Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [114]
Vergeltung
Orchid Island, Florida
A cold wind blew from the water, buffeting the car and raising whitecaps on the broad Hudson.
A cell phone, sitting on the passenger seat, began to ring. Pendergast lowered the binoculars to answer it. “Yes?”
“Is this my main Secret Agent Man?” came the whispery voice on the other end of the line.
“Mime,” Pendergast replied. “How are you faring?”
“Did you find the yacht okay?”
“I’m staring at it now.”
A pleased, raspy giggle sounded over the phone. “Ideal. Ideal. And do you think we, um, have a ringer?”
“Indeed I do, Mime—thanks to you.”
“Vergeltung. German for ‘vengeance.’ It was rather a challenge. But then again, that ghostnet of zombified PCs I’ve appropriated all over Cleveland has been rather idle of late. It was high time I put them to work on something useful.”
“I’d prefer not to know the details. But you have my thanks.”
“Glad I was able to be of more help this time around. Hang loose, homeboy.” There was a click as the line went dead.
Pendergast put the phone in his pocket and eased the car forward, heading down toward the entrance of the marina and up to the gate that led to the main pier. A man in a crisp uniform—an ex-cop, without doubt—leaned out of the adjoining guardhouse. “Help you?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Lowe, the general manager.”
“And you are?”
Pendergast removed his shield and let it dangle for a moment. “Special Agent Pendergast.”
“You got an appointment?”
“No.”
“And this is in reference to…?”
Pendergast simply stared at him. Then he suddenly smiled. “Is there going to be a problem? Because if there is, I’d like to know it now.”
The man blinked. “Just a moment.” He retreated and spoke into a phone. Then he opened the gate. “You can pull through and park. Mr. Lowe will be out in a moment.”
It took more than a moment. Finally, a tall, fit, nautical-looking man wearing a Greek fisherman’s cap emerged from the main marina building and came striding over, his breath condensing behind him in puffs. Pendergast stepped out of the car and stood waiting for him.
“Well, well. FBI?” said the man, extending his hand with a friendly smile, his blue eyes flashing. “What can I do for you?”
Pendergast nodded toward the moored yacht. “I’d like to know about that yacht.”
The man paused. “What’s the basis for your interest?” He continued to smile genially.
“Official,” said Pendergast, smiling in return.
“Official. Well now, that’s funny,” said the man. “Because I just called the New York field office of the FBI and asked them if a certain Special Agent Pendergrast was working on a case that involved the marina—”
“Pendergast.”
“Excuse me. Pendergast. They said you’d taken a temporary leave of absence and assured me you were not on any active case right now. So one must assume you’re moonlighting, flashing your badge under false pretenses. Which has got to be against FBI regulations. Am I right?”
Pendergast’s smile did not waver. “You’re right on all counts.”
“So I’m just going to go back to my office, and you’re going to go away, and if I hear any more about this I’m going to call the FBI back and report that one of their special agents is roaming around town, using his badge to intimidate law-abiding citizens.”
“Intimidate? When I begin to intimidate you, you’ll know it.”
“Is that a threat?”
“That’s a prediction.” Pendergast nodded toward the water. “I presume you can see that yacht out there? I have reason to believe a serious crime is about to be committed on it. If that crime occurs, then I will be on the case—in the most official of all possible capacities—and you, quite naturally, will be investigated as an accessory.”
“A hollow threat. I’m no accessory and you know it. If a crime is about to be committed, I suggest you call the