Текст книги "Dance Of Death"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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"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 energyto 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."

"Youthink 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 elsethat happened between you and your brother at a much earlier age. Thatis 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 transcendentallycautious."

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.

No doubt.

Sitting on the middle of her desk was a thin report, just in, from the top guy in the forensic profiling division. He had confirmed that the homicides were psychologically consistent and could have been committed by the same perp. What's more, he had prepared a profile of the killer. It was startling, to say the least.

D.C. and New Orleans didn't know it yet; the FBI didn't know it yet; not even Singleton or Rocker knew it yet: but they were dealing with a serial killer. A meticulous, intelligent, methodical, cool, and utterly insane serial killer.

She spun, strode, spun again. As soon as she showed Rocker that she'd connected the cases, the shit would hit the fan. The FBI, already involved because of Decker's murder, would descend like a ton of bricks. There would be an earthquake of publicity-serial killers always garnered big headlines. But a serial killer like thiswas totally unheard of. She could almost see the screaming 72-point headline in the Post.The mayor would get involved, maybe even the governor. It was going to be a mess. A god-awful mess.

But she couldn't call Rocker until she had the last piece of evidence, the last piece of the puzzle. The smoking gun. She was going to get raked over the coals, no matter what. The political fallout would be terrible. It was important she had all her ducks in a row– that was the only thing that could save her ass.

A timid rap came on the door, and she halted midstride. "Come in," she said.

A man holding a manila envelope poked his head in.

"Where've you been? I was supposed to have this report two hours ago!"

"I'm sorry," the man stammered, taking a few tentative steps inside the office. "As I explained on the phone, we had to run the match three times because-"

"Never mind. Just give me the report, please."

He held it out from a distance, almost as if fearful of being bitten.

"You got a DNA match?" she asked, taking the report.

"Yes. A pair of beautiful matches, blood from the box cutter and the spot on the floor. Both from the same individual, not the victim. But here's the problem: the DNA wasn't in any of the FBI criminal or juvenile databases, so we did like you asked and ran it against all the DNA databases. When we finally did get a match, it was in a federal database, and we had a major problem because of confidentiality issues and… well…" He hesitated.

"Go on," Hayward said as gently as she could.

"The reason I had to run the program three times was to be absolutely sure about this match. This is explosive stuff, Captain. We can't afford to be wrong."

"And?" Hayward could hardly breathe.

"You aren't going to believe this. The DNA matched one of the Bureau's top agents."

Hayward breathed out. "I believe it. God help us, I believe it."

FORTY-ONE

ELI Glinn waited in his small private office on the fourth floor of the Effective Engineering Solutions building. It was a sober room, containing only a table, several computers, a small bookshelf, and a clock. The walls were painted gray, and there was nothing of a personal nature in the office, save for a small photograph of a stately blonde woman wearing the uniform of a ship's captain, waving from what appeared to be the bridge of a tanker. A line from a W. H. Auden poem was handwritten beneath.

The office lights had been turned off, and the only illumination came from a large flat-panel monitor, which carried a high-definition digital feed from an office in the basement of the EES building. The video feed showed two people: the subject, Pendergast, with EES's psychological specialist, Rolf Krasner, who was preparing the subject for questioning.

Glinn observed the slender figure of Pendergast with interest. The man's insight into Glinn's own psychology, his extraordinary ability to pick out and interpret a few details scattered about a room which itself was a very morass of detail, had nearly unnerved Glinn-and, in a curious way, deeply impressed him.

While still watching the proceedings on the monitor, the audio turned off, he turned again to the folder Pendergast had given him.

Although unimportant in the larger scheme of things, Pendergast's case was not without its points. For example, there was the near mythical Cain and Abel relationship between these two extraordinary brothers. For Pendergast wasextraordinary-Glinn had never before met a man whose intellect he could respect as equal to his own. Glinn had always felt somewhat alienated from the mass of humanity-and yet here was a man he could, in the revolting parlance of the present age, identifywith. That Pendergast's brother appeared to be even more intelligent, and yet utterly malevolent, Glinn found even more intriguing. This was a man so consumed by hatred that he had devoted his life to the object of his hatred, not unlike a man under the spell of obsessive love. Whatever lay at the bottom of that hatred was something perhaps unique in human experience.

