"You assume correctly. But first…" Pendergast's voice faltered.
"You want to know if she's still alive!"
This time it was Diogenes who let the silence draw out. D'Agosta stole a glance at Pendergast. He was motionless, save for the twitch of a small muscle below the right eye.
"Yes, she's still alive-at present."
"You hurt her in any way and I'll hunt you to the ends of the earth."
"Tut-tut. But while we're on the subject of women, let's talk a little bit about this young thing you've kept cloistered in the mansion of our late lamented ancestor. If indeed she is 'young,' which I'm beginning to doubt. I find myself most curious about her. Her in particular, in fact. I sense that what one sees on the surface is what one sees of an iceberg: the merest fraction. There are hidden facets to her, mirrors within mirrors. And at a fundamental level, I sense that something in her is broken."
During this speech, Pendergast had stiffened visibly. "Listen to me, Diogenes. Keep away from her. You come close to her again, approach her in any way, and I'll-"
"Do what? Kill me? Then my blood would be on your hands- more than it already is-as well as that of your four dear friends. Because you, frater, are responsible for all this. You know it. You made me what I am."
"I made you nothing."
"Well said! Well said!" A dry, almost desiccated laugh came over the tiny speaker. Listening, D'Agosta felt a chill of repulsion.
"Let's get to it," Pendergast managed to say.
"Get to it? Just when the conversation was becoming interesting? Don't you want to talk about how utterly and completely responsible you are for all this? Ask any family shrink: they'll tell you how important it is that we talk it out. Frater."
Suddenly, D'Agosta could take it no longer. "Diogenes! Listen to me, you sick fuck: you want the diamond? Then you cut with the bullshit."
"No diamond, no Viola."
"If you hurt Viola, I'll take a sledgehammer to the diamond and mail you the dust. If you think I'm kidding, keep talking."
"Empty threats."
D'Agosta brought his fist down on the dashboard, making a resounding crash.
"Careful! Easy!" The voice was suddenly high and panicked.
"So shut the hell up."
"Stupidity is an elemental force, and I respect it."
"You're still talking."
"We'll do this on my terms," said Diogenes briskly. "Do you hear me? My terms!"
"With two conditions," Pendergast said quietly. "One: the exchange must take place on the island of Manhattan, and within six hours. Two: it must be set up in such a way that you can't renege. You tell me your plan and I'll be 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.