Brimstone (Pendergast #5)

“But you said Beckmann would be ‘most eloquent.’”

“And so he will. While dead men tell no tales, their corpses often speak volumes. And I think Ranier Beckmann’s corpse has quite a bit to tell us.”





{ 39 }


Locke Bullard stood on the flying bridge of the Stormcloud. The air was crisp and sharp, the ocean flat-calm. It was a world reduced to its essentials. The ship throbbed beneath his feet; the cool breeze flowed past him as the ship plowed eastward at flank speed toward Europe.

Bullard lowered his cigar and stared forward at the point where the sky met the knife edge of ocean, his knuckles white on the rail. On this clear fall day, it really did look like the edge of the world, from which a ship could sail off into weightless oblivion. A part of him wished it would happen: that he could just drop off the world and be done with it.

He could do it now, in fact; he could wander to the back of the ship and slip off into the water. Only his steward would miss him and probably not for some time: he had spent most of the voyage locked in his cabin, having his meals delivered, seeing no one.

Bullard could feel himself trembling, every muscle tense, his whole body in the grip of powerful emotion, a terrible combination of rage, regret, horror, and astonishment. He could hardly believe what had happened, what had brought him to this point—here, in the middle of the Atlantic, heading eastward on such fateful business. Never in a million years of corporate scheming—with all his plotting, counterplotting, and preparation for every eventuality—could he have expected it would come to this. At least he’d been able to remove the wild card of that FBI agent, Pendergast: if Vasquez hadn’t finished the job yet, he would soon.

And yet this was slight consolation.

He caught the glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye. It was the slim figure of his steward, bobbing deferentially at the hatch. “Sir? The videoconference is in three minutes.”

Bullard nodded, turned his eyes once more toward the horizon, hawked up a gobbet of phlegm, and rocketed it into the far blue. The cigar followed. Then he turned and descended.




The videoconference room was small, built just for him. The technician was there—why were they all weaselly men with goatees?—hunched over the keyboard. He rose when Bullard entered, bumping his head on a bulkhead in his haste. “Everything’s set, Mr. Bullard. Just press—”

“Get out.”

The man got out, leaving Bullard alone. He locked the door behind him, keyed in the passphrase, waited for the prompt, keyed in another. The screen flickered into life, split down the center into two images: the COO of Bullard Aerospace Industries in Italy, Martinetti; and Chait, his head man in the States.

“How’d it go yesterday?” Bullard asked.

The hesitation told Bullard there’d been a fuckup.

“The guests came with firecrackers. There was a party.”

Bullard nodded. He’d half expected it.

“When they learned there was no cake, the party began. Williams had to leave suddenly. The guests all left with him.”

So the Chinese had killed Williams and got their asses shot off in return.

“Another thing. The party got crashed.”

Bullard felt a sudden constriction in his gut. Now, who the hell had done that? Pendergast? Christ, Vasquez was taking his precious time. Bullard had never met a man quite so dangerous. But if it was Pendergast, how had he learned about it? The files in the seized computer were strongly encrypted, no way they could have been cracked.

“Everybody else got home safely.”

Bullard barely heard this. He was still thinking. Either their phones had been tapped or the feds had an informer in his top five. Probably the former. “There’s a bird in the tree, maybe,” Bullard said, speaking the prearranged code that indicated a phone tap.

This was greeted with silence. Hell, he almost didn’t care anymore. Bullard turned to the image of his Italian COO. “You have the item ready and packed for traveling?”

“Yes, sir.” The man spoke with difficulty. “May I ask why—?”

“No, goddamn you to hell, you may not!” Bullard felt rage abruptly take him; it was like a seizure, beyond his control. He glanced over at the image of Chait. The man was listening, face expressionless.

“Sir—”

“Don’t ask me any questions. I’ll get the item when I arrive, and that’ll be it. You’ll never speak of it again, to me or anyone.”

The man went pale and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Mr. Bullard, after all the work we’ve done and the risks we’ve taken, I have the right to know why you are killing the project. I speak to you respectfully as your chief operating officer. I have only the good of the company at heart—”