Douglas Child - The Wheel of Darkness

“Yes,” said the monk with a ghost of a smile. “In fact, we know who stole it.”

“Ah,” said Pendergast. “That makes things much simpler. Tell me about it.”

“A young man came to us in early May—a mountaineer. His was a strange arrival. He came from the east—from the mountains on the Nepalese border. He was half dead, a man in mental and physical collapse. He was a professional mountaineer, the lone survivor of an expedition up the unclimbed west face of Dhaulagiri. An avalanche swept all to their deaths save him. He’d been forced to cross and descend the north face, and from there make his way over the Tibetan frontier illegally, through no fault of his own. It took him three weeks of walking and finally crawling down glaciers and valleys to reach us. He survived by eating berry rats, which are quite nourishing if you catch one with a stomach full of berries. He was on the verge of death. We nursed him back to health. He is an American—his name is Jordan Ambrose.”

“Did he study with you?”

“He took little interest in Chongg Ran. It was strange—he certainly had the power of will and activity of mind to succeed, perhaps as much as any westerner we have seen . . . besides the woman, that is. Constance.”

Pendergast nodded. “How do you know it was him?”

The monk did not answer directly. “We would like you to trace him, find the Agozyen, and bring it back to the monastery.”

Pendergast nodded. “This Jordan Ambrose—what did he look like?”

The monk reached into his robes and pulled out a tiny, scrolled parchment. He untied the strings binding it and unrolled it. “Our thangka painter made a likeness of him at my request.”

Pendergast took the scroll and examined it. It showed a young, fit, and handsome man, in his late twenties, with long blond hair and blue eyes, and a look on his face of physical determination, moral casualness, and high intelligence. It was a remarkable likeness that seemed to capture both the outer and inner person.

“This will be very useful,” said Pendergast, tying it up and slipping it into his pocket.

“Do you need any more information to find the Agozyen?” the monk asked.

“Yes. Tell me exactly what the Agozyen is.”

The change that came over the monk was startling. His face grew guarded, almost frightened. “I cannot,” he said in a quavering voice pitched so low it was barely audible.

“It’s unavoidable. If I’m to recover it, I must know what it is.”

“You misunderstand me. I cannot tell you what it is because

we don’t know what it is.

”

Pendergast frowned. “How can that be?”

“The Agozyen has been sealed within a wooden box ever since it was received for safekeeping by our monastery a thousand years ago. We never opened it—it was strictly forbidden. It has been passed down, from Rinpoche to Rinpoche, always sealed.”

“What kind of box?”

The monk indicated with his hands the dimensions, about five inches by five inches by four feet.

“That’s an unusual shape. What do you think might have been stored in a box that shape?”

“It could be anything long and thin. A wand or sword. A scroll or rolled-up painting. A set of seals, perhaps, or ropes with sacred knots.”

“What does the name

Agozyen

mean?”

The monk hesitated. “Darkness.”

“Why was opening it forbidden?” “The founder of the monastery, the first Ralang Rinpoche, received it from a holy man in the east, from India. The holy man had carved a text on the side of the box which contained the warning. I have a copy of the text here, which I will translate.” He took out a tiny scroll, written with Tibetan characters, held it at arm’s length in his slightly trembling hands, and recited:

Lest into the dharma you unchain

An uncleanness of evil and pain,

And darkness about darkness wheel,

The Agozyen you must not unseal.

“The ‘dharma’ refers,” said Pendergast, “to the teachings of the Buddha?”

“In this context it implies something even larger—the entire world.”

“Obscure and alarming.”

“It is just as enigmatic in Tibetan. But the words used are very powerful. The warning is a strong one, Mr. Pendergast—very strong.”

Pendergast considered this for a moment. “How could an outsider know enough about this box to steal it? I spent a year here some time ago and never heard of it.”

“That is a great enigma. Surely none of our monks ever spoke of it. We are in the greatest dread of the object and never talk of it, even amongst ourselves.”

“This fellow, Ambrose, could have scooped up a million dollars’ worth of gemstones in one hand. Any ordinary thief would have taken the gold and jewels first.”

“Perhaps,” said the monk after a moment, “he is not an ordinary thief. Gold, gemstones . . . you speak of earthly treasures.

Passing

treasures. The Agozyen . . .”

“Yes?” Pendergast prompted.

But the old monk simply spread his hands, and returned Pendergast’s gaze with haunted eyes.

3

THE BLACK SHROUD OF NIGHT HAD JUST BEGUN TO LIFT WHEN Pendergast made his way through the ironbound doors of the monastery’s inner gate. Ahead, beyond the outer wall, the bulk of Annapurna reared up, adamant, a purple outline emerging from the receding darkness. He paused in the cobblestone courtyard while a monk silently brought his horse. The chill predawn air was heavy with dew and the scent of wild roses. Throwing his saddlebags over the animal’s withers, he checked the saddle, adjusted the stirrups.

Constance Greene watched wordlessly as the FBI agent went through his final preparations. She was dressed in a monastic robe of faded saffron, and, were it not for her fine features and her spill of brown hair, could almost have been mistaken for a monk herself.

“I’m sorry to leave you early, Constance. I have to get on our man’s trail before it gets cold.”

“They really have no idea what it is?”

Pendergast shook his head. “Beyond its shape and its name, none.”

“Darkness . . . ,” she murmured. She glanced at him, her eyes troubled. “How long will you be gone?”

“The difficult part is already done. I know the thief’s name and what he looks like. It’s simply a matter of catching up to him. Retrieving the artifact should be the work of a week, perhaps two at the most. A simple assignment. In two weeks, your studies will be completed and you can rejoin me to finish up our European tour.”

“Be careful, Aloysius.”

Pendergast smiled thinly. “The man may be of questionable moral character, but he does not strike me as a killer. The risk should be minimal. It’s a simple crime, but with one puzzling aspect: why did he take the Agozyen and leave all that treasure? He seems to have no previous interest in things Tibetan. It suggests the Agozyen is something remarkably precious and valuable—or that it is in some way truly extraordinary.”

Constance nodded. “Do you have any instructions for me?”

“Rest. Meditate. Complete your initial course of study.” He paused. “I’m skeptical that no one here knows what the Agozyen is—somebody must have peeked. It’s human nature—even here, among these monks. It would help me greatly to know what it was.”

“I’ll look into it.”

“Excellent. I know I can count on your discretion.” He hesitated, then turned toward her. “Constance, there’s something I need to ask you.”

Seeing his expression, her eyes widened, but when she spoke her voice remained calm. “Yes?”

“You’ve never spoken of your journey to Feversham. At some point you may need to talk about it. When you rejoin me . . . if you’re ready . . .” Again, his voice fell into atypical confusion and indecision.