ow would be to keep the resource alive as far into the surgery as possible。 There was still much to do； starting with the bony dissection： the removal of the lamina with a Kerrison rongeur。 The goal at this point was to have the vitals still detectable when the operation was plete； with the cauda equina removed and lying intact in the special chilled cradle he had designed to receive it。 He had reached that goal only twice before…with the slender young woman and the policeman…but this time he felt a swell of confidence in himself and his skills。 He knew that he would achieve it again。
So far； everything had gone according to plan。 The great detective； Pendergast； whom he had so feared； had proven less than formidable。 Using one of the many traps in this strange old house against the agent had proven ridiculously easy。 The others were minor irritants only。 He had removed them all； swept them aside with so little effort it was almost risible。 In fact it wasrisible； how pathetic they all were。 The colossal stupidity of the police； the moronic Museum officials： how delightful it had all been； how very diverting。 There was a certain justice in the situation； a justice that only he could appreciate。
And now he had almost achieved his goal。 Almost。 After these three had been processed； he felt sure he would be there。 And how ironic it was that it would be these three； of all people； who helped him reach it 。 。 。
He smiled slightly as he bent down to set another self…retaining retractor into place。 And that was when he saw a small movement at the extreme edge of his peripheral vision。
He turned。 It was the FBI agent； Pendergast； casually leaning against a wall just inside the archway leading into the operating room。
The man straightened； controlling the highly unpleasant surprise that rose within him。 But Pendergast's hands were empty； he was； of course； unarmed。 With one swift； economical movement； the Surgeon took up Pendergast's own gun…the two…tone Colt 1911； lying on the instrument table…pushed down on the safety with his thumb； and pointed the weapon at the agent。
Pendergast continued to lean against the wall。 For the briefest of moments； as the two exchanged glances； something like astonishment registered in the pale cat's eyes。 Then Pendergast spoke。
〃So it's you who tortured and killed Enoch Leng。 I wondered who the impostor was。 I am surprised。 I do not like surprises； but there it is。〃
The man aimed the gun carefully。
〃You're already holding my weapon；〃 said Pendergast； showing his hands。 〃I'm unarmed。〃 He continued leaning casually against the wall。
The man tightened his finger on the trigger。 He felt a second unpleasant sensation： internal conflict。 Pendergast was a very dangerous man。 It would no doubt be best to pull the trigger now and have done with it。 But by shooting now； he would ruin a specimen。 Besides； he needed to know how Pendergast had escaped。 And then； there was the girl to consider 。 。 。
〃But it begins to make sense；〃 Pendergast resumed。 〃Yes； I see it now。 You're building that skyscraper on Catherine Street。 You didn't just discover those bodies by accident。 No…you were looking for those bodies； weren't you？ You already knew that Leng had buried them there； 130 years ago。 And how did you learn about them？ Ah； it all falls into place： your interest in the Museum； your visits to the Archives。 You were the one who examined the Shottum material before Dr。 Kelly。 No wonder it was all in such disarray…you'd already removed anything you felt useful。 But you didn't know about Tinbury McFadden； or the elephant's…foot box。 Instead； you first learned about Leng and his work； about his lab notebooks and journals； from Shottum's personal papers。 But when you ultimately tracked down Leng； and found him alive； he wasn't as talkative as you would have liked。 He didn't give you the formula。 Even under torture； did he？ So you had to fall back on what Leng had left behind： his victims； his lab； perhaps his journals； buried beneath Shottum's Cabinet。 And the only way to get to those was to buy the land； tear down the brownstones above； and dig a foundation for a new building。〃 Pendergast nodded； almost to himself。 〃Dr。 Kelly mentioned missing pages in the Archives logbook； pages removed with a razor。 Those pages were the ones with your name on them； correct？ And the only one who knew you had been a frequent visitor to the Archives was Puck。 So he had to die。 Along with those who were already on your own trail： Dr。 Kelly； Sergeant O'Shaughnessy； myself。 Because the closer we came to finding Leng； the closer we came to finding you。〃
A pained expression came over the agent's face。 〃How could I have been so obtuse not to see it？ It should have bee clear when I first saw Leng's corpse。 When I realized Leng had been tortured to death before the Catherine Street bodies were found。〃
Fairhaven did not smile。 The chain of deduction was astonishingly accurate。 Just kill him； a voice in his head said。
〃What is it the Arab sages call death？〃 Pendergast went on。 〃The destroyer of all earthly pleasures。 And how true it is： old age； sickness； and at last death es to us all。 Some console themselves with religion； others through denial； others through philosophy or mere stoicism。 But to you； who had always been able to buy everything； death must have seemed a dreadful injustice。〃
The image of his older brother； Arthur； came unbidden to the Surgeon's mind： dying of progeria； his young face withered with senile keratoses； his limbs twisted； his skin cracked with hideously premature age。 The fact that the disease was so rare； its causes so unknown； had been no fort。 Pendergast didn't know everything。 Nor would he。
He forced the image from his mind。 Just kill the man。 But somehow his hand would not act…not yet； not until he had heard more。
Pendergast nodded toward the still form on the table。 〃You're never going to get there that way； Mr。 Fairhaven。 Leng's skills were infinitely more refined than yours。 You will never succeed。〃
Not true； Fairhaven thought to himself。 I have already succeeded。 I am Leng as he should have been。 Only through me can Leng's work attain its truest perfection 。 。 。
〃I know；〃 Pendergast said。 〃You're thinking I'm wrong。 You believe you have succeeded。 But you have not succeeded； and you never will。 Ask yourself： Do you feel any different？ Do you feel any revivification of the limbs； any quickening of the life essence？ If you're honest with yourself； you can still feel the terrible weight of time pressing on you； that awful； relentless； bodily corruption that is happening constantly to us all。〃 He smiled thinly； wearily； as if he knew the feeling all too well。 〃You see； you've made one fatal mistake。〃
The Surgeon said nothing。
〃The truth is；〃 Pendergast said； 〃you don't know the first thing about Leng； or his real work。 Work for which life extension was just a means to an end。〃
Years of self…discipline； of high…level corporate brinksmanship； had taught Fairhaven never to reveal anything： not in the facial expression； not in the questions asked。 Yet the sudden stab of surprise he felt； followed immediately by disbelief； was hard to conceal。 What real work？ What was Pendergast talking about？
He would not ask。 Silence was always the best mode of questioning。 If you remained silent； they always talked out the answer in the end。 It was human nature。
But this time it was Pendergast who remained silent。 He simply stood there； leaning almost insolently against the doorframe； glancing around at the walls of the chamber。 The silence stretched on； and the man began to think of his resource； lying there on the gurney。 Gun on Pendergast； he glanced briefly at the vitals。 Good； but starting to flag。 If he didn't get back to work soon； the specimen would be spoiled。
Kill him； the voice said again。
〃What real work？〃 Fairhaven asked。
Still； Pendergast remained silent。
The merest spasm of doubt passed through Fairhaven； quickly suppressed。 What was the man's game？ He was wasting his time； and there was no doubt a reason why he was wasting his time； which meant it was best just to kill him now。 At least he knew the girl could not escape from the basement。 He would d