Dance Of Death

the judge. You have one chance to get it right.'

'That sounds like five conditions, not two. But of course, brother-of course! I have to say, though, this is a knotty little problem. I'll call you back in ten minutes.'

'Make it five.'

'More conditions?' And the phone went dead.

There was a long silence. A sheen of moisture had appeared on Pendergast's brow. He plucked a silk handkerchief from his suit jacket, dabbed his forehead, replaced it.

'Can we trust him?' D'Agosta asked.

'No. Never. But I don't think he'll have enough time to arrange an effective double cross within six hours. And he wants Lucifer's Heart-wants it with a passion you and I cannot comprehend. I think we can trust that passion, if we can trust nothing else.'

The phone rang again, and Pendergast pressed the speaker button.

'Yes?'

'Okay, frater. Time for a pop quiz in urban geography. You know of a place called the Iron Clock?'

'The railroad turntable?'

'Excellent! And you know its location?'

'Yes.'

'Good. We'll do it there. You'll no doubt want to bring your trusty sidekick, Vinnie.'

'I intend to.'

'Listen to me carefully. I'll meet you there at… six minutes to midnight. Enter through tunnel VI and step slowly out into the light. Vinnie can hang back in the dark and cover you, if you wish. Have him bring his weapon of choice. That will keep me honest. Feel free to bring your own Les Baer or whatever fashion accessory you're carrying these days. There'll be no gunplay unless something goes wrong. And nothing's going to go wrong. I want my diamond, and you want your Viola da Gamba. If you know the layout of the Iron Clock, you'll realize it is the perfect venue for our, shall we say, transaction.'

'I understand.'

'So. Do I have your approval, brother? Satisfied that I can't cheat you?'

Pendergast was silent for a moment. 'Yes.'

'Then a presto.'

And the phone went dead.

'That bastard gives me the creeps,' said D'Agosta.

Pendergast sat in silence for a long time. Then he removed the handkerchief again, wiped his forehead, refolded the handkerchief.

D'Agosta noticed Pendergast's hands were trembling slightly.

'You all right?' he asked.

Pendergast shook his head. 'Let's get this over with.' But rather than move, he remained still, as if in deep thought. Abruptly, he seemed to come to some decision. And then he turned and-to D'Agosta's surprise-took his hand.

'There's something I'm going to ask you to do,' Pendergast said. 'I warn you in advance: it will go against all your instincts as a partner and as a friend. But you must believe me when I say it is the only way. There is no other solution. Will you do it?'

'Depends on what it is.'

'Unacceptable. I want your promise first.'

D'Agosta hesitated.

A look of concern settled over Pendergast's face. 'Vincent, please. It's absolutely critical that I can rely on you in this moment of extremity.'

D'Agosta sighed. 'Okay. I promise.'

Pendergast's tired frame relaxed in obvious relief. 'Good. Now, please listen carefully.'

SIXTY-FIVE

Diogenes Pendergast stared at the cell phone, lying on the pine table, for a long time. The only indication of the strong emotion running through him was a faint twitching of his left little finger. A mottled patch of gray had appeared on his left cheek, and-were he to look in a mirror, which he did only when applying a disguise-he knew he'd find his ojo sarco looking deader than usual.

Finally, his gaze strayed from the telephone to a small bottle topped by a rubber membrane and, lying next to it, a glass-and-steel hypodermic needle. He picked up the bottle, held it upside down while inserting the needle, drew out a small quantity, thought a moment, drew out more, then capped the needle with a plastic protector and placed it in his suit pocket.

His gaze then went to a deck of tarot cards, sitting on the edge of the table. It was the Albano-Waite deck-the one he preferred. Picking it up, he gave the deck an overhand shuffle, then laid three cards facedown before him in the spread known as the gypsy draw.

Putting the rest of the deck to one side, he turned over the first card: the High Priestess. Interesting.

He moved his hand to the second card, turned it over. It showed a tall, thin man in a black cloak, turned away, head bowed. At his feet were overturned golden goblets, spilling red liquid. In the background was a river, and beyond that, a forbidding-looking castle. The Five of Cups.

At this, Diogenes drew in his breath sharply.

More slowly now, his hand moved to the third and final card. He hesitated a moment, then turned it over.

This card was upside down. It portrayed a hand above a barren landscape, thrusting out of a dark cloud of smoke. It held a massive sword with a jeweled hilt. A golden crown was impaled on the end of its blade.

The Ace of Swords. Reversed.

Diogenes stared at the card for a moment, then slowly exhaled. He raised it in a shaking hand, then with one violent motion tore it in half, then in half again, and scattered the pieces.

Now his restless gaze moved to the black velvet cloth, laid out and rolled up at the edges, on which lay 488 diamonds, almost all of them deeply colored, scintillating underneath the bright gem light clamped to the table's edge.

As he stared at the diamonds, his agitation began to ease.

Restraining an exquisite eagerness, his hand roved over the ocean of glittering trapped light before plucking one of the largest diamonds, a vivid blue stone of thirty-three carats, called the Queen of Narnia. He held it in his palm, observing the light catch and refract within its saturated deeps, and then with infinite care raised it to his good eye.

He stared at the world through the fractured depths of the stone. It was like kicking open a door just a crack and catching a glimpse of a magic world beyond, a world of color and life, a real world- so different from this false, flat world of gray mundanity.

His breathing became deeper and more even, and the trembling in his hand subsided as his mind loosened in its prison and began to ramble down long-forgotten alleys of memory.

Diamonds. It always started with diamonds. He was in his mother's arms, diamonds glittering at her throat, dangling from her ears, winking from her fingers. Her voice was like a diamond, pure and cool, and she was singing a song to him in French. He was no more than two years old but nevertheless was crying, not from sorrow, but from the aching beauty of his mother's voice. In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song / betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong…

The scene faded.

Now he was wandering through the great house on Dauphine Street, down long corridors and past mysterious rooms, many of them, even then, having been shut up for ages. But when you opened a door, you would always find something exciting, something wondrous and strange: a huge draped bed, dark paintings of women in white