Glinn glanced back at the monitor. The chitchat was over and Rolf Krasner was getting down to business. The EES psychologist combined a disarmingly friendly air with consummate professionalism. You could hardly believe that this cheerful, round-faced, unassuming man with the Viennese accent could be considered a threat. Indeed, at first glance, he seemed about the most unthreatening personality imaginable-until you saw him in action. Glinn knew just how effective that Jekyll and Hyde strategy could be with an unsuspecting subject.

On the other hand, Krasner had never had a subject like this one.

Glinn leaned over and switched on the audio feed.

"Mr. Pendergast," Krasner was saying cheerily, "is there anything I can get you before we begin? Water? A soft drink? A double martini?" A chuckle.

"Nothing, thank you."

Pendergast appeared ill at ease, as well he should. EES had developed three different modes of interrogation, each for a particular personality type, along with an experimental fourth mode to be used only on the most difficult, resistant-and intelligent-subjects. After they had read through Pendergast's folder and discussed the situation, there was no argument over which mode would be used. Pendergast would be only the sixth person to undergo this fourth type of interrogation. It had never failed.

"We use some of the techniques of good, old-fashioned psychoanalysis," Krasner said. "And one of them is that we ask you to lie down on a couch, out of view of the questioner. Would you please make yourself comfortable?"

The figure lay down on the richly brocaded couch and folded his white hands on his chest. Except for the ragged clothes, he looked alarmingly like the corpse at a wake. What a fascinating creature this man is,Glinn thought as he moved his wheelchair closer to the monitor.

"Perhaps you recognize the office we're in, Mr. Pendergast?" Krasner said, bustling about, getting ready.

"I do. Number 19 Berggasse."

"Exactly! Modeled after Freud's own office in Vienna. We even managed to acquire some of his African carvings. And that Persian carpet in the center also belonged to him. Freud called his office gemütlich,which is an almost untranslatable German word meaning agreeable, comfortable, cozy, friendly-and that is the atmosphere we have strived to create. Do you speak German, Mr. Pendergast?"

"German is not one of my languages, much to my regret. I should have liked to read Goethe's Faustin the original."

"A marvelous work, vigorous and yet poetic." Krasner took a seat on a wooden stool out of Pendergast's view.

"Do you employ the free-association methods of psychoanalysis?" Pendergast asked dryly.

"Oh, no! We've developed a technique all our own. It's very straightforward, actually-no tricks, no dream interpretations. The only thing Freudian about our technique is the office decor." He chuckled again.

Glinn found himself smiling. The fourth interrogation mode used tricks-they all did-but, of course, the subject wasn't supposed to see them. Indeed, this fourth mode seemed like pure simplicity itself… on the surface. Highly intelligent people could be fooled, but only with the greatest of care and subtlety.

"I'm going to help you through some simple visualization techniques, which will also involve questioning. It's simple and there is no hypnosis involved. It's just a way to induce a calm and focused mind, receptive to questioning. Does that suit you, Aloysius? May I call you by your first name?"

"You may, and I am at your disposal, Dr. Krasner. I am only concerned that I may not be able to give you the information you desire, because I do not believe it exists."

"Do not concern yourself with that. Simply relax, follow my instructions, and answer the questions as best you can."

Relax.Glinn knew this was about the last thing Pendergast would be able to do, once Krasner got started.

"Wonderful. Now I'm going to turn down the lights. I will also ask you to close your eyes."

"As you wish."

The lights dimmed to a faint diffuse glow.

"Now we will allow three minutes to pass in silence," said Krasner.

The minutes crawled by.

"Let us begin." Krasner's voice had taken on a hushed, velvety tone. Another long silence, and then he resumed.

"Breathe in slowly. Hold it. Now let it out even more slowly. Again. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Relax. Very good. Now, I want you to imagine you are at your favorite place in all the world. The place where you feel most at home, most comfortable. Take a minute to place yourself there. Now turn around, examine your surroundings. Sample the air. Take in the scents, the sounds. Now, tell me: What do you see?"

