Douglas Child - The Wheel of Darkness

Pendergast stepped out and opened his umbrella. The air smelled of sulfur and petroleum fumes. He entered the station and made his way through hordes of people, pushing, yelling, lugging huge sacks and wheeling baskets. Some carried live, trussed-up chickens or ducks, and one even wheeled along a piteously squalling pig tied up in an old wire shopping cart.

Toward the back of the station, the throngs thinned and Pendergast found what he was looking for: a dim passageway leading to the officials’ offices. He passed by a half-sleeping guard, walked swiftly down the long corridor, glancing at the names on the doors as he passed. At last he stopped before a particularly shabby door. He tried the handle, found it unlocked, and walked in without knocking.

A Chinese official, small and rotund, sat behind a desk heaped with papers. A battered tea set stood to one side, the cups chipped and dirty. The office smelled of fried food and hoisin sauce.

The official leapt up, furious at the unannounced entry. “Who you?” he roared out in bad English.

Pendergast stood there, arms folded, a supercilious smile on his face.

“What you want? I call guard.” He reached to pick up the phone, but Pendergast quickly leaned over and pressed the receiver back into its cradle.

“Ba,”

said Pendergast in a low voice, in Mandarin. “Stop.”

The man’s face reddened at this further outrage.

“I have some questions I would like answered,” said Pendergast, still speaking in coldly formal Mandarin.

The effect on the official was pronounced, his face reflecting outrage, confusion, and apprehension. “You insult me,” he finally shouted back in Mandarin. “Barging into my office, touching my telephone, making demands! Who are you, that you can come in here like this, behaving like a barbarian?”

“You will please sit down, kind sir, remain quiet, and listen. Or”—Pendergast switched to the insulting informal—“you will find yourself on the next train out of here, reassigned to a guardpost high in the Kunlun Mountains.”

The man’s face edged toward purple, but he did not speak. After a moment he sat stiffly down, folded his hands on the desk, and waited.

Pendergast also seated himself. He took out the scroll Thubten had given him and held it out to the official. After a moment, the man took it grudgingly.

“This man came through here two months ago. His name is Jordan Ambrose. He was carrying a wooden box, very old. He bribed you, and in return you gave him an export permit for the box. I would like to see a copy of the export permit.”

There was a long silence. Then the official laid the painting on the table. “I do not know what you are speaking about,” he said truculently. “I do not take bribes. And in any case a lot of people come through this station. I wouldn’t remember.”

Pendergast removed a flat bamboo box from his pocket, opened it, and tipped it upside down, depositing a neat stack of fresh hundred-yuan renminbi notes on the table. The man stared at them, swallowed.

“You would remember this man,” Pendergast said. “The box was large—a meter and a half long. It was obviously old. It would have been impossible for Mr. Ambrose to have taken the box through here or gotten it out of the country without a permit. Now, kind sir, you have a choice: bend your principles and take the bribe, or stick to your principles and end up in the Kunlun Mountains. As you may have guessed from my accent and fluency in the language, although I am a foreigner, I have very important connections in China.”

The official wiped his hands with a handkerchief. Then he extended a hand, covering the money. He pulled it back toward him and it quickly disappeared into a drawer. Then he rose. Pendergast rose likewise, and they shook hands and exchanged polite, formal greetings, as if meeting for the first time.

The man sat down. “Would the gentleman like some tea?” he asked.

Pendergast glanced at the filthy, stained tea set, then smiled. “I would be greatly honored, kind sir.”

The man shouted roughly into a back room. An underling came trotting out and removed the tea set. Five minutes later he brought it back, steaming. The bureaucrat poured out the cups.

“I remember the man you speak of,” he said. “He had no visa to be in China. He had a long box. He wanted both an entry visa—which he would need to leave—as well as an export permit. I gave him both. It was . . . very expensive for him.”

The tea was a long gin green and Pendergast was surprised at its quality.

“He spoke no Chinese, of course. He told me a quite incredible story of having crossed from Nepal into Tibet.”

“And the box? Did he say anything about it?”

“He said it was an antiquity he had bought in Tibet—you know, these dirty Tibetans, they’d sell their own children for a few yuan. The Tibet Autonomous Region is awash in old things.”

“Did you ask what was in it?”

“He said it was a phur-bu ritual dagger.” He rummaged in a drawer, rifled through some papers, and brought out the permit. He pushed it to Pendergast, who glanced at it.

“But the box was locked and he refused to open it,” the official continued. “That cost him quite a bit more, avoiding an inspection of the contents.” The bureaucrat smiled, exposing a row of tea-stained teeth.

“What do you think was in there?”

“I have no idea. Heroin, currency, gemstones?” He spread his hands.

Pendergast pointed at the permit. “It states here he would be taking a train to Chengdu, then a China Air flight to Beijing, transferring on to a flight to Rome. Is this true?”

“Yes. He was required to show me his ticket. If he followed any other route leaving China, he would be in danger of being stopped. The permit is only for Qiang–Chengdu–Beijing–Rome. So I am sure that is how he went. Of course, once in Rome . . .” Again he spread his hands.

Pendergast copied down the travel information. “What was his demeanor? Was he nervous?”

The bureaucrat thought for a moment. “No. It was very strange. He seemed . . . euphoric. Expansive. Almost radiant.”

Pendergast stood. “I thank you most kindly for the tea

, xian sheng

.”

“And I thank you, kindest sir,” said the official.

An hour later, Pendergast had boarded a first-class car of the Glorious Trans-China Express, headed to Chengdu.

6

CONSTANCE GREENE KNEW THAT THE MONKS OF THE GSALRIG Chongg monastery lived according to a fixed schedule of meditation, study, and sleep, with two breaks for meals and tea. The sleeping period was set: from eight in the evening to one o’clock in the morning. This routine never varied, and it had probably remained the same for a thousand years. She thus felt certain that at midnight she would be unlikely to encounter anyone moving about the vast monastery.

And so at twelve o’clock sharp, just as she had done the last three nights in a row, she folded back the coarse yak skin that served as her blanket and sat up in bed. The only sound was the distant moaning of the wind through the outer pavilions of the monastery. She rose and slipped into her robes. The cell was bitter cold. She went to the tiny window and opened the wooden shutter. There was no glass, and a chill flow of air came in. The window looked out into the darkness of night, upon a single star shivering high in the velvety blackness.

She shut the window and went to the door, where she paused, listening. All was quiet. After a moment she opened the door, slipped into the hall, and walked down the long outer corridor. She passed the prayer wheels, endlessly creaking their blessings to heaven, then passed through a corridor that plunged deep into the riddle of rooms, searching for the immured anchorite who guarded the inner monastery. Although Pendergast had described its proximate location, the complex was so vast, and the corridors so labyrinthine, that it was proving nearly impossible to locate.