished her ill.”

  “She certainly did have enemies. Jihadist groups were violently opposed to the HIV clinics and her educational efforts with women. It seems to me that is a lead you should be following up.”

  “Was Dr. Adeyemi married?”

  “No.”

  “Were there any men—or, perhaps, women—that she had any relationships with? I mean of an especially close nature.”

  Obaje answered with a peremptory “No.”

  It did not take D’Agosta long to write down this response, but he made a show of taking additional copious notes. At last he looked up again. “You said you knew the ambassador both during university and afterward.”

  Obaje gave a clipped nod. “For a time, yes.”

  “Then—once again, please forgive my bluntness, but it’s our duty to ask difficult questions—during that time did you ever hear gossip about her; anything that might reflect badly?”

  At this, Obaje stood up. “No, and frankly, once again I’m taken aback at the tenor of your questions. You’ve come into my office with the obvious intent of tarnishing her reputation. Let me tell you, Lieutenant—her reputation is above reproach, and you will find nothing, anywhere, that will lead you to a different conclusion. I don’t know what lies behind this crusade of yours, but I will not entertain it or you any longer. This meeting is at an end. Now, sir: kindly leave this office and this building.”

  Out on the street, D’Agosta angrily shoved his notebook into his coat pocket. “I should have expected that,” he growled. “Frigging whitewash. Turning the lady into a martyr.” He shook his head. “Administrative assistant. Christ.”

  “My dear Vincent,” Pendergast said as he wrapped his overcoat more tightly around his narrow person, “let me tell you a little bit about Mr. Obaje. You heard him tell you that Dr. Adeyemi was the youngest governor of Benue State.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “What he did not tell you was that he was also a candidate for that same governorship. At the time, Obaje’s political star was on the rise. Great things were expected of him. But he lost the election—by a landslide. After that, Obaje’s star continued to fall. And now you find him here, an administrative assistant in the Nigerian mission, his career eclipsed, thanks to Dr. Adeyemi—through no fault of her own, of course.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Simply this: I singled him out for an interview because he had the greatest reason to disparage and denigrate her.”

  “You mean, to trash her?”

  “In your vernacular, precisely.”

  D’Agosta’s jaw worked for a moment. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that going in?”

  “If I had, you wouldn’t have pressed him as hard as you did. I did this to spare you countless additional hours of fruitless research and interrogatory. You could spend a month hunting for skeletons, but I fear you won’t find any. The truth is as simple as it looks: the woman is a saint.”

  “But that can’t be! It knocks the hell out of our motive.”

  “Ah, but it is not ‘our’ motive.”

  “You don’t buy it?”

  Pendergast hesitated. “There is indeed a motive for these murders. But it is not the motive that you, the NYPD, and all of New York seem to believe.”

  “I…” D’Agosta began, then stopped. He felt deflated, manipulated, kept in the dark. It was typical Pendergast, but in this instance he felt dissed—and it made him irritated. More than irritated. “Oh, I get it—you’ve got a better theory. One that you’ve been keeping, as usual, from everyone.”

  “I am never arbitrary. There is always a method to my mystifications.”

  “So let’s hear this dazzling theory of yours.”

  “I didn’t say I had a theory; I only said yours was wrong.”

  At this D’Agosta laughed harshly. “Well, shit, then go knock yourself out chasing your theories
. I know what I’ve got to do!”

  If Pendergast was surprised by this outburst, it manifested itself only in a slight widening of his pale eyes. He said nothing, but after a second or two merely nodded, turned silently on his handmade English shoes, and began making his way down Second Avenue.

  39

  THIS TIME, WHEN Pendergast arrived for a visit to the DigiFlood campus, his Rolls-Royce was not ushered into Anton Ozmian’s personal parking space, or even into the corporate garage at all; rather, Proctor was forced to double-park in the maze of streets of Lower Manhattan. Nor was Pendergast whisked heavenward in a private elevator; rather, he was obliged to slip in with the rest of the masses at the building’s main entrance and present himself at security. His FBI credentials were sufficient to get him past the three guards at the checkpoint and onto an elevator to the top floor, but there, at the entrance to the Zen-like executive suite, he was met by two hulking men, squeezed into dark suits, who both appeared able to crack Brazil nuts between their knuckles.