A momentary silence. Glinn leaned still closer to the monitor.

"I am on a vast green lawn at the edge of an ancient beechwood forest. There is a summerhouse at the far end of the lawn. There are gardens and a millhouse to the west, where a brook flows. The lawn sweeps up to a stone mansion, shaded by elms."

"What is this place?"

"Ravenscry. The estate of my Great-Aunt Cornelia."

"And what is the year and season?"

"It is 1972, the ides of August."

"How old are you?"

"Twelve."

"Inhale the air again. What scents can you smell?"

"Freshly cut grass, with a faint overlay of peonies from the garden."

"What are the sounds?"

"A whip-poor-will. The rustle of beech leaves. The distant murmur of water."

"Good. Very good. Now I want you to rise. Rise off the ground, let yourself float… Look down as you rise. Do you see the lawn, the house, from above?"

"Yes."

"Now rise further. One hundred feet. Two hundred. Look down again. What do you see?"

"The great sprawling house, the carriage house, the gardens, lawns, millhouse, trout hatchery, arboretum, greenhouses, the beechwood forest, and the drive winding to the stone gates. The encircling wall."

"And beyond that?"

"The road to Haddam."

"Now. Make it night."

"It is night."

"Make it day."

"It is day."

"Do you understand that you are in control, that all this is in your head, that none of this is real?"

"Yes."

"During this process, you must always keep that in mind. You are in control, and none of what is happening is real. It is all in your mind."

"I understand that."

"Below, on the lawn, put the members of your family. Who are they? Name them, please."

"My father, Linnaeus. My mother, Isabella. My Great-Aunt Cornelia. Cyril, the gardener, working to one side…"

There was a long pause.

"Anyone else?"

"And my brother. Diogenes."

"His age?"

"Ten."

"What are they doing?"

"Standing around just where I put them." The voice sounded dry and ironic. Glinn could see very well that Pendergast was maintaining an ironic detachment and would attempt to do so as long as possible.

"Put them in some kind of typical activity," Krasner went on smoothly. "What are they doing now?"

"Finishing tea on a blanket spread out on the lawn."

"Now I want you to drift down. Slowly. Join them."

"I am there."

"What are you doing, exactly?"

"Tea is over and Great-Aunt Cornelia is passing a plate of petits fours. She has them brought up from New Orleans."

"Are they good?"

"Naturally. Great-Aunt Cornelia has the highest standards." The tone of Pendergast's voice was laden with irony, and Glinn wondered just who this Great-Aunt Cornelia was. He glanced down at an abstract attached to Pendergast's file, flipped through it, and came to the answer of his question. A chill crept up his spine. He quickly shut the file-right now that was a distraction.

"What kind of tea did you take?" asked Krasner.

"Great-Aunt Cornelia will only drink T. G. Tips, which she has sent over from England."

"Now look around the blanket. Look at everyone. Gaze around until your eyes come to rest on Diogenes."

A long silence.

"What does Diogenes look like?"

"Tall for his age, pale, with very short hair, eyes of two different colors. He is very thin and his lips are overly red."

"Those eyes, look into them. Is he looking at you?"

"No. He has turned his head away. He does not like to be stared at."

"Keep staring at him. Stare hard."

A longer silence. "I have averted my eyes."

"No. Remember, you control the scene. Keep staring."

"I don't choose to."

"Speak to your brother. Tell him to rise, that you wish to speak to him in private."

Another, longer silence. "Done."

"Tell him to come with you to the summerhouse."

"He refuses."

"He cannot refuse. You control him."

Even through the monitor, Glinn could see that a small sheen of sweat had appeared on Pendergast's brow. It's beginning,he thought.

"Tell Diogenes that there is a man waiting for him in the summerhouse who wants to ask you both some questions. A Dr. Krasner. Tell him that."

"Yes. He will come to see the doctor. He is curious that way."

"Excuse yourselves and walk to the summerhouse. Where I am waiting."

"All right."

A brief silence. "Are you there?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now, what do you see?"

