Douglas Child - The Wheel of Darkness

That was the sheer, implacable, inescapable terror of it.

This was some other universal being, the anti-Buddha, the physical manifestation of pure evil. And it was here, with him, in this painting. In this room . . .

And in his head . . .

47

THE SOUND OF LESEUR’S VOICE DIED OUT ON THE BRIDGE, REPLACED by the howling of wind and the splatter of rain on the windows, the electronic beeping and chiming of the ECDIS electronics and radar as they went through their cycles.

No one spoke. LeSeur felt a sudden panic. He’d gotten ahead of the curve, throwing his hat into the ring with Mason. He had just made the move that would guarantee career suicide.

Finally, the officer of the watch stepped forward, a gruff mariner in the old style. Eyes downcast, hands clasped over his uniform, he was the very picture of stiff-jawed courage. He cleared his throat and began to speak. “A master’s first responsibility is to the lives of the people aboard ship—crew and passengers.”

Cutter stared at him, his chest rising and falling.

“I’m with you, Captain Mason. We’ve got to get this ship into port.”

The man finally raised his eyes and faced Cutter. The captain returned the look with a gaze of such ferocity it seemed to physically assault the man. The officer of the watch dropped his eyes once more—but did not step back.

Now the second officer stepped forward, followed by two junior officers. Without a word Halsey, the chief engineer, stepped forward. They stood in a tight group in the center bridge, nervous, uneasy, their eyes avoiding the commodore’s fatal stare. Kemper, the security chief, remained rooted in place, his fleshy face strained with anxiety.

Captain Mason turned to him and spoke, her voice cold, matter-of-fact. “This is a legal action under Article V. Your agreement is necessary, Mr. Kemper. You must make a decision—now. If you do not declare with us, it means you’ve taken the commodore’s side. In that case, we will proceed to New York—and you will assume the burden of responsibility for all that entails.”

“I—” Kemper croaked.

“This is a mutiny,” said Cutter, his gravelly voice low and threatening. “A mutiny , pure and simple. You go along with this, Kemper, and you’re guilty of mutiny on the high seas, which is a criminal offense. I will see you charged to the fullest extent. You will never set foot on the deck of a ship again as long as you live. That goes for the rest of you.”

Mason took a step toward Kemper, her voice softening just slightly. “Through no fault of your own, you’ve been placed between a rock and hard place. On the one hand, a possible charge of mutiny. On the other, a possible charge of negligent homicide. Life is hard, Mr. Kemper. Take your pick.”

The chief of security was breathing so hard he was almost hyperventilating. He looked from Mason to Cutter and back, eyes darting around as if seeking a way out. There was none. He spoke, all in a rush. “We’ve got to make port as soon as possible.”

“That’s an opinion, not a declaration,” said Mason coolly.

“I’m . . . I’m with you.”

Mason turned her keen eyes on the commodore.

“You’re are a disgrace to your uniform and to a thousand years of maritime tradition!” Cutter roared. “This shall not stand!”

“Commodore Cutter,” Mason said, “you are hereby relieved of command under Article V of the Maritime Code. I will give you one opportunity to remove yourself from the bridge, with dignity. Then I shall order you removed.”

“You . . . you vixen ! You’re living proof that women have no place on the bridge of a ship!” And Cutter rushed at her with an inarticulate roar, grasping the lapel of her uniform before two security guards seized him. He cursed, clawing and roaring like a bear, as they wrestled him to the ground, pinned him, and handcuffed him.

“Brown-haired bitch! May you burn in hell!”

More security guards were called in from a nearby detail and the commodore was subdued with great difficulty. He was finally wrestled off, his thundering voice hurling imprecations down the companionway until at last silence fell.

LeSeur looked at Mason and was surprised to see a flush of poorly concealed triumph on her face. She looked at her watch. “I will note for the log that command of the Britannia has been transferred from Commodore Cutter to Staff Captain Mason at ten-fifty, GMT.” She turned to Kemper. “Mr. Kemper, I shall need all the keys, passwords, and authorization codes to the ship and all electronic and security systems.”

“Yes, sir.”

She turned to the navigator. “And now, if you please, reduce speed to twenty-four knots and lay in a course for St. John’s, Newfoundland.”

48

THE DOOR OPENED SOFTLY. CONSTANCE ROSE FROM THE DIVAN with a sharp intake of breath. Pendergast slipped through the door, strolled over to the small bar, pulled down a bottle, and examined the label. He removed the cork with a faint pop, took out a glass, and casually poured himself a sherry. Carrying the bottle and glass with him, he took a seat on the sofa, put the bottle on a side table, and leaned back, examining the color of the sherry in the light.

“Did you find it?” Constance asked.

He nodded, still examining the color of the sherry, and then tossed off the glass. “The storm has intensified,” he said.

Constance glanced toward the glass doors that opened onto the balcony, lashed with flecks of spume. The rain was now so heavy she couldn’t see down to the water; there was only a field of gray, grading to darkness.

“Well?” She tried to control the excitement in her voice. “What was it?”

“An old mandala.” He poured himself a second glass, then raised it toward Constance. “Care to join me?”

“No, thank you. What kind of mandala? Where was it hidden?” His coyness could be maddening.

Pendergast took a long, lingering sip, exhaled. “Our man had hidden it behind a Braque painting. He trimmed down and restretched the painting in order to hide the Agozyen behind it. A lovely Braque, from his early cubist period—utterly spoiled. A shame. He’d hidden it recently, too. He had evidently learned about the maid that went crazy after cleaning his rooms—and perhaps he even knew of my interest. The box was in the safe. Apparently, he felt the safe wasn’t secure enough for the mandala—with good reason, as it turns out. Or perhaps he simply wanted to have it accessible at all times.”

“What did it look like?”

“The mandala? The usual four-sided arrangement of interlocking squares and circles, done in the ancient Kadampa style, astonishingly intricate—but of little interest to anyone beyond a collector or a superstitious group of Tibetan monks. Constance, would you kindly sit down? It is not agreeable to speak to a standing person when one is seated.”

Constance subsided into her seat. “That’s all? Just an old mandala?”

“Are you disappointed?”

“I thought, somehow, that we’d be dealing with something extraordinary. Perhaps even . . .” She hesitated. “I don’t know. Something with almost supernatural power.”

Pendergast issued a dry chuckle. “I fear you took your studies at Gsalrig Chongg a trifle too literally.” He sipped his sherry again.

“Where is it?” she asked. “I left it in situ for the time being. It’s safe with him and we know where it is now. We’ll take it from him at the end of the voyage, at the last minute, when he won’t have time to respond.”

Constance sat back. “Somehow I can’t believe it. Just a thangka painting.”

Pendergast eyed the sherry again. “Our little pro bono assignment is nearly finished. All that remains is the problem of relieving Blackburn of his ill-gotten goods, and as I said, that is trifling. I have already worked out most of the details. I do hope we won’t have to kill him, although I wouldn’t consider it much of a loss.”