Cold Vengeance Read online

  “I never expected to receive a visit from the dead,” Fischer said in his clipped, precise German, “and yet here you are. Fraulein Esterhazy—forgive me, Frau Pendergast—who departed this earth over twelve years ago.” He looked at her, hard eyes glinting with some combination of amusement, anger, and curiosity.

  Helen said nothing.

  “Natürlich, in retrospect I can see how it was done. Your twin sister—der Schwächling—was the sacrificial pawn. After all your protests, your sanctimonious outrage, I see how well you have learned from us, after all! I almost feel honored.”

  Helen remained silent. The apathy was returning. She would be better off dead than to live with this pain.

  Fischer peered at her intently, as if to gauge the effect of his words. He took a pack of Dunhills from his pocket, plucked one from the box, lit it with a gold lighter. “You wouldn’t care to tell us where you’ve been all this time, would you? Or whether you’ve had any other accomplices in this little deception—beyond your brother, I mean? Or whether you’ve spoken to anyone about our organization?”

  When there was no response, Fischer took a deep drag on the cigarette. His smile broadened. “No matter. There will be plenty of time for that—once we get you back home. I’m sure you’ll be happy to tell the doctors everything… that is, before the experiments begin.”

  Helen went still. Fischer had used the word Versuchsreihe—but the word meant more to her than simply ‘experiments.’ At the thought of what it meant—at the memory—she felt a sudden panic. Instantly, she leapt to her feet and ran headlong toward the door. It was a mindless, instinctive act, done without thinking, borne out of the atavistic need for self-preservation. But even as she charged the door, it was opened, her captors standing just beyond. Helen did not slow and the force of the impact knocked two of them back, but the others seized her and gripped her hard. It took all four to restrain her and drag her back into the room.

  Fischer stood up. Taking another deep drag on the cigarette, he regarded Helen as she struggled silently, fiercely. Then he looked at his watch.

  “It’s time to go,” he said. He glanced again at Helen. “I think we had better prepare the hypodermic.”

  FORTY-THREE HOURS

  The knock came at half past two in the afternoon. Kurt Webern put down the bottle of sweet tea he’d been drinking, dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a silk handkerchief, turned off his computer monitor, and walked across the tiled floor to answer it. A quick look through the eyehole indicated a respectable-looking gentleman.

  “Who is it?”

  “I’m looking for the Freiheit Importing Company.”

  Webern replaced the handkerchief in his breast pocket and opened the door. “Yes?”

  The man stood in the hallway: slender, with piercing silver eyes and blond hair so pale it was almost white.

  “May I have a minute of your time?” the gentleman asked.

  “Certainly.” Webern opened the door further and motioned the man to a seat. Although the man’s suit was plain—simple black—it was of beautiful material, exquisitely tailored. Webern had always been something of a clotheshorse and, as he moved back behind his desk, found himself unconsciously adjusting his own cuffs.

  “Interesting,” the man said, glancing around, “that you conduct your business in a hotel.”

  “It was not always a hotel,” Webern replied. “When it was built in 1929, it was called the Rhodes-Haverty Building. When it became a hotel I saw no reason to bother relocating my business. The view of Atlanta’s historic district from here is second to none.”

  He took a seat behind the desk. “How may I be of service?” The visit, of course, was almost certainly a mistake—the ‘importing’ he did was for private clients only—but this wasn’t the first time people had called on him. He had always made a point of being polite with such callers, to give the impression his was a legitimate business.

  The man sat down, threw one leg over the other. “I have just one question. Answer it, and I’ll be on my way.”

  Something in the man’s tone made Webern hesitate before replying. “And what question is that?”

  “Where is Helen Pendergast?”

  This is not possible, Webern thought. Aloud, he said: “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You are the owner of a warehouse in downstate New York. It was from this warehouse that the operation to abduct Helen Pendergast was put into motion.”