  “Special Agent Pendergast?” said one in a gruff voice, looking at a text message on his cell phone as he spoke.

  “Indeed.”

  “You don’t have an appointment to see Mr. Ozmian.”

  “I have tried several times to make just such an appointment, but, alas, without success. I thought perhaps appearing here in person might precipitate a more favorable result.”

  This volley, delivered in a buttery drawl, bounced off the two men without perceptible effect. “Mr. Ozmian doesn’t see visitors without an appointment.”

  Pendergast hesitated a moment for effect. Then, once again, he slipped a pale white hand into his black suit and removed the wallet containing his FBI shield and ID. Letting it drop open, he showed it to first one, then the other, allowing it to remain before each face a good ten seconds. As he did so, he made a show of examining their nameplates and, apparently, committing them to memory.

  “An appointment was merely a courtesy,” he said, allowing a little iron to mingle with the butter. “As a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, looking into an active homicide, I go where I please, when I please, as long as I have reasonable suspicion to do so. Now, I suggest you speak to your minders and arrange an audience with Mr. Ozmian without delay. Otherwise, there might be unpleasantness in store for each of you, personally.”

  The two men absorbed this a moment, then looked at each other with uncertainty. “Wait here,” one of them said, and he turned and walked across the large waiting area, disappearing through the pair of birchwood doors, while the other stood guard.

  It was fifteen minutes before he returned. “Follow us, please.”

  They passed through the set of doors into the complex of offices that lay beyond. But instead of making their way through the labyrinth to the final, massive doors that led into Ozmian’s private office, the men steered Pendergast in another direction, toward a side corridor, with every door closed. Stopping at one, the men knocked.

  “Come in,” came a voice.

  The men opened the door and motioned Pendergast inside, and then, without entering themselves, closed the door behind him. Pendergast found himself inside a well-appointed office with a view of the Woolworth Building and one wall covered floor-to-ceiling with legal tomes. Behind the neat desk sat a thin, balding man with round glasses who looked very much like an owl. He gazed back at Pendergast with a neutral expression. Something like a smile passed briefly across his thin lips before disappearing again.

  “Special Agent Pendergast,” the man said in a high, reedy voice. He indicated a few chairs arranged on the far side of the desk. “Please sit down.”

  Pendergast did so. From three security staffers, to two bodyguards, to one lawyer—an interesting progression.

  “My name is Weilman,” the man said from across the desk. “Counsel to Mr. Ozmian.”

  Pendergast inclined his head.

  “I’m told you informed Mr. Ozmian’s, ah, staffers that, in pursuing your job as a special agent of the FBI, you have the right to come and go as you please and to interview whoever you are in the mood to speak with. Mr. Pendergast, you and I both know that is not the case. I have no doubt that Mr. Ozmian would be happy to speak to you—assuming that you have a court order on your person.”

  “I do not.”

  “I’m so sorry, then.”

  “Given the fact that I am investigating the death of his daughter, I would have thought that Mr. Ozmian would be eager to help further that investigation.”

  “And he is! But it’s my understanding, Mr. Pendergast, that you have already spoken with Mr. Ozmian. He agreed to an interview—an exceedingly painful one. He further aided your investigation by identifying his daughter’s body—an even more painful undertaking. In turn, he has been repaid for this cooperation by a total lack of progress, and a shocking silence from investigators. As a result, he sees no reason why he should subject himself to additional painful interviews—especially when he has no faith in you or the NYPD to solve this case. Mr. Ozmian has given you all possible relevant information on his daughter already. I would advise you to stop going over old ground and instead focus on solving the case.”

  “Cases,” Pendergast corrected. “A total of fourteen people are dead.”

  “Mr. Ozmian could not care less about the other thirteen, except insofar as those deaths might help solve his daughter’s.”

  Pendergast sank back slowly into his chair. “It occurs to me that the public might be interested to learn that Mr. Ozmian is not cooperating with the investigation.”

