Текст книги "The Wheel of Darkness"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

She looked up. “I need it.”

“We do not know what the Agozyen is. We do not know where it came from in India. We do not know who created it. But we know

why

it was created.”

Constance waited.

“It was created to wreak a terrible vengeance on the world.”

“Vengeance? What kind of vengeance?”

“To cleanse the earth.”

For a reason she could not quite explain, Constance wasn’t sure she wanted the monk to continue. She forced herself to speak. “Cleanse it—how?”

The man’s anxious expression now turned almost sorrowful. “I am very sorry to burden you with this difficult knowledge. When the earth is drowning in selfishness, greed, violence, and evil, the Agozyen will cleanse the earth of its human burden.”

Constance swallowed. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“It will cleanse the earth

entirely

of its human burden,” the monk said in a very low voice. “So that all might start afresh.”

7

ALOYSIUS PENDERGAST STEPPED OFF THE VAPORETTO AT CA’ D’ORO and paused, leather briefcase in hand. It was a warm summer day in Venice, and sunlight sparkled off the waters of the Grand Canal and glowed on the intricate marble façades of the palazzi.

He consulted a small piece of paper, then walked down the quay toward a little warren of streets leading northeast to the Chiesa dei Gesuiti. Soon he had left the bustle and noise behind and was deep in the shadowy coolness of the side streets running behind the palaces along the Grand Canal. Music spilled from a restaurant, and a small motorboat plied the back canal, leaving behind the sound of water lapping against the marble and travertine bridges. A man leaned out a window and called across the canal to a woman, who laughed.

A few more turns brought Pendergast to a door with a worn bronze button, labeled simply Dott. Adriano Morin. He pressed once and waited. After a moment he heard the creak of a window opening above and looked up. A woman gazed out.

“What do you want?” she asked in Italian.

“I have an appointment to see

il Dottore

. My name is Pendergast.”

The head ducked back in, and after a moment the door was opened. “Come in,” she said.

Pendergast entered a small foyer with walls of red silk brocade and a floor of black and white marble squares. Various exquisite works of Asian art decorated the room—an ancient Khmer head from Cambodia; a Tibetan dorje in solid gold, inlaid with turquoises; several old thangkas; an illuminated Mughal manuscript in a glass case; an ivory head of the Buddha.

“Please sit down,” the woman said, taking her place behind a small desk.

Pendergast seated himself, placed his briefcase on his knees, and waited. He knew that Dr. Morin was one of the most notorious dealers in “unprovenanced” antiquities in Europe. He was, essentially, a high-level black-market dealer, one of many who received looted antiquities from various corrupt Asian countries, supplied them with phony paperwork, and then sold them on the legitimate art market to museums and collectors who knew better than to ask questions.

A moment later Morin appeared in the doorway, a neat, elegant man with exquisitely trimmed and polished fingernails, tiny feet encased in fine Italian shoes, and a carefully barbered beard.

“Mr. Pendergast? How delightful.”

They shook hands. “Please come with me,” the man said.

Pendergast followed him into a long salone,with a wall of Gothic windows looking out over the Grand Canal. Like the foyer, it was filled with extraordinary examples of Asian art. Morin indicated a seat and they settled down. The man slipped a gold cigarette case from his pocket, snapped it open, offered it to Pendergast.

“No, thank you.” “Do you mind if I do?”

“Of course not.”

Morin plucked a cigarette from the case and threw one elegant leg over the other. “Now, Mr. Pendergast. How may I be of service to you?”

“You have a lovely collection, Dr. Morin.”

Morin smiled, gestured around the room. “I sell only through private placement. We are not, obviously, open to the public. How long have you been collecting? I haven’t run across your name before, and I pride myself in knowing most everyone in the field.”

“I’m not a collector.”

Morin’s hand paused as it was lighting the cigarette. “Not a collector? I must have misunderstood you when we spoke over the phone.”

“You did not misunderstand me. I lied.”

Now the hand had gone very still, the smoke curling into the air. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m actually a detective. Working privately, tracing a stolen object.”

The very air in the room seemed to freeze.

Morin spoke calmly. “Since you admit you are here in no official role, and as you have gained entrance under false pretenses, I am afraid this conversation is at an end.” He stood up. “Good day, Mr. Pendergast. Lavinia will show you out.”

As he turned to leave the room, Pendergast spoke to his back. “That Khmer statue in the corner comes from Banteay Chhmar in Cambodia, by the way. It was looted only two months ago.”

Morin paused halfway to the door. “You are mistaken. It comes from an old Swiss collection. I have the papers to prove it. As I have for all the objects in my collection.”

“I have a photograph of that very object, in situ, in the temple wall.”

Morin called out. “Lavinia? Please call the police and tell them I have an undesirable in my house who refuses to leave.”

“And that sixteenth-century Sri Chakrasamvara and Vajravarahi from Nepal was exported with a forged permit. Nothing like that could have left Nepal legally.”

“Shall we await the police, or are you on the way out?”

Pendergast checked his watch. “I’m happy to wait.” He patted his briefcase. “I’ve got enough documents in here to keep Interpol busy for years.”

“You have nothing. All my pieces are legal and carefully provenanced.” “Like that kapala skull cup, trimmed in silver and gold? It’s legal—because it’s a modern copy. Or are you trying to pass it off as original?”

Silence descended. The magical light of Venice filtered in through the windows, filling the magnificent room with a golden sheen.

“When the police come, I will have you arrested,” Morin said finally.

“Yes, and no doubt they will confiscate the contents of my briefcase—which they will find most interesting.”

“You’re a blackmailer.”

“Blackmailer? I seek nothing. I am merely stating facts. For example, that twelfth-century Vishnu with Consorts allegedly from the Pala dynasty is also a forgery. It would bring you a small fortune if it were real. Pity you can’t sell it.”

“What the devil do you want?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“You come here, you lie, you threaten me in my own home—and you want nothing? Come now, Pendergast. Do you suspect that one of these objects is stolen? If so, why don’t we discuss it like gentlemen?”

“I doubt the stolen object I seek is in your collection.”

The man dabbed his brow with a silk handkerchief. “Surely you came to visit me with some goal in mind, some request!”

“Such as?”

“I have no idea!” the man erupted furiously. “You want money? A gift? Everybody wants something! Out with it!”

“Ah well,” said Pendergast diffidently. “As long as you’re insisting, I’ve a little Tibetan portrait I’d like you to look at.”

Morin turned swiftly, the ash falling from his cigarette. “For God sakes, is that all? I’ll look at your damned portrait. There’s no need for all these threats.”

“I’m so glad to hear it. I was concerned you might not be cooperative.”

“I

said,

I’d cooperate!”

“Excