Douglas Child - The Wheel of Darkness

“Mr. Dallas should have this lock replaced,” he said. And before Kemper or LeSeur could object, he swung it away, opened the hasp, and raised the lid.

A rubber suit lay on top, along with some braided horsehair whips, chains, manacles, ropes, and various leather and iron devices of an obscure nature.

“How curious,” said Pendergast, reaching in. This time LeSeur said nothing as Pendergast pulled out a Lycra Superman cape and suit, with the crotch cut out. He examined it carefully, plucked something from the shoulder, placed it in a test tube that seemed to appear from nowhere and disappear into nowhere, and then gently laid the garment back down. “I’m not sure it’s necessary to check Mr. Dallas’s other boxes.”

“It is certainly not necessary,” said LeSeur dryly.

“And last,” Pendergast said, “is Felix Strage, chairman of the Greek and Roman department at the Met. He is returning from a rather unpleasant trip to Italy, where he was questioned by the Italian authorities over some purchases his museum made back in the 1980s of illegally acquired antiquities.”

LeSeur gave Pendergast a long, hard look. Then he turned back to the keyboard. “Number 597,” he said. “Before I open the safe, let’s get one thing straight. Keep your hands off. Mr. Wadle here will do the handling.” He nodded to the guard. “If you open any of the contents, this fact-finding mission of yours will end abruptly and prematurely. Understood?”

“Perfectly,” the agent replied good-naturedly.

LeSeur moved to a safe on the lowest tier of the right wall, one of the largest in the entire vault. He paused, fishing for a different key. Then he knelt, unlocked the steel door, and pulled it open. Inside were three massive, squat wooden crates. The safe was quite deep, and the light was too dim to make the objects out with any success.

Pendergast stared at the crates a moment, motionless. He turned and slipped a screwdriver out of his pocket. “Mr. Wadle?”

The security guard looked with uncertainty at Kemper, who nodded curtly.

Wadle took the screwdriver and unscrewed the side of the crate—eight screws in all—and then removed it. Inside was bubble wrap and foam-in-place. He eased aside the bubble wrap and removed two blocks of foam to reveal the side of a Greek vase.

Pendergast slipped a penlight from his pocket and shined it into the open crate. “Hmm. We seem to have a calyx-crater. Undoubtedly genuine. It seems our Dr. Strage is up to his old tricks, smuggling more antiquities for his museum.” He straightened up, replacing the penlight in his pocket. He stepped back from the wall of safes. “Thank you for your time and patience, gentlemen.”

LeSeur nodded. Kemper said nothing.

“And now, forgive me if I leave in haste.” And with that he bowed, turned, and stepped out of the vault.

In the elevator, ascending to Deck 12, Pendergast paused to remove the list from his pocket. He drew a line through Lord Cliveburgh and another through Dallas. He did not draw a line through Strage.

20

CONSTANCE GREENE WALKED DOWN THE ELEGANT CORRIDOR, Marya Kazulin at her side. She felt an unaccustomed thrill—the thrill of mystery, deceit, and investigation.

“The uniform fits you perfectly,” Kazulin whispered in her thick accent.

“Thank you for bringing it to my suite.” “Is nothing. Uniforms are the only thing we have in plenty. Except for dirty laundry maybe.”

“I’m unfamiliar with this type of shoe.”

“Work shoes. The kind that nurses wear. They have a soft sole, like sneakers.”

“Sneakers?”

“Is that not the word?” Marya frowned. “Now remember, as cabin steward you are not to speak to passengers except when in their cabins on business. Do not make eye contact with anyone we pass. Step to one side and look down.”

“Understood.”

Marya led the way around a corner, then through an unmarked hatchway. Beyond lay a linen room and a bank of two service elevators. Marya walked up to the elevators, pressed the down button. “Who is it you wish to speak to?”

“The people who clean the large suites, the duplexes and triplexes.”

“They are the ones who speak better English. Like me.”

The elevator doors slid open and they entered. “Some of the workers don’t speak English?” Constance asked.

Marya pressed the button for Deck C and the elevator began to descend. “Most of the crew speak no English. The company likes it better that way.”

“Cheaper labor?”

“Yes. Also, if we cannot speak to each other, we cannot form union. Cannot protest work conditions.”

“What’s wrong with the work conditions?”

“You shall see for yourself, Ms. Greene. Now, you must be very careful. If you are caught, I will be fired and put off ship in New York. You must pretend to be foreign, speak broken English. We must find you a language nobody else speaks so you will not be questioned. Do you have any language other than English?”

“Yes. Italian, French, Latin, Greek, German—”

Marya laughed, genuinely this time. “Stop. I think no Germans in crew. You will be German.”

The doors slipped open onto Deck C and they stepped out. The difference between the passenger decks and the service decks was apparent immediately. There was no carpeting on the floor, artwork on the walls, or brightwork trim. It looked more like a hospital corridor, a claustrophobic landscape of metal and linoleum. Fluorescent tubes, hidden behind recessed ceiling panels, threw a harsh light over the scene. The air was stuffy and uncomfortably warm, freighted with numerous scents: cooked fish, fabric softener, machine oil. The deep thrum of the diesel engines was far more pronounced here. Crew members, some in uniform, some in T-shirts or dirty sweats, bustled past, intent on their duties. Marya led the way down the narrow corridor. Numbered, windowless doors of imitation wood grain lined both sides. “This is dormitory deck,” Marya explained in a low voice. “Women in my bunk do some large cabins, you speak with them. We say you are friend I met in laundry. Remember, you are German and your English is not good.”

“I’ll remember.”

“We need reason why you ask questions.”

Constance thought a moment. “What if I say I do the smaller rooms and want to better my position?”

“Okay. But do not be too eager—people here will stab you in back for a job with better tips.”

“Understood.”

Marya turned down another corridor, then stopped before a door. “This my room,” she said. “Ready?”

Constance nodded. Marya took a deep breath, then opened the door.

The room beyond was as small as a prison cell, perhaps fourteen feet by ten. Six narrow lockers were set into the far wall. There were no chairs or tables, no adjoining bath. The walls to the left and right were occupied entirely by spartan bunks, set three high. At the head of each bunk was a small shelf, topped by a light. As Constance looked around, she noticed that each of these shelves was filled with books, photos of loved ones, dried flowers, magazines—a small, sad imprint of the individual who occupied the bunk.

“There are

six

of you in here?” she asked incredulously.

Marya nodded.

“I had no idea conditions were so cramped.”

“This nothing. You should see Deck E, where the NPC staff sleep.”

“NPC?”

“No Passenger Contact. Crew who do laundry, wash engine rooms, prepare food.” Marya shook her head. “Like prison. They no see daylight, no breathe fresh air, for three, four months maybe. Work six days week, ten hours a day. Pay is twenty to forty dollars a day.”

“But that’s less than minimum wage!”

“Minimum wage where? We are nowhere—in middle of sea. No wage law here. Ship registered in Liberia.” She looked around. “My bunkmates in mess already. We find them there.”