"We're inside. My brother is standing here, you're here, I'm here."

"Good. We shall remain standing. Now, I will ask you and your brother some questions. You will relay your brother's answers to my questions, since he cannot speak to me directly."

"If you insist," said Pendergast, a touch of irony returning to his voice.

"Youcontrol the situation, Aloysius. Diogenes cannot evade answering, because it is you who is really answering for him. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Tell Diogenes to look at you. To stareat you."

"He won't."

"Makehim. With your mind, make him do it."

A silence. "All right."

"Diogenes, I am now speaking to you. What is your first memory of your older brother, Aloysius?"

"He said he remembers me drawing a picture."

"What is the picture?"

"Scribbles."

"How old are you, Diogenes?"

"He says six months."

"Ask Diogenes what he thinks of you."

"He thinks of me as the next Jackson Pollock."

That ironic tone again,thought Glinn. This was one very resistant client.

"That would not normally be the thought of a six-month-old baby."

"Diogenes is answering as a ten-year-old, Dr. Krasner."

"Fine. Ask Diogenes to keep looking at you. What does he see?"

"He says nothing."

"What do you mean, nothing? He isn't speaking?"

"He spoke. He said the word nothing."

"What do you mean by the word nothing!"

"He says, 'I see nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.' "

"Excuse me?"

"It's a quotation from Wallace Stevens," said Pendergast dryly. "Even at ten, Diogenes was partial to Stevens."

"Diogenes, when you say 'nothing,' does that mean you feel your brother, Aloysius, is a nonentity?"

"He laughs and says the words are yours, not his."

"Why?"

"He is laughing harder."

"How long will you be at Ravenscry, Diogenes?"

"He says until he goes back to school."

"And where is that?"

"St. Ignatius Loyola on Lafayette Street, New Orleans."

"How do you like school, Diogenes?"

"He says he likes it as much as you would like being shut up in a room with twenty-five mental defectives and a middle-aged hysteric."

"What is your favorite subject?"

"He says experimental biology… on the playground."

"Now I want you, Aloysius, to ask Diogenes three questions, which he must answer. You must make him answer them. Remember, you are in control. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"What is your favorite food, Diogenes?"

"Wormwood and gall."

"I want a straight answer."

"That, Dr. Krasner, is the one thing you will never get from Diogenes," said Pendergast.

"Remember, Aloysius, that it is youwho are actually answering the questions."

"And with great forbearance, I might add," said Pendergast. "I am doing all I can to suspend my disbelief."

Glinn leaned back in his wheelchair. This wasn't quite working. Clients resisted, some with every fiber of their being, but not quite like this. Irony was the ultimate resistance-he had never before seen it so skillfully employed. And yet Glinn felt a shiver of self-recognition: Pendergast was a man who was hyperaware of himself, unable ever to step outside of himself, to let go, to lower, even for an instant, the elaborate defensive mask he had created to place between himself and the world.

Glinn could understand a man like that.

"All right. Aloysius, you are still in the summerhouse with Diogenes. Imagine you have a loaded pistol in your hand."

"Fine."

Glinn sat up, a little startled. Krasner was already moving to what they termed phase two-and very abruptly. Clearly, he, too, realized this session needed to be jump-started.

"What kind of pistol is it?"

"It's a gun from my collection, a Signature Grade 1911.45 ACP by Hilton Yam."

"Giveit to him."

"It would be most unwise to give a pistol to a ten-year-old, don't you think?" Again, that ironic, amused tone.

"Nevertheless, do it."

"Done."

"Tell him to point the gun at you and pull the trigger."

"Done."

"What happened?"

"He's laughing uproariously. He didn't pull the trigger."

"Why not?"

"He says it's too soon."

"Does he intend to kill you?"

"Naturally. But he wants…" His voice trailed off.

Krasner pounced. "What does he want?"

"To play with me for a while."

"What kind of play?"

"He says he wants to pull off my wings and watch what happens. I am his ultimate insect."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Ask him."

"He's laughing."

"Grab him and demand an answer."

"I would prefer not to touch him."

"Grab him.Get physical. Force him to answer."

"He's still laughing."

"Hit him."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Hit him."

"I won't carry on with this charade."

"Take the gun away from him."

"He's dropped the gun, but-"

"Pick it up."

"All right."

"Shoot him. Kill him."

"This is utterly absurd-"

"Kill him. Do it. You've killed before; you know how to do it. You canand you mustdo it."

A long silence.

"Did you do it?"

"This is an asinine exercise, Dr. Krasner."

"But you didimagine it. Didn't you? You imagined killing him."

"I imagined no such thing."

"Yes, you did. You killed him. You imagined it. And now you are imagining his dead body on the ground. You see it because you cannot helpbut see it."

"This is…" Pendergast's voice trailed of.

"You see it, you can't helpbut see it. Because I am telling you to, you are seeing it… But wait-he's not yet dead… He moves, he still lives… He wants to say something. With his last dying strength, he beckons you closer, says something to you. What did he just say?"

A long silence. Then Pendergast answered dryly, "Qualis artifex pereo."

Glinn winced. He recognized the quotation but could see that Krasner did not. What should have been a breaking point for Pendergast had suddenly turned into an intellectual game.

"What does that mean?"

"It's Latin."

"I repeat: what does it mean?"

"It means 'O, what an artist dies with me!'"

"Why did he say that?"

"Those were Nero's last words. I believe Diogenes was speaking facetiously."

"You have killed your brother, Aloysius, and now look on his body."

An irritated sigh.

"This is the second time you have done it."

"The second time?"

"You killed him once before, years ago."

"Pardon me?"

"Yes, you did. You killed whatever goodness was in him; you left him a hollow shell filled with malice and hatred. You did something to him that murdered his very soul!"

Despite himself, Glinn found he was holding his breath. The gentle, soothing tones were long gone: Dr. Krasner had slipped into phase three, once again with unusual swiftness.

"I did no such thing. He was born that way, empty and cruel."

"No. You. killed his goodness!There is no other possible answer.

Don't you see, Aloysius? The hatred Diogenes feels for you is mythological in its immensity. It cannot have sprung from nothing; energy can neither be created nor destroyed. Youcreated that hatred, youdid something to him that struck out his heart. All these years, you have repressed this terrible deed. And now youhave killed him again, literally as well as figuratively. What youmust face, Aloysius, is that you are the author of your own fate. Youare at fault. You did it."

Another long silence. Pendergast lay on the couch, unmoving, his skin gray, waxlike.

"Now Diogenes is rising. He is looking at you again. I want you to ask him something."

"What?"

"Ask Diogenes what you did to him to make him hate you so."

"Done."

"His answer?"

"Another laugh. He said, 'I hate you because you are you.'"

"Ask again."

"He says that is reason enough, that his hatred has nothing to do with anything I did, it simply exists, like the sun, moon, and stars."

"No, no, no.What is it that you did, Aloysius?" Krasner's voice was once again gentle, but it had great urgency. "Unburden yourself of it. How terrible it must be to carry that weight on your shoulders. Unburden yourself."

Slowly, Pendergast arose from the couch, swinging his legs over the side. For a moment, he sat motionless. Then he passed a hand across his forehead, looked at his watch. "It is midnight. It is now January 28, and I am out of time. I can't be bothered with this exercise anymore."

He stood and turned to Dr. Krasner. "I commend you on your valiant effort, Doctor. Trust me, there's nothing in my past that would justify Diogenes's conduct. In the course of my career studying the criminal mind, I have come to realize a simple truth: some people are born monsters. You can elucidate their motives and reconstruct their crimes-but you cannot explain the evil within them."

Krasner looked at him, great sadness in his face. "There's where you're wrong, my friend. Nobody is born evil."

Pendergast held out his hand. "We shall differ, then." Then his eyes turned directly toward the hidden camera, startling Glinn. How could Pendergast know where it was?

"Mr. Glinn? I thank you, too, for your effort. You should have plenty in that folder to complete the job at hand. I can help you no further. Something terrible will happen today, and I must do everything in my power to stop it."

And he turned and walked briskly from the room.