Cold Vengeance (24 page)

C
HAPTER 50

New York City

D
R.
O
STROM’S OFFICE AT
M
OUNT
M
ERCY HAD ONCE BEEN
—rather fittingly, Esterhazy thought—the consulting chamber of the hospital’s “alienist.” It still bore traces of the building’s days as a private hospital for the wealthy: a large, rococo marble fireplace; elaborately carved moldings; leaded-glass windows, now fitted with steel bars. Esterhazy almost expected a butler in white tie to enter, sherry glasses balanced on a silver salver.

“So, Dr. Poole,” Felder said, leaning forward in his chair and placing the palms of his hands on his knees. “What did you think of this evening’s session?”

Esterhazy glanced back at the psychiatrist, taking in his eager, intelligent gaze. The man was so obsessed with Constance and the strange aspects of this case that it was blinding his professional objectivity and normally prudent nature. Esterhazy, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about Constance or her perversities, beyond her use as a pawn in his game. And not caring gave him a huge advantage.

“I thought you handled her with great tact, Doctor,” he said. “Refusing to address her delusions directly, but only within the context of a greater reality, is clearly a beneficial strategy.” He paused. “I have to admit quite frankly, when I first approached you about this case, I had my doubts. You know the long-term prognosis of paranoid schizophrenia as well as or better than I do. And my earlier treatment of her was, as I’ve explained, less than satisfactory. But I’d be the first to admit that, where I once failed, you are now succeeding—to a degree I’d never thought possible.”

Felder flushed slightly, nodded his thanks.

“Have you noticed that her selective amnesia has abated to some degree?”

Felder cleared his throat. “I have noticed that, yes.”

Esterhazy smiled slightly. “And it’s clear that this facility has played no small part in her progress. The welcoming and intellectually stimulating atmosphere of Mount Mercy has made a huge difference. In my opinion, it’s helped turn a very guarded prognosis into a rather more optimistic one.”

Ostrom, sitting in a nearby wing chair, inclined his head. He was more reserved than Felder, and—though clearly interested in the case—not obsessed with it. Esterhazy had to treat him with great care. But flattery was universally effective.

Esterhazy flipped through the chart Ostrom had provided, trying to pick out any nugget that might assist him. “I notice here that Constance seems to react to two activities with particular favor: library hours and recreational time spent on the grounds.”

Ostrom nodded. “She seems to have an almost nineteenth-century attraction to outdoor strolls.”

“It’s a positive sign, and one I believe we should foster.” Esterhazy put the folder aside. “Have you thought of arranging a day trip away from Mount Mercy, such as a walk through the botanical gardens, perhaps?”

Ostrom glanced at him. “I must confess I haven’t. Off-site trips normally require court approval.”

“I understand. You say ‘normally.’ But I believe that, under the medical rules, if Constance is determined by Mount Mercy to be no danger to herself or others, and furthermore if the outing is deemed medically necessary, no court ruling is required.”

“We rarely go that route,” Ostrom replied. “The liability is too great.”

“But think of the patient. The
good
of the patient.”

Here Felder chimed in, as Esterhazy hoped he would. “I wholeheartedly agree with Dr. Poole. Constance has demonstrated not one iota of aggression or suicidal ideation. Nor is she an elopement risk: quite the contrary. Not only would this reinforce her interest in outdoor activity, but surely you’d agree that such an expression of confidence on our side would be highly beneficial in getting her to lower her defenses?”

Ostrom considered this.

“I think Dr. Felder is absolutely correct,” said Esterhazy. “And on consideration I believe the Central Park Zoo 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.

C
HAPTER 51

T
HE MAN CALLING HIMSELF
K
LAUS
F
ALKONER 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.

C
HAPTER 52

N
ED
B
ETTERTON DROVE UP THE
FDR D
RIVE
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 even know the right way to approach people and ask questions. Even his accent was a problem, putting people off.

He had then returned his attention to Falkoner, and almost had a breakthrough. On the chance that Falkoner had used a fake house number on his real street—after all, East End Avenue was an odd choice for a false address—Betterton had canvassed the avenue from end to end, knocking on doors, stopping people in the street, asking if anyone knew of a tall, blond man living in the vicinity, with an ugly mole on his face, and who spoke with a German accent. Most people—typical New Yorkers—either refused to talk to him or told him to fuck off. But a few of the older residents he met were friendlier. And through them, Betterton learned that the area, known as Yorkville, had once been a German enclave. These elderly residents spoke wistfully of restaurants such as Die Lorelei and Café Mozart, about the marvelous pastries served at Kleine Konditorei, about the bright halls that offered polka dances every night of the week. Now that was all gone, replaced by anonymous delis and supermarkets and boutiques.

And, yes, several people did believe they had seen a man like that. One old fellow claimed he had noticed such a man going in and out of a shuttered building on East End Avenue between Ninety-First and Ninety-Second Streets, at the northern end of Carl Schurz Park.

Betterton had staked out the building. He quickly learned it was next to impossible to loiter around outside without attracting attention or causing suspicion. That had forced him to rent a car and make his observations from the street. He had spent three exhausting days watching the building. Hour after hour of surveillance—nobody in or out. He’d run out of money and his vacation clock was ticking. Worse, Kranston had begun calling him daily, wondering where the hell he was, even hinting about replacing him.

In this way, the time he had allotted to New York City came to an end. His flight home was on a nonrefundable ticket that would cost him four hundred dollars to change—money he didn’t have.

And so now, at five o’clock in the evening, Betterton was driving up FDR Drive, on his way to the airport to catch his flight home. But when he saw the exit sign for East End Avenue, some perverse and irrepressible hope prompted him to swerve off. One more look—just one—and he would be on his way.

There was no place to park, and he had to drive around the block again and again. This was crazy: he was going to miss his flight. But as he came around the corner for the fourth time, he noticed that a taxi had stopped in front of the building. Intrigued, he pulled over and double-parked in front of the idling cab, pulling out a map and pretending to consult it while watching the shuttered building’s entrance through his rearview mirror.

Five minutes passed, and then the front door opened. A figure stepped out, duffel bags in each hand—and Betterton caught his breath. Tall and thin and blond. Even at this distance, he could see the mole beneath his right eye.

“Holy mackerel,” he muttered.

The man tossed the duffels into the taxi, climbed in after them, closed the door. A moment later, the vehicle nosed away from the curb and passed Betterton’s Chevy. Betterton took a deep breath, wiped his palms on his shirt, put the map aside. And then—taking a fresh grip on the wheel—he began to follow the cab as it turned onto Ninety-First Street and headed west.