Dance of Death (32 page)

"What kind of engineering problems?" Pendergast asked.

"How to neutralize an underground nuclear reactor in a certain rogue Middle Eastern state being used to produce weapons-grade fuel. The analysis of the mysterious and sudden loss of a billion-dollar classified satellite." He twitched a finger, a small gesture that carried surprising weight, so motionless had the man been up to that point. "You'll understand if I don't go into details. You see, Mr. Pendergast, 'failure analysis' is the other side of the engineering coin: it is the art of understanding how things fail, and thus preventing failure before it happens. Or finding out why failure occurred
after
it happens. Sadly, the latter is more common than the former."

D'Agosta spoke. "I still don't get it. What does failure analysis have to do with forensic profiling?"

"I'm getting to that, Lieutenant. Failure analysis begins and ends with psychological profiling. EES realized long ago that the key to understanding failure was understanding exactly how human beings make mistakes. Which is the same as understanding how human beings make decisions in general. We needed
predictive power
-a way to predict how a given person would act in a given situation. We therefore developed a muscular proprietary system for psychological profiling. It currently runs on a grid-powered supercomputer of IBM eServer nodes. We do psychological profiling better than anyone else in the world. And I do not tell you this by way of salesmanship. It's a simple fact."

Pendergast inclined his head. "Most interesting. How is it I have never heard of you?"

"We do not generally wish to be known-beyond, that is, a small circle of clients."

"Before we begin, I must be assured of discretion."

"Mr. Pendergast, EES makes two guarantees. First, utter discretion. Second, guaranteed success. Now, please tell me your problem."

"The target is a man named Diogenes Pendergast-my brother. He disappeared over two decades ago, after contriving to stage his own false death. He seems to have vanished off the face of the earth-at least officially. He's not in any government databases, beyond a death certificate which I know to be forged. There are no adult records of him at all. No address, no photos, nothing." He removed a thick manila folder from his coat and placed it on the table. "Everything I know is in here."

"How do you know he's still alive?"

"We had a curious encounter last summer. It's in the report. That, and the fact he has turned into a serial killer."

Glinn gave a slow nod.

"From a young age, Diogenes hated me, and he's made it his life's work to destroy me. On January 19 of this year, he finally put his plan into action. He has begun murdering my friends and associates, one by one, and taunting me with my inability to save them. He's killed four so far. For the last two, he's mocked me with notes ahead of time, naming the victim-the first time correctly, and the second time as a ruse to make me protect the wrong person. In short, I have utterly failed to stop him. He claims to be targeting Lieutenant D'Agosta here next. Again, the summaries of the homicides are in that folder."

D'Agosta saw Glinn's good eye gleam with new interest. "How intelligent is this Diogenes?"

"As a child, his I.Q. was tested at 210. That was, incidentally, after he had scarlet fever, which altered him permanently."

Glinn raised an eyebrow. "Are we dealing with organic brain damage?"

"Not likely. He was strange before the fever. The illness seems to have focused it, brought it to the fore."

"And this is why you need me. You need a complete psychological, criminal, and behavioral analysis of this man. Naturally, because you are his brother, you are too close to him-you cannot do it yourself."

"Correct. Diogenes has had years to plan this. He's been three steps ahead of me all the way. He leaves no clues at his crime scenes-none that are unintentional at least. The only way to stop him is to anticipate what he'll do next. I must stress this is an emergency situation. Diogenes has threatened to complete his crime tomorrow, January 28. He named this day as the culmination of all his planning. There is no telling how many more lives are in jeopardy."

Glinn opened the folder with his good hand and began leafing through it, scanning the pages. "I cannot produce a profile in twenty-four hours."

"You
must."

"It's impossible. The earliest I can do it-assuming I drop all other work and focus solely on this-is seventy-two hours from now. You have come to me too late, Mr. Pendergast. At least too late for the date your brother named. Not too late, perhaps, to take effective action afterwards." He gave his head a curious tilt as he eyed Pendergast.

The agent was very still for a moment. "So be it, then," he said in a low voice.

"Let's not waste any more time." Glinn put a hand on the folder before him and slid it across the table. "Here is our standard contract. My fee is one million dollars."

D'Agosta rose from his chair. "A million bucks? Are you crazy!"

Pendergast stilled him with a wave of his hand. "Accepted." He took the folder, opened it, scanned the contract rapidly.

"At the back," said Glinn, "you'll find our standard disclaimers and warranties. We offer an absolute, unconditional guarantee of success."

"This is the second time you've mentioned that curious guarantee. How do you define 'success,' Mr. Glinn?"

Another ghostly smile lingered on Glinn's face. "Naturally, we cannot guarantee that you will apprehend Diogenes. Nor can we guarantee to stop him from killing. That lies in your hands. Here's what we do guarantee. First: we will give you a forensic profile of Diogenes Pendergast that will accurately elucidate his motive."

"I already know his motive."

Glinn ignored this. "Second: our forensic profile will have
predictive
power. It will tell you, within a limited range of options, what Diogenes Pendergast's next actions will be. We offer follow-up services- if you have specific questions about the target's future actions, we will run them through our system and provide you with reliable answers."

"I question whether that's possible with any human being, let alone someone like Diogenes."

"I do not wish to bandy philosophical questions with you, Mr. Pendergast. Human beings are disgustingly predictable, and this is as true of psychopaths as it is of grandmothers. We shall do what we say."

"Have you ever failed?"

"Never. There is one assignment that remains-shall we say- open."

"The one involving the thermonuclear device?"

If Glinn was surprised by this question, he did not show it. "What thermonuclear device is that?"

"The one you are designing downstairs. I saw several equations on a whiteboard relating to the curve of binding energy. On a nearby table lay a paper with the design for machining a piece of H.E. that could only be used to compress a core."

"I shall have to speak to my chief engineer about his carelessness with regard to our other project."

"I also see you're developing a genetically engineered plant mosaic virus. Does that also relate to that other project?"

"We offer the same guarantee of confidentiality to our other clients that we offer you. Shall we return to the subject of Diogenes? In particular, the question of his motive."

"Not quite yet," said Pendergast. "I do not speak frivolously. Your entire manner-your speech, your movements, your very intensity, Mr. Glinn-speaks of someone with an overriding obsession. I have also noted that, at least if the scar on your face is an indication, your injuries are recent. When I weigh that with what I saw downstairs, I find myself growing concerned."

Glinn raised his eyebrows. "Concerned?"

"Concerned that a man such as you, wrestling with a problem far greater than my own, wouldn't be able to devote his full attention to mine."

Glinn remained very still, not answering. Pendergast looked across the table at him, equally motionless.

A minute went by, then two, without either man speaking. Watching, waiting, D'Agosta grew increasingly alarmed. It was as if the two men were fighting a duel, waging a battle of turn and counterturn, all without speaking or even moving.

Suddenly, without preamble, Glinn began to speak again in the same calm, neutral voice. "If you ever decide to leave the FBI, Mr. Pendergast, I believe I could find a place for you here. There is no obsession on my part, however-only the simple fulfillment of our guarantee of success. You see, we don't make that guarantee just for our clients: we make it for ourselves. I intend to complete that other project successfully, although the original client is no longer in a condition to appreciate it. That project involves a severe seismic dislocation at a certain site in the South Atlantic that requires a, ah, nuclear adjustment. And that is more than you need to know. It is true that I am taking on your little problem chiefly because I find myself embarrassed for funds. However, I will devote
all my energy
to seeing your project through, because to fail would mean having to return your money and to suffer personal humiliation. And, as I said, EES does not fail. Clear enough?"

Pendergast nodded.

"And now, let us return to your brother's motive-the fountain-head of his hatred. Something happened between you and him, and I must know what it is."

"It's all described in that folder. He always hated me. The final straw was when I burned my brother's journals."

"Tell me about it."

"I was fourteen, and he was twelve. We had never gotten along. He was always cruel and strange-much more so after the scarlet fever."

"When was that?"

"When he was seven."

"Are there any medical records?"

"None. He was treated by the private family physician."

"Proceed."

"One day I came across his journals, which were filled with the most vile things ever put on paper-abominations beyond the reach of any normal mind. He'd been keeping them for years. I burned them-and that was the precipitant. Some years later, our home burned, and our parents died in the fire. I was away at school, but Diogenes saw it all, heard their cries for help. That drove him over the edge."

A cold smile played at the corners of Glinn's lips. "I think not."

"You
think not?"

"I have no doubt that he was jealous of you and that the destruction of his journals infuriated him. But that happened far too late to produce such a deep, pathological, obsessive hatred. Nor can a mere bout with scarlet fever create hatred out of thin air. No, Mr. Pendergast: this hatred stems from
something else
that happened between you and your brother at a much earlier age.
That
is the information we lack. And you are the only person who can supply it."

"Everything of relevance that happened between me and my brother is in that file, including our recent encounter in Italy. I can assure you there is no single incident, no smoking gun, which explains his hatred."

Glinn picked up the file, leafed through it. Three minutes passed, then five. Then Glinn put the folder down. "You're right. There is no smoking gun here."

"Just as I said."

"It's quite possible you've repressed it."

"I repress nothing. I have an exceptional memory going back to before my first birthday."

"Then you are deliberately withholding something."

Pendergast went very still. D'Agosta watched the two men, surprised. He had never seen anyone challenge Pendergast in quite this way before.

As he eyed Pendergast, Glinn had become, if possible, even more expressionless. "We can't proceed without this information. I need it, and I need it now." He glanced at his watch. "I'm going to call in several of my trusted associates. They'll be here within the hour. Mr. Pendergast, there's a small room with a bed behind that door in the back; please make yourself comfortable and await further instructions. Lieutenant, your presence here is no longer required."

D'Agosta looked at Pendergast. For the first time in his memory, the agent's face wore a look of something like apprehension.

"I'm not going anywhere," D'Agosta said immediately, irritated at Glinn's arrogance.

Pendergast smiled thinly, shook his head. "It's all right, Vincent- much as I loathe the idea of rummaging around in my past for something that probably doesn't exist, I see the necessity for doing so. I will meet you back at our prearranged place."

"Are you sure?"

Pendergast nodded. "And never forget: you are the one named next by Diogenes. January 28 is less than three hours away. Vincent: be
transcendentally
cautious."

FORTY

Laura Hayward paced the small room like a caged lioness, glancing frequently at the ugly clock behind her desk. She felt that, if she didn't work off her nervous energy, she would explode. And since she couldn't leave her office, she paced.

She had spent almost the entire evening organizing the evidence from the Duchamp and Green killings, and cross-comparing it to evidence she had cajoled, pried, and bludgeoned out of the New Orleans and D.C. police departments. She had cleared her cork wall of all other cases and had divided it into four cantons, one for each homicide: Professor Torrance Hamilton on January 19; Charles Duchamp on January 22; Special Agent Michael Decker on January 23; and Dr. Margo Green on January 26. There were micrographs of fibers and hair, photographs of knots and footprints, abstracts of the M.E. reports, blood splatter analyses, photographs of the murder scenes and weapons, fingerprint reports, diagrams showing ingress and egress where determined, along with an embarrassment of other evidence, relevant or not. Pushpins with colored strings drew red, yellow, green, and blue connections among the evidence. And there were a surprising number of connections: while the M.O.'s were all quite different, there was no doubt in Hayward's mind the same person had committed all four homicides.