“The ancients believed nature to be comprised of four elements: earth, air, fire, and water. Some talked of floods; others of earthquakes or mighty winds; others of the devil. When Atlantis had betrayed its niche in the moral order of nature, it was consumed by water. The destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah came by fire. The plague that struck Venice came by air. Like the golden ratio, it follows a cyclical pattern. I’ve charted it here.”
He took out another diagram, very complex, covered with lines, charts, and numbers. All the lines seemed to converge on a central pentagram in which was written:
2004 A.D.—New York City—Fire
“So you think New York City will burn?”
“Not in any normal way. It will be consumed by a fire within, like Grove and Cutforth.”
“You think this can be avoided if people turn back to God?”
Von Menck shook his head. “It’s too late for that. And please note, Mr. Harriman, I have not used the word God. What I’m talking about here is not necessarily God but a force of nature: a moral law of the universe as fixed as any physical law. We’ve created an imbalance that needs to be corrected. The year 2004.” He tapped the pile of charts. “It’s the big one. It’s the one Nostradamus predicted, Edgar Cayce predicted, Revelation predicted.”
Harriman nodded. He felt a crawling sensation along his spine. This was powerful stuff. But was it all claptrap? “Dr. Von Menck, you’ve devoted a great deal of time and research on this.”
“It has been my overwhelming obsession. For over fifteen years, I’ve known the significance of the year 2004. I’ve been waiting.”
“Are you really convinced, or is this just a theory?”
“I will answer by telling you this: I am leaving New York tomorrow.”
“Leaving?”
“For the Galápagos Islands.”
“Why the Galápagos?”
“As Darwin could tell you, they are famous for their isolation.” Von Menck gestured at the recorder. “This time there will be no documentary. The story is all yours, Mr. Harriman.”
“No documentary?” Harriman repeated, stupefied.
“If I’m the least bit right in my suspicions, Mr. Harriman, when this is over, there won’t be much of an audience for a documentary—will there?” And, for the first time since Harriman had entered the room, Dr. Von Menck smiled—a small, sad smile utterly devoid of humor.
{ 30 }
D’Agosta gazed at the miserable-looking thing on his plate—long, thin, unidentifiable, swimming in a puddle of sauce. It smelled vaguely like fish. At least, he thought, it would help his diet. It had been ten days since Grove’s death, and he’d lost five pounds already, what with the new weight routine and jogging regimens he’d instituted, not to mention the hours he’d put in at the shooting range, which were adding bulk and steadiness to his forearms and shoulders. Another two months, and he’d be back to his old NYPD condition.
Proctor flitted about in the background, presenting and whisking away plates with the least amount of warning gentility would allow. Pendergast sat at the head of the table, Constance to his left. She looked a little less pale than before: some sun, perhaps, from yesterday’s outing. But the dining room of the ancient Riverside Drive mansion remained a dreary place, with its dark green wallpaper and equally dark oil paintings. The windows that once must have looked out over the Hudson had been boarded up a long time ago, and it appeared Pendergast was going to leave them that way. No wonder the guy was so white, living in the dark like some cave creature. D’Agosta decided he’d trade the whole dinner, and its procession of mysterious dishes, for barbecued ribs and a cooler full of frosties in his sunny Suffolk County backyard. Even Fosco’s exotic picnic basket of the day before had been preferable. He gave the dish an exploratory poke.
“Don’t you like the cod roe?” Pendergast asked him. “It’s an old Italian recipe.”
“My grandmother was from Naples, and she never cooked anything like this in her life.”
“I believe this dish comes from Liguria. But never mind: cod roe is not to everyone’s taste.” He signaled to Proctor, who whisked the plate away and, a few moments later, returned with a steak and a small silver beaker brimming with wonderful-smelling sauce. In his other hand was a can of Budweiser, still dripping chips of ice.
D’Agosta tucked in, then glanced up to see Pendergast smiling with amusement. “Constance cooks a sublime tournedos bordelaise. I had it waiting in the wings, just in case. Along with the, ah, iced beer.”
“That was decent of you.”
“Is the steak to your liking?” Constance asked from across the table. “I prepared it saignant, as the French prefer.”
“I don’t know about saignant, but it’s rare, just the way I like it.”
Constance smiled, pleased.
D’Agosta speared another forkful, washed it down with a swig. “So what’s next?” he asked Pendergast.
“After dinner, Constance will indulge us by playing a few of Bach’s partitas. She is a rather accomplished violinist, though I fear I’m a poor judge of such things. And I think you’ll find the violin she plays interesting. It was part of my great-uncle’s collections, an old Amati, in fairly decent shape, though its tone has gone off somewhat.”