“If we were actually headed for Miami, I doubt we’d be over Palm Beach right now.”
“Palm Beach? What the hell—?” Coldmoon looked down. Another narrow barrier island covered with mansions was passing below — including one particularly large and garish pseudo-Moorish compound their shadow was crossing over at present.
He sat back again, momentarily dazed by surprise and confusion. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“I confess I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Pendergast.
“Perhaps you should ask the pilot,” Constance said without looking up from her book.
Coldmoon glanced at the two with faint suspicion. Was this some kind of joke? But no — his gut, which he always trusted, told him they were as in the dark as he was.
“Good idea,” Coldmoon said, unbuckling his harness and standing up. He made his way forward from the passenger compartment to the cockpit. The two pilots, with their headsets, khaki uniforms, and brown hair cut to a similar regulation length, could have been twins.
“What’s up?” he asked the pilot in command in the right seat, cyclic between his knees. “We’re supposed to be going to Miami.”
“Not anymore,” the PIC said.
“What do you mean, ‘not anymore’?”
“Just after we took off, we got new orders from dispatch. We’re to proceed to Savannah.”
“Savannah?” Coldmoon echoed. “You mean, in Georgia? There must be some mistake.”
“No mistake,” said the PIC. “The orders came from ADC Pickett himself.”
Pickett. That son of a bitch. Standing in the doorway of the cockpit, Coldmoon thought back to the final conversation they’d had with the assistant director before taking off. I’ve just learned of the most peculiar incident that took place last night, north of Savannah... Pickett must have waited until they’d taken off, then ordered the flight to be diverted.
Of all the backstabbing, ungrateful... Well, Coldmoon had already been suckered into taking on a second case with Pendergast and his unorthodox ways — it sure as hell wasn’t going to happen again.
“Turn the chopper around,” he demanded.
“Sorry, sir,” the PIC replied. “I can’t do that.”
“You got shit in your ears? I said, turn this chopper around. We’re going to Miami.”
“Respectfully, sir, we have our orders,” the other pilot said. “And as it happens, they’re the same as yours. We’re headed to Savannah.” And taking his hand from the collective, he unzipped his light windbreaker just enough to display the butt of a handgun peeping out from a nylon shoulder holster.
“Agent Coldmoon?” It was Pendergast, speaking from what seemed like a long distance away. “Agent Coldmoon?”
Coldmoon wheeled around, lurching slightly with the motion of the helicopter.
“What?”
“It’s obvious we can do nothing about this unexpected course of events.”
“Didn’t you hear?” Coldmoon blazed. “We’re going to Savannah. Frigging Savannah, when I should be on a flight to—”
“I did indeed hear,” said Pendergast. “Something most unusual must have occurred, to say the least, for Pickett to abduct us like this.”
“Yeah. He’s being promoted and, as a result, has become even more of an asshole. What the hell are we going to do?”
“Under the circumstances, I would suggest nothing — except sit down and enjoy the view.”
But Coldmoon wasn’t about to let it go. “This is bullshit! I’ve got a mind to—”
“Agent Coldmoon?”
It was Constance who spoke. She said his name in her usual deep, strangely accented voice, without any particular emphasis.
Coldmoon fell silent. This woman was capable of saying, or doing, anything.
As it happened, she did nothing but gaze mildly at him. “You might find it calming to consider just how paradoxical this situation is.”
“What do you mean?” Coldmoon said angrily.
“I mean, how often do you suppose an FBI agent finds himself being kidnapped by his own people? Aren’t you intrigued as to why?” And with that, she returned to her reading.
5
They landed about forty-five minutes later at a remote section of Hunter Army Airfield. No sooner had Coldmoon angrily yanked his backpack out of the rear of the helicopter’s cabin than he heard the sound of a second chopper, approaching quickly. A minute later, it appeared in the sky. It was a Bell 429, government issue by the look of its tail markings, and it in fact appeared identical to the one their superior, ADC Pickett, had arrived at their private island in earlier in the day. Coldmoon scoffed. Why should he be surprised?
At almost the same time, as if choreographed, an Escalade with windows tinted almost as black as its body pulled up nearby, stopped, and then waited, idling, engine on.
Coldmoon looked at Pendergast, who was removing his and Constance’s luggage from the rear compartment of the chopper. Earlier, Pendergast had made it clear that he was eager — to put it mildly — to get back to New York. But he seemed to be taking this development in stride. More than that — he wasn’t objecting at all.
Coldmoon turned to him. “You knew about this, didn’t you?”
“I assure you I did not,” Pendergast replied over the prop wash.
“Then why the hell are you acting like we’re stopping for a picnic? I thought you wanted to get home.”
“I very much wish to return to New York.” He began walking with the bags toward the waiting SUV.
Coldmoon followed him. “Then what the—?”
“My dear Armstrong.” Coldmoon hated it when Pendergast began one of his little pronouncements like that. “I fail to see what this display of agitation will accomplish. Pickett knew our wishes. There must be a good reason for him to have ignored them. Perhaps it has something to do with that Georgian senator who carries a lot of weight with the FBI. Yes... I suspect we’ve been diverted because of a case offering potential bad publicity.”
Coldmoon looked at him. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you sound intrigued.”
“I am intrigued.” Pendergast looked around the airfield, silver-blue eyes glinting in the open air. “Savannah is lovely. Have you ever been there?”
“No, and I have no interest in going.”
“It’s a charming city, full of beautiful old mansions, cruel histories, and numerous ghosts. A true gem of the South. It rather reminds me of our old family plantation house, Penumbra — as it once was.”
Even as Pendergast was speaking, Coldmoon turned away, muttering a long and anatomically specific Lakota curse. He honestly couldn’t decide who was worse — Pickett or Pendergast. It figured the guy once had a plantation.
Now the passenger door of the Bell slid open and the trim figure of Pickett came striding toward them. “I’m very sorry about this little detour,” he said before Coldmoon could object. He waved in the direction of the SUV. “If you would all please get in, I’ll explain as we drive.”
“Drive where?” asked Coldmoon. But Pickett was already talking to the driver. There was one furious whine from behind, then another; turning, Coldmoon saw their helicopter and Pickett’s taking off in sequence, backwash blowing over them. The choppers rose, noses drooping like ungainly buzzards. He was half tempted to run toward them and cling to the skids before they were completely out of reach. In a silent fury, he tossed his backpack in the rear of the SUV and got in, sitting in the rearmost seat. Constance slipped in next to him. Pendergast took a seat in the middle along with Pickett. The driver put the Escalade in gear and stepped hard on the accelerator. Military hangars and warehouses swept past, and then they were on I-516, heading north.