  Now it was Weilman’s turn to sink back into his chair, and a bloodless smile curdled on his pale face. “Mr. Ozmian’s name has for years been put before the public in, shall we say, a less-than-flattering light.” The lawyer paused. “Let me put it to you directly, and forgive the vulgarity: Mr. Ozmian does not give a rat’s turd what the public thinks. At present, he has only two concerns: running his company and bringing the murderer of his daughter to justice.”

  As Pendergast considered this, he realized it was true: like King Mithridates, who had taken increasing doses of poison until he was no longer susceptible to its effects, Ozmian no longer cared a whit about his reputation. This rendered his usual method of threats and implied blackmail ineffective.

  Pity.

  But he was not going to let it go just yet. He tapped the breast of his suit coat—whose inner pocket contained nothing—with a look of complacency. “As it happens, we’ve recently made a not inconsiderable breakthrough—one that the FBI wanted to share with Mr. Ozmian. Not only will he find it interesting, but he may be able to supply information of his own that will help us pursue it further. This discovery is confidential for the time being, which was why I did not mention it before. I would thus ask you to keep any mention of its existence to yourself when you now ask Mr. Ozmian to give me a private audience.”

  For a moment, the two men simply looked at each other. And then the faint smile appeared once again on the lawyer’s face. “A promising development indeed, Agent Pendergast! If you’ll just give me a summary of what you have hidden in your pocket, I’ll convey it to Mr. Ozmian right away. And I have no doubt that, if it is really as big a breakthrough as you suggest, he’ll be delighted to see you.”

  “Protocol requires that I hand him the information personally,” Pendergast said.

  “Of course, of course—after I give him the summary.”

  A silence fell over the room. After a moment, Pendergast let his hand fall away from the breast of his jacket. He stood up. “I’m sorry, but this information is restricted to Mr. Ozmian himself.”

  At this, the lawyer’s smile—or was it a smirk?—grew a little wider. “Of course,” he said, rising as well. “When you have the subpoena, you may show it to him. And now, may I escort you to the elevator?”

  Without another word Pendergast followed the man out of his office and through the tall, echoing spaces to the elevator bank.

  40


  LES TUILERIES, THE three-star Michelin restaurant located on a quiet residential block in the East Sixties just off Madison Avenue, was doing a brisk if discreet business on this, the evening before New Year’s Eve. Les Tuileries was that rarest of things in modern New York, a French restaurant of the old style, all dark wood and patinaed leather, comprising half a dozen rooms like elegant cubbyholes, full of banquettes tucked away in nooks beneath oil paintings in heavy gilt frames. Waiters and under-waiters, as numerous as doctors in an ICU surgical bay, were fawning over the patrons. Here, half a dozen men in starched white, at a cue from the maître d’, simultaneously whisked away silver domes from plates arranged around a large table with the precision of well-drilled soldiers on a parade ground, revealing the delectables hidden beneath. There, a senior waiter was expertly deboning tableside a fillet of Dover sole—flown in from England that morning, naturally. Elsewhere, another waiter was folding anchovies, capers, and a raw egg into a bowl of Salade Niçoise à la Cap Ferrat under the discerning eye of his patrons.

  In a far corner of one of the rear rooms of Les Tuileries, almost hidden within a rich crimson banquette, Executive Associate Director Longstreet and Special Agent Pendergast had just finished their appetizers—Escargots à la Bourguignonne for Longstreet, and a terrine of morels and foie gras for Pendergast. The sommelier returned with a second six-hundred-dollar bottle of Mouton Rothschild, vintage 1996—Longstreet had tasted the first and sent it away, pronouncing it corked—and as the man opened it, Longstreet gave Pendergast a sidelong glance. He had always fancied himself a gastronome, and had dined in as many of the finest Parisian restaurants as his time and independent means allowed. He was as much at home here as in his own kitchen. He saw that Pendergast was equally comfortable, perusing the menu and asking probing questions of the waiter. A love of French cuisine and wine was something they had long shared, but Longstreet had to admit that outside of gastronomy, and despite all the time they had spent together in close quarters during their tour in the special forces, the man was, and would always remain, a cipher.