  “You aren’t making any sense. And since it appears you have no business to conduct, I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to leave, Mister…?” As he spoke, Webern very casually opened the center drawer of his desk and placed his hand inside.

  “Pendergast,” the stranger said. “Aloysius Pendergast.”

  Webern drew out his Beretta from the desk. But before he could aim it, the man, seemingly reading his mind, lashed out, quick as a striking snake, and slammed the pistol from Webern’s grasp. It went tumbling across the floor. Covering Webern with his own weapon, which had appeared out of nowhere, the man retrieved the Beretta, put it in his own pocket, and returned to his chair.

  “Shall we try again?” he asked in a reasonable voice.

  “I have nothing to say to you,” Webern replied.

  The man calling himself Pendergast hefted the weapon in his hand. “Are you truly not attached to your own life?”

  Webern had been very carefully trained in interrogation techniques—both in how to administer, and how to resist. He had also been schooled in how one of superior blood and breeding should conduct himself before others. “I’m not afraid to die for what I believe in.”

  “That makes two of us.” The man paused, considering. “And what is it, exactly, that you believe in?”

  Webern merely smiled.

  Pendergast glanced around the office again, his gaze finally returning to Webern. “That’s a rather nice suit you’re wearing.”

  Despite the big Colt trained on him, Webern felt perfectly calm, perfectly in control. “Thank you.”

  “Is that by chance a Hardy Amies, my own tailor?”

  “Sadly, no. Taylor & Merton, just a few doors down Savile Row from Amies.”

  “I see we share a fondness for fine clothes. I would imagine our mutual interest extends beyond just suits. Take ties, for instance.” Pendergast caressed his own. “While in the past I’ve usually favored handmade Parisian ties, like Charvet, these days I prefer Jay Kos. Such as the one I’m wearing at present. At two hundred dollars, not cheap, but in my opinion worth every penny.” He smiled at Webern. “And who makes your ties?”

  If this was some novel interrogation technique, Webern thought, it was not going to work. “Sienia,” he replied.

  “Sienia,” Pendergast repeated. “That’s good. Well made.”

  Suddenly—again with speed that more resembled an explosion than movement—Pendergast shot up from his chair, leapt over the desk, and grabbed Webern by the throat. Dragging him backwards with shocking strength, he threw up the sash of the nearest window and propelled the struggling Webern backwards into it. In terror Webern grasped the windowframe on both sides. He could hear the traffic on Peachtree Street twenty stories below, feel the updraft.

  “I love the windows in these old skyscrapers,” Pendergast said. “They actually open. And you were right about the view.”

  Webern clung desperately to the sides of the window, gasping with terror.

  Reaching around with the butt of his gun, Pendergast smashed the fingers of Webern’s left hand, breaking bones, then pounded on his right. With a cry, Webern felt himself shoved backwards into open space, his arms flailing uselessly, his legs still hooked over the window sill. Pendergast prevented his fall by grabbing his tie, holding him out at arm’s length from the window.

  Frantically, Webern pressed his calves against the window sill, choking and fighting to maintain grip.

  “A man should always know his wardrobe—and his wardrobe’s limitations,” Pendergast went
on, his voice still light and conversational. “My Jay Kos ties, for example, are made of Italian seven-fold silk. As strong as they are beautiful.”

  He gave Webern’s tie a rough jerk. Webern gasped as one leg began to slip from the sill. He scrabbled to regain his footing. He tried to speak but the tie was choking him.

  “Other manufacturers sometimes cut corners,” Pendergast went on. “You know, like single stitching, two folds.” He gave the tie another tug.

  “So I want you to be sure of the quality of your tie before I ask you my question again.”

  Jerk.

  With a harsh sound, Webern’s tie began to rip. He stared at it, crying out involuntarily.

  “Oh dear,” Pendergast said, disappointed. “Sienia? I don’t think so. Perhaps you’ve been deceived. Or you’ve been cutting corners, lying to me about your haberdashers.”

