Cold Vengeance

would be an even better choice.”

“Even if no ruling is required,” Ostrom said, “because of her criminal conviction I would still have to get approval from a court officer.”

“That shouldn’t pose a serious impediment,” Felder replied. “I can go through channels, using my position with the Board of Health.”

“Excellent.” Esterhazy beamed. “And how long do you expect that to take?”

“A day, perhaps two.”

Ostrom took some time to answer. “I’d want you both to accompany her. And the outing should be limited to a single morning.”

“Very prudent,” Esterhazy replied. “Will you call me on my cell phone, Dr. Felder, once you’re made the necessary arrangements?”

“With great pleasure.”

“Thank you. Gentlemen, if you’ll forgive me for the moment — time waits for no man.” And, shaking their hands in turn, Esterhazy smiled and let himself out.

CHAPTER 51

THE MAN CALLING HIMSELF KLAUS FALKONER RELAXED on the sky deck of the Vergeltung. It was another mild afternoon and the Seventy-Ninth Street Boat Basin was quiet, somnolent under a late-fall sun. On a small table beside him rested a pack of Gauloises and an unopened bottle of Cognac Roi de France Fine Champagne, along with a single brandy snifter.

Pulling a cigarette from the pack, Falkoner lit it with a gold Dunhill lighter, took a deep drag, then gazed at the bottle. With exquisite care, he pulled the old, original nineteenth-century wax from the neck of the bottle, crumpled it into a ball, and dropped it into a pewter ashtray. The cognac shone in the afternoon sun like liquid mahogany, a remarkably dark and rich color for such a spirit. There were a dozen more bottles just like it laid down in the wine cellar in the Vergeltung’s belly — a tiny percentage of the spoils plundered by Falkoner’s predecessors during the occupation of France.

He exhaled, looking around with satisfaction. Another small percentage of those spoils — gold, jewelry, bank accounts, art, and antiques expropriated more than sixty years before — had paid for the Vergeltung. And a very special trideck motor yacht it was: one hundred and thirty feet LOA, twenty-six-foot beam, and six luxurious staterooms. The fuel capacity of fifty-four thousand gallons of diesel allowed the twin eighteen-hundred-horsepower Caterpillar engines to cross any ocean but the Pacific. This kind of independence, this ability to operate both beyond the law and below the radar, was critical to the work that Falkoner and his organization were engaged in.

He took another drag on the cigarette and crushed it out, only half smoked, in the ashtray. He was eager to sample the cognac. Very carefully, he poured out a measure into the tulip snifter, which — given the age and delicacy of the spirit — he’d chosen over the coarser balloon snifter. He gently swirled the glass, sampled the aroma, then — with delicious slowness — lifted it to his lips and took a tiny sip. The cognac bloomed on his palate with marvelous complexity, surprisingly robust for such an old bottle: the legendary “Comet” vintage of 1811. He closed his eyes, took a larger sip.

Quiet footsteps sounded on the teakwood floor, and then there was a deferential cough at his shoulder. Falkoner glanced over. It was Ruger, a member of the crew, standing in the shadows of the flying bridge. He held a phone in one hand.

“Telephone call for you, sir,” he said in German.

Falkoner placed the snifter on the small table. “Unless it’s Herr Fischer calling, I do not wish to be disturbed.” Herr Fischer. Now there was a truly frightening man.

“It is the gentleman from Savannah, sir.” Ruger held the phone at a discreet distance.

“Verlucht,” Falkoner muttered under his breath as he took the proffered phone. “Yes?” he spoke into the mouthpiece. Irritation at having his ritual interrupted added an uncharacteristic harshness to his tone. This fellow was evolving from a nuisance into a problem.

“You asked me to deal with Pendergast decisively,” came the voice on the other end of the phone. “I’m about to do just that.”

“I don’t want to hear what you’re going to do. I want to hear what you’ve done.”

“You offered me assistance. The Vergeltung.”

“And?”

“I’m planning to bring a visitor on board.”

“A visitor?”

“An unwilling visitor. Someone close to Pendergast.”

“Am I to assume this is bait?”

“Yes. It will lure Pendergast on board, where he can be dealt with once and for all.”

“This sounds risky.”

“I’ve worked everything out to the last degree.”

Falkoner expelled a thin stream of air. “I look forward to discussing this with you further. Not on the phone.”

“Very well. But meanwhile, I’ll need restraints — plastic cuffs, gags, rope, duct tape, the works.”

“We keep that sort of thing at the safe house. I’ll have to retrieve it. Come by this evening and we shall go over the details.”

Falkoner hung up, handed the phone to the waiting crew member, and watched as the man receded out of sight. Then he once again picked up the tulip snifter, the look of contentment slowly settling back over his face.

CHAPTER 52

NED BETTERTON DROVE UP THE FDR DRIVE in his rented Chevy Aero, feeling more than a little disconsolate. He was due to return the rental car at the airport in about an hour, and that night he was flying back to Mississippi.

His little reportorial adventure was over.

It was hard to believe that — just a few days earlier — he had been on a roll. He’d gotten a bead on the “foreign fella.” Using the social engineering strategy known as pretexting, he’d called Dixie Airlines and, posing as a cop, gotten the address of the Klaus Falkoner who’d flown to Mississippi almost two weeks before: 702 East End Avenue.

Easy. But then he’d hit a wall. First, there was no 702 East End Avenue. The street was barely ten blocks long, perched right on the edge of the East River, and the street numbers didn’t go that high.

Next, he’d tracked Special Agent Pendergast to an apartment building called the Dakota. But it was a damn fortress, and gaining access proved impossible. There was always a doorman stationed in a pillbox outside the entrance, and more doormen and elevator men massed inside, politely but firmly rebuffing his every attempt and stratagem to enter the building or gain information.

Then he’d tried to get information on the NYPD captain. But there were several female captains and he couldn’t seem to find out, no matter who he asked, which one had partnered with Pendergast or gone down to New Orleans — only that it must have been done off duty.

The basic problem was New York Freaking City. People were tight as shit with information and paranoid of their so-called privacy. He was a long way from the Deep South. He didn’t know how things were done here, didn’t