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 goodof 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.
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.