Douglas Child - The Wheel of Darkness

Pendergast paused for a moment, thinking. “Do you know when the

Britannia

is sailing, by any chance?”

“They said it were sailing at noon, with the tide.”

Pendergast handed the mike back to the cabbie and thought for a moment. And in that moment his cell phone rang.

He flipped it open. “Yes?”

“It’s Constance.”

Pendergast sat up, surprised. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the Brussels airport, I’ve just deplaned from a nonstop flight from Hong Kong. Aloysius, I’ve got to see you. I’ve some critical information.”

“Constance, your timing is excellent. Listen to me carefully. If you can get to Heathrow in four hours or less, I’ll pick you up at the airport. Can you do that—four hours, not one minute more? Otherwise I’ll be forced to leave without you.”

“I’ll do my best. But what’s this about leaving? What’s happening?”

“We’re about to set sail.”

9

THE BLACK LONDON CAB TORE ALONG THE M3 MOTORWAY AT one hundred and forty kilometers per hour, passing cars and lorries in a blur. In the distance, the squat, cream-colored tower of Winchester Cathedral was visible amidst a tangle of gray urban landscapes.

In the rear seat, Pendergast, sitting next to Constance, glanced at his watch. “We need to be at the Southampton docks in fifteen minutes,” he told the driver.

“Impossible.”

“There’s another fifty pounds in it for you.” “Money won’t make ’er fly, sir,” the driver said.

Still, the vehicle accelerated even further, tires squealing as the cabbie negotiated the ramp onto the southbound A335. The Winchester suburbs quickly gave way to greenery. Compton, Shawford, and Otterbourne passed by in heartbeats.

“Even if we do make the ship,” Constance said at last, “how are we going to board? I read in Le Monde this morning that every stateroom’s been booked for months. They’re calling this the most sought-after maiden voyage since the Titanic .”

Pendergast shuddered. “A rather unfortunate comparison. As it happens, I’ve already secured us acceptable accommodations. The Tudor Suite, a duplex at the ship’s stern. It has a third bedroom we’ll be able to use as an office.”

“How did you manage that?”

“The suite had been booked by a Mr. and Mrs. Prothero of Perth, Australia. They were happy to exchange the tickets for an even larger suite on the Britannia ’s world cruise this coming fall, along with a modest monetary consideration.” Pendergast allowed himself the briefest of smiles.

The cab shot over the M27 interchange, then began to slow as the traffic inbound to Southampton grew heavier. They passed through a dreary industrial zone, then row after row of semidetached brick houses, as they approached the maze of streets in the old town center. They made a left onto Marsh Lane, then an immediate right onto Terminus Terrace, the big vehicle dipping and swerving deftly through the traffic. The sidewalks were thick with people, most of them holding cameras. From ahead came the sound of cheering and shouting.

“Tell me, Constance, what it is you discovered that caused you to leave the monastery with such precipitation?”

“It’s quickly said.” She lowered her voice. “I took your parting request to heart. I made inquiries.”

Pendergast lowered his own voice in turn. “And how does one ‘make inquiries’ in a Tibetan monastery?”

Constance suppressed a grim smile. “Boldly.”

“Which means?”

“I went into the inner monastery and confronted the monks.”

“I see.”

“It was the only way. But . . . oddly enough, they seemed to be expecting me.”

“Go on.”

“They were surprisingly forthcoming.”

“Indeed?” “Yes, but I’m not sure why. The monks in the inner monastery truly don’t know what the artifact is or who created it—Lama Thubten was honest in that regard. It was carried up from India by a holy man to be secreted away, protected, in the high Himalayas.”

“And?”

Constance hesitated. “What the monks didn’t tell you is that they know the

purpose

of the Agozyen.”

“Which is?”

“Apparently, it is a instrument to wreak vengeance upon the world.

Cleanse

it, they said.”

“Did they hint as to what form this ‘vengeance,’ this ‘cleansing,’ might take?”

“They had no idea.”

“When is this to happen?”

“When the earth is drowning in selfishness, greed, and evil.”

“How fortunate, then, that the world has nothing to fear,” said Pendergast, his voice heavy with irony.

“The monk who did most of the talking said it was not their intent to release it. They were its

guardians

, there to ensure it didn’t escape prematurely.”

Pendergast thought for a moment. “It appears that one of his brothers might not agree with him.”

“What do you mean?”

Pendergast turned to her, his gray eyes luminous. “I would guess that one particular monk felt the earth was ripe for cleansing. And he contrived for Jordan Ambrose to steal the Agozyen—and ultimately unleash it upon the world.”

“What makes you think that?”

“It’s very clear. The Agozyen was extraordinarily well protected. I spent more than a year at the monastery and never even knew it existed. How is it that a casual visitor, a mountain climber not even there for study, managed to find and steal it? That could only happen if one or more of the monks wanted it stolen. Lama Thubten told me he was certain none of the monks had the object in their possession. But that doesn’t mean a monk couldn’t have helped an outsider obtain it.”

“But if the artifact is as terrible as they say—what kind of a person would want to see it

deliberately

unleashed?”

“Interesting question. When we return the Agozyen to the monastery, we’ll have to seek out the guilty monk out and ask him directly.” Pendergast thought for a moment. “Curious that the monks didn’t simply destroy the object. Burn it.”

“That was the last question I asked. The monks grew very frightened and said it was impossible for them to do so.”

“Interesting. In any case, to business. Our first task will be to get a list of passengers—and when they boarded.”

“You think the killer is a passenger?”

“I’m quite sure. All crew and hospitality staff were required to be on board ship well before the hour of Ambrose’s death. I find it significant that he disguised himself with this bloody bandage before going to see Ambrose.”

“Why? He was disguising himself so he wouldn’t be traced to the crime.”

“I doubt he intended to commit a crime when he went to the hotel. No, Constance—the killer disguised himself even before he knew what Ambrose was offering, which suggests he’s a well-known, recognizable person who wished to remain incognito.”

Their conversation was cut short as the taxi pulled up at the foot of Queen Dock. Pendergast leapt from the car, Constance following. To the left lay the Customs and Departures building; to the right, a perfect Babel of onlookers and well-wishers, camera crews and media types. Everyone was waving British flags, throwing confetti, and cheering. To one side a band was playing, adding to the general din.

And over everything towered the Britannia . It seemed to dwarf not only the dock, but the entire city, its black hull rising toward a glittering snow-white superstructure more than a dozen decks high, all glass and balconies and mahogany brightwork. It was a vessel larger and grander than anything Constance had ever imagined, and its bulk threw an entire neighborhood—Platform Road, the Banana Wharf building, Ocean Village marina—into shadow.