“The very lack of privacy makes it even more anonymous. Just two feds, practicing at a firing range. No phones to tap, no wires to record. And of course, with all this racket, no chance for eavesdropping.”

“The range master’s going to remember the appearance of a CIA operative at an FBI range — especially since you fellows usually don’t carry concealed weapons.”

“I have my share of alternative identities. He won’t remember anything specific.”

Pendergast opened the box of ammo and began loading the magazines.

“I like your custom 1911,” the man said, glancing at Pendergast’s weapon. “Les Baer Thunder Ranch Special? Nice-looking piece.”

“Perhaps you’d care to tell me why we’re here.”

“I’ve been keeping something of an eye on you since our first meeting,” the man said, still without making eye contact. “When I learned of your involvement in initiating Wildfire, I grew intrigued. A low-profile but intense monitoring operation, by certain members of both the FBI and CIA, for the location of a youth who may or may not be calling himself Alban, who may or may not be in hiding in Brazil or adjoining countries, who speaks Portuguese, English, and German fluently, and who above all things should be considered exceptionally capable and extremely dangerous.”

Instead of replying, Pendergast clipped a target — a marksman bull’s-eye with a red central X — to the rail and, pressing the OUT button on the baffle to his left, ran it out the full twenty-five yards. The man beside him clipped on an FBI qualification target — a gray bottle-like shape, without scaling or marking — and ran it out to the end of bay 17.

“And just today I get wind of an NYPD report in which you state that your son — also named Alban — was left on your doorstep, dead.”

“Go on.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence. Hence, this meeting.”

Pendergast picked up one of the magazines, charged his weapon. “Please don’t think me rude if I ask you to get to the point.”

“I can help you. You kept your word on the Locke Bullard case and saved me a lot of trouble. I believe in reciprocation. And like I said, I’ve kept track of you. You’re a rather interesting person. It’s entirely possible that you could be of assistance to me again, down the road. A partnership, if you will. I’d like to bank that.”

Pendergast didn’t respond.

“Surely you know you can trust me,” the man said over the muffled, yet omnipresent, sound of gunfire. “I’m the soul of discretion — as are you. Any information you give me stops with me. I may have resources you wouldn’t otherwise have access to.”

After a moment, Pendergast nodded once. “I’ll accept your offer. As for background, I have two sons, twins, whose existence I only learned of a year and a half ago. One of those sons — Alban — is, or was, a sociopathic killer of a most dangerous type. He’s the so-called Hotel Killer, a case that remains open and unsolved by the NYPD. I wish the case to remain so, and have taken steps to ensure that it shall. Shortly after I became aware of his existence, he disappeared into the jungles of Brazil and was neither seen nor heard from until he appeared on my doorstep last night. I always believed that he would surface one day… and that the results would be catastrophic. For that reason, I initiated Operation Wildfire.”

“But Wildfire never received any hits.”

“None.”

The nameless man charged his own weapon, racked a bullet into the chamber, took aim with both hands, and discharged the entire magazine into the qualification target. Every shot landed within the gray bottle. The sound was deafening within the baffled space.

“Until yesterday, who knew that Alban was your son?” the man asked as he ejected his magazine.

“Only a handful of people — most of them family or house help.”

“And yet someone not only located and captured Alban, but also managed to kill him, leave him on your doorstep, and then escape practically undetected.”

Pendergast nodded.

“In short, our perp was able to do what the CIA and FBI could not, plus a lot more.”

“Exactly. The perpetrator has great ability. He may well be in law enforcement himself. Which is why I have no faith the NYPD will make any headway on this case.”

“I understand Angler’s a good cop.”

“Alas, that’s the problem. He’s just good enough to become a gross impediment to my own effort to find the killer. Better that he were incompetent.”

“Which is why you’re being so unhelpful?”

Pendergast said nothing.

“You’ve no idea why they killed him, or what their message to you was?”

“That’s the essential horror of it: I have absolutely no clue as to either the messenger or the message.”

“And your other son?”

“I’ve arranged for him to be in protective custody abroad.”

The man loaded another magazine into the Sig, released the slide, emptied the magazine into the target, and pressed the button to reel the target in. “And what are your feelings? About the murder of your son, I mean.”

Pendergast did not answer for a long time. “In the parlance of the day, the best answer would be: I am conflicted. He is dead. That is a good outcome. On the other hand… he was my son.”

“What are your plans when — or if — you find the responsible party?”

Again, Pendergast did not reply. Instead he raised the Les Baer in his right hand, left hand behind his back, in an unsupported stance. Briskly, shot after careful shot, he emptied the magazine into the target, then quick-changed to a fresh magazine, shifted the gun into his left hand, turned to face the target once again, this time from the other way, and — much faster now — again fired all seven rounds. Then he pressed the IN button on the wall of the baffle to reel back the target.

The CIA operative looked over. “You tore the bull’s-eye completely out. One-handed, and a bladed stance, no less — using both strong and weak hands.” There was a pause. “Was that your answer to my question?”

“I was merely taking advantage of the moment to hone my skills.”

“You don’t need honing. In any case, I’ll put my resources to work immediately. As soon as I find out anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you.”

The operative nodded. Then, fitting his earmuffs to his head, he put the Sig Sauer to one side and began refilling his own magazines.

Lieutenant Vincent D’Agosta began climbing the broad, granite steps of the main entrance to the New York Museum of Natural History. As he did so, he glanced up through the noon light at the vast Beaux-Arts façade — four city blocks long, in the grand Roman style. This building held very bad memories for him… and it seemed like an unpleasant twist of fate that he would find himself entering it again, now of all times.

Just the night before, he had returned from the best two weeks of his life: a honeymoon, with his new bride Laura Hayward, at the Turtle Bay Resort on the fabled North Shore of Oahu. They’d spent the time sunbathing, walking the miles of pristine beach, snorkeling Kuilima Cove — and, of course, getting to know each other even more intimately. It had been, quite literally, paradise.

So it had been a nasty shock to report to work that morning — a Sunday, no less — and find himself assigned as lead detective on the murder of a technician in the Museum’s Osteology Department. Not only was he saddled with a case the minute he got back… but he’d have to conduct his investigation in a building that he’d really, really wished he never had to enter again.

Nevertheless, he was determined to bring closure to this case and bring the perp to justice. It was exactly the kind of bullshit killing that gave New York a bad name — a random, senseless, vicious murder of some poor guy who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He stopped to catch his breath — damn, he’d have to go on a diet after the past two weeks of poi, kalua pig, opihi, haupia, and beer. After a moment, he continued up the stairs and passed through the entrance into the vastness of the Great Rotunda. Here he paused again to pull out his iPad and refresh himself on the details of the case. The murder had been discovered late the previous evening. All the initial crime scene work had been completed. D’Agosta’s first task would be to re-interview the security guard who had discovered the body. Then he had a date with the public relations director who — knowing the Museum — would be more concerned with neutralizing bad press than solving the crime. There were another half a dozen names on his list of interviewees.