  Jerk.

  The tie was now torn halfway across its fat end. From the corner of his eye, Webern could see a crowd gathering below, pointing upward, distant shouts. He couldn’t breathe and he felt his head start to swim. Panic overwhelmed him.

  Jerk. Rip.

  “All right!” Webern screamed, scrabbling at Pendergast’s hand with his own broken and twisted fingers. “I’ll talk!”

  “Make it quick. This cheap tie isn’t going to last much longer.”

  “She’s, she’s leaving the country tonight.”

  “Where? How?”

  “Private plane. Fort Lauderdale. Pettermars airport. Nine o’clock.”

  With a final, brutal tug, Pendergast pulled Webern back into his office.

  “Schiesse!” Webern cried as he sprawled across the floor, in a fetal position, cradling his ruined hands. “What if my tie had torn completely?”

  The man’s smile simply widened. And suddenly, Webern understood—this was a man as far on the edge as a person could be while remaining sane.

  Pendergast took a step back. “If you’re telling the truth, and I recover her without incident, you don’t have to worry about seeing me again. But if you have deceived me, I’ll pay you another visit.”

  In the act of turning toward the door, Pendergast stopped. He loosened his own necktie, untied it, threw it towards Webern. “Here’s the real thing. Remember what I said about cutting corners.” And with a final, cold smile, he slipped out of the office.

  Dear Reader,

  We recently launched a new series of thrillers featuring an uncommon investigator by the name of Gideon Crew. The first book in this series, Gideon’s Sword, was published in February 2011, and the second book in the series, Gideon’s Corpse, was published in January 2012.

  We are happy to report that the Gideon books were picked up by Paramount Pictures for a major series of feature films.

  We hasten to assure you that our devotion to Agent Pendergast remains undimmed and that we will continue to write novels featuring the world’s most enigmatic FBI agent with the same frequency as before—starting with the continuation of the story begun in Fever Dream and Cold Vengeance.

  Thank you again for your interest and support. Please turn the page to read a sample from Gideon’s Sword.

  Warm regards,

  Douglas & Lincoln

  CHAPTER 1

  August 1988

  Nothing in his twelve years of life had prepared Gideon Crew for that day. Every insignificant detail, every trivial gesture, every sound and smell, became frozen as if in a block of glass, unchanging and permanent, ready to be examined at will.

  His mother was driving him home from his tennis lesson in their Plymouth station wagon. It was a hot day, well up in the nineties, the kind where clothes stick to one’s skin and sunlight has the texture of flypaper. Gideon had turned the dashboard vents onto his face, enjoying the rush of cold air. They were driving on Route 27, passing the long cement wall enclosing Arlington National Cemetery, when two motorcycle cops intercepted their car, one pulling ahead, the other staying behind, sirens wailing, red lights turning. The one in front motioned with a black-gloved hand toward the Columbia Pike exit ramp; once on the ramp, he signaled for Gideon’s mother to pull over. There was none of the slow deliberation of a routine traffic stop—instead, both officers hopped off their motorcycles and came running up.

  “Follow us,” said one, leaning in the window. “Now.”

  “What’s this all about?” Gideon’s mother asked.

  “National security emergency. Keep up—we’ll be driving fast and clearing traffic.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  But they were already running back to their motorcycles.

  Sirens blaring, the officers escorted them down Columbia Pike to George Mason Drive, forcing cars aside as they went. They were joined by more motorcycles, squad cars, and finally an ambulance: a motorcade that screamed through the traffic-laden streets. Gideon didn’t know whether to be thrilled or scared. Once they turned onto Arlington Boulevard, he could guess where they were going: Arlington Hall Station, where his father worked for INSCOM, the United States Army Intelligence and Security Command.

  Police barricades were up over the entrance to the complex, but they were flung aside as the motorcade pulled through. They went shrieking down Ceremonial Drive and came to a halt at a second set of barricades, beside a welter of fire trucks, police cars, and SWAT vans. Gideon could see his father’s building through the trees, the stately white pillars and brick façade set among emerald lawns and manicured oaks. It had once been a girls’ finishing school and still looked it. A large area in front had been cleared. He could see two sharpshooters lying on the lawn, behind a low hummock, rifles deployed on bipods.

  His mother turned to him and said, fiercely, “Stay in the car. Don’t get out, no matter what.” Her face was gray and strained, and it scared him.

  She stepped out. The phalanx of cops bulled through the crowd ahead of her and they disappeared.

  She’d forgotten to turn off the engine. The air-conditioning was still going. Gideon cranked down a window, the car filling with the sounds of sirens, walkie-talkie chatter, shouts. Two men in blue suits came running past. A cop hollered into a radio. More sirens drifted in from afar, coming from every direction.

  He heard the sound of a voice over an electronic megaphone, acidic, distorted. “Come out with your hands in view.”

  The crowd immediately hushed.

  “You are surrounded. There is nothing you can do. Release your hostage and come out now.”

  Another silence. Gideon looked around. The attention of the crowd was riveted on the front door of the station. That, it seemed, was where things would play out.

  “Your wife is here. She would like to speak to you.”

  A buzz of fumbled static came through the sound system and then the electronically magnified sound of a partial sob, grotesque and strange. “Melvin?” Another choking sound. “MELVIN?”

  Gideon froze. That’s my mother’s voice, he thought.

  It was like a dream where nothing made sense. It wasn’t real. Gideon put his hand on the door handle and opened it, stepping into the stifling heat.

  “Melvin…” A choking sound. “Please come out. Nobody’s going to hurt you, I promise. Please let the man go.” The voice over the megaphone was harsh and alien—and yet unmistakably his mother’s.

  Gideon advanced through the clusters of police officers and army officers. No one paid him any attention. He made his way to the outer barricade, placed a hand on the rough, blue-painted wood. He stared in the direction of Arlington Hall but could see nothing stirring in the placid façade or on the immediate grounds cleared of people. The building, shimmering in the heat, looked dead. Outside, the leaves hung limply on the oak branches, the sky flat and cloudless, so pale it was almost white.

  “Melvin, if you let the man go, they’ll listen to you.”

  More waiting silence. Then there was a sudden motion at the front door. A plump man in a suit Gideon didn’t recognize came stumbling out. He looked around a moment, disorient
ed, then broke into a run toward the barricades, his thick legs churning. Four helmeted officers rushed out, guns drawn; they seized the man and hustled him back behind one of the vans.

  Gideon ducked under the barricade and moved forward through the groups of cops, the men with walkie-talkies, the men in uniform. Nobody noticed him, nobody cared: all eyes were fixed on the front entrance to the building.

  And then a faint voice rang out from inside the doorway. “There must be an investigation!”

  It was his father’s voice. Gideon paused, his heart in his throat.

  “I demand an investigation! Twenty-six people died!”

  A muffled, amplified fumbling, then a male voice boomed from the sound system. “Dr. Crew, your concerns will be addressed. But you must come out now with your hands up. Do you understand? You must surrender now.”

  “You haven’t listened,” came the trembling voice. His father sounded frightened, almost like a child. “People died and nothing was done! I want a promise.”

  “That is a promise.”

  Gideon had reached the innermost barricade. The front of the building remained still, but he was now close enough to see the door standing half open. It was a dream; at any moment he would wake up. He felt dizzy from the heat, felt a taste in his mouth like copper. It was a nightmare—and yet it was real.

  And then Gideon saw the door swing inward and the figure of his father appear in the black rectangle of the doorway. He seemed terribly small against the elegant façade of the building. He took a step forward, his hands held up, palms facing forward. His straight hair hung down over his forehead, his tie askew, his blue suit rumpled.

  “That’s far enough,” came the voice. “Stop.”