Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [127]
She was semi-conscious but still breathing. Esterhazy quickly felt her pulse: slow and thready.
“Hypothermia,” he said to Falkoner. “We’ve got to bring her core temperature up. Where’s the woman?”
“Gerta? She locked herself in the crew quarters.”
“Have her run a lukewarm bath.”
Falkoner disappeared while Esterhazy removed the life preserver, unbuttoned and slipped off her soggy dress and underclothing, then wrapped her in a dry afghan that was folded on a nearby chair. He put plastic cuffs on her wrists and a much looser set around her ankles, leaving just enough slack for her to walk.
A moment later, the woman arrived with Falkoner. Her face was pale but she was composed. “The bath is running.”
They carried Constance through the saloon to the forward stateroom master bath, where they lowered her into the lukewarm water. She was already reviving, murmuring something as she went in.
“I’m going forward to watch Pendergast,” Esterhazy said.
Falkoner looked at him for a moment—a searching, calculating look. Then he smiled crookedly. “When she’s revived, I’ll bring her—and we’ll use her to make Pendergast talk.”
Esterhazy felt himself shudder.
He found Pendergast where he had left him, Schultz watching over him. He pulled up a deck chair and sat down, cradling the gun and looking carefully at Pendergast. This was the first time they had been face-to-face since he’d left the agent, critically wounded and sinking, in the quicksand of the Foulmire. The man’s silvery eyes, barely visible in the dim light, were, as usual, unreadable.
Ten minutes passed as Esterhazy went through every scenario, every possible plan to get himself off the Vergeltung—to no avail. They were going to kill him—he’d seen it in the look Falkoner had given him. Thanks to Pendergast, he’d caused the Covenant too much trouble, too many men, to remain alive himself.
He heard raised voices and saw Constance being pushed along the port-side walkway by Gerta, the redheaded woman, the threatening murmurs of Falkoner following. In a moment they emerged on deck. Zimmermann had joined them. Constance was wearing a long white terry-cloth bathrobe, with a man’s jacket over it. Falkoner gave her one last shove and she fell to the deck in front of Pendergast.
“Feisty bitch,” said Falkoner, dabbing at a bloody nose. “No problem reviving her. Tie her to that post.”
Schultz and the redheaded woman pushed her toward a lifeline stanchion, then tied her to it. She did not struggle, instead remaining strangely silent. When they had secured her, Falkoner straightened up, dabbed his brow, and cast a cool, triumphant expression at Esterhazy. “I’ll handle this,” he said in a clipped tone. “This is, after all, my area of expertise.”
He ripped the tape from Pendergast’s mouth. “We wouldn’t want to miss a word the man says—would we?”
Esterhazy casually glanced up at the bridge, a row of faintly glowing windows on the upper deck above and aft of the forecastle. He could see the captain behind the wheel, Gruber the mate to one side. Both were absorbed in their work, paying no attention to the drama playing out on the foredeck below. The vessel was now heading northeast, paralleling Long Island’s South Shore. Esterhazy wondered where they were going—Falkoner had been more than a little vague on that point.
“All right,” said Falkoner, taking a swaggering turn in front of Pendergast. He holstered his weapon and slid the combat knife out of its scabbard. Standing in front of the agent, he fondled it in the dim light, tested the edges, knelt, then pierced Pendergast’s flesh with the tip and drew a thin line down the cheek. Blood welled up.
“Now you have a Heidelberg dueling scar, just like my grandfather’s. Lovely.”
The red-haired woman watched, a look of cruel anticipation gathering on her face.
“See how sharp it is?” Falkoner continued. “But that sharpness isn’t for you. It’s for her.”
He strolled over to Constance