“Do you have any images of the esophagus?”
“Sending it now.”
During this exchange, Constance had risen from her chair and walked to the railing of the deck, aperitif in hand, and was looking west across the beach. The sun was now an orange ball of fire kissing the sea horizon. Pendergast decrypted the messages on his phone, then quickly scrolled through the photographs. Quarles was barely recognizable as a human being, let alone as the short, fussy man with the Eton haircut he’d met in the M.E.’s office in Fort Myers not so many days ago. That was a tall building. He scrolled forward to the U.S. doctor’s report.
“It says here that both the mucosa and submucosa were involved, and that there was no indication of either eschar or debridement.”
“Agent Pendergast, you’re losing me with that medical terminology.”
Pendergast swiped ahead to the final image—the single picture their doctor had been able to take of Quarles’s esophagus.
“Traumatic injury or no, these are definitely not cancerous squamous cells,” he said.
Pickett sighed audibly. “Dr. Pendergast speaks—”
“The expert from the FTG I sent to China earlier this week did not have advanced esophageal cancer. That much I can tell you for a fact.”
“So what was it?”
“I’m saying exactly what our own medical expert is probably also implying, as diplomatically as possible under the circumstances. This damage to the esophagus wasn’t caused by cancer or a fall. It was caused by full-thickness burns.”
“Burns?”
“Third-degree, where tissue is destroyed down to the subcutaneous level.”
This pause was longer. “And you’re implying what, precisely?”
“That Specialist Quarles was tortured. A specially fitted gastroscope was inserted down his throat.”
“Specially…fitted?”
“Yes. They can be purchased if one knows where. Medical instruments that aren’t meant to heal but do the opposite. Gastroscopes can normally be fitted with lights, cameras, tiny scalpels for the taking of biopsies. But they can also be fitted with electric probes, cautery pens. A method of torture that leaves no visible exterior trace, only interior.”
“Good Lord.”
“Quarles called me three days ago. He said he thought he’d found the manufacturer of the shoes. It was a small company that furnished items to a limited list of clients—including a jobber that, fairly recently, had ordered three hundred pairs of our precise shoe.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. He said that there had been some unusual requests involved. He also said that he felt this was a sensitive order, and that learning more might present problems.”
“And?”
“Sir, Quarles was as comfortable doing business in China as he was analyzing shoes and neckties in Huntsville. But he was not an agent, and his primary training was not in covert work. He thought he’d found the manufacturer and jobber. We wanted to identify the buyer, of course, but I told him to use his discretion, and that if he felt any danger, he should abandon the attempt and exfil the region immediately.”
“Did you get the name of the manufacturer or jobber?”
“Neither. There was no reason for him to tell me more at that point—for security reasons, if nothing else.”
“Security? It sounds to me like when you had this conversation, it was already too late.”
“That has occurred to me as well.”
“Has it also occurred to you that if they, whoever they are, went to such lengths…then Quarles probably gave them what they wanted to know?”
“Yes.”
“He would have told them of our interest in who ordered the shoes, the name of his case agent. That is, you.”
“The real question is: how did they know how close he was? Quarles and I took level one classified precautions.”
“That is an important question. How do you want to proceed?” Pickett asked after a moment.
“I’d like to think about it overnight.”
“Okay. I think it’s safe to say this unfortunate development tells us one thing, at least: the people we’re dealing with are sophisticated and have a surprisingly long reach. I’m warning you officially to watch your six. And tell Coldmoon to do the same.”
“When I’m able to reach him, I will.”
The phone went dead, and Pendergast slipped it back into his pocket. The sun had sunk below the horizon now, leaving behind it an afterglow of the purest cinnamon. Constance had taken her seat again. Pendergast had made no attempt to hide his end of the conversation from her.
She finished her drink, put it on a nearby glass table. “You lost somebody,” she said.
“I’m afraid that’s too kind a way of putting it. Because of my instructions, somebody was tortured—and killed.”
Constance did not reply to this. Instead, she took his hand and they sat in silence as the light slowly faded.
“What was he, or she, like?” she asked at last.
“He was a courageous man who died in service.” A grim look flitted across Pendergast’s face. “One can offer no higher praise than that.”
After another moment of silence, he turned toward Constance. “I should warn you this news is more than just tragic. It could mean we’re in significant danger ourselves.”
“Oh?” Constance’s expression did not change. “In that case, there’s something we had better do right away.”
“What’s that?”
“See about getting dinner. I’m famished.”
They rose and—with Pendergast placing a partly affectionate, partly protective arm lightly around her waist—they made their way to the end of the porch, down the steps, and out toward the restaurants of Captiva Drive.
39
IT’S HERE,” SMITHBACK said.
Flaco turned off U.S. 41 onto Kellogg Street. Checking the road ahead, Smithback relaxed ever so slightly. It was as he’d remembered: Kellogg was one of those streets whose buildings, once large private residences, had been converted into law firms and doctors’ suites, and cute office buildings with tasteful wooden signs advertising the businesses inside.
It was also, he noted grimly, just steps away from Lee Memorial Hospital.
Smithback had put everything he had, body and soul, into making sure this moment came to pass and thinking how he would pull it off. He’d suggested that a few pages of the manuscript be redrawn to improve their appearance. He’d requested a brush to put his hair into some kind of order. Anything, everything he could think of to keep Flaco—who, once Carlos returned, had clearly started to waffle—dreaming of Hollywood riches instead of Bighead’s rage. As night came on and the hours crawled slowly by, Smithback had grown increasingly worried. What if Flaco lost his nerve? What if Carlos didn’t go out after all? Every hour, he knew, was an hour closer to Bighead’s promised return. I’ll come back and break you in.
When Flaco silently brought him breakfast, Smithback even resorted to demanding a portion of the imaginary profits. “Look,” he said, “if El Acero really becomes big—a franchise, you know?—I think we’d better agree now on what my percentage will be. I mean, I’m the one putting you together with Bill. Right? Normally, an agent gets 15 percent. But I don’t want to be greedy. I’ll take 10 percent, maybe 12—we can talk about it once we get back here, after the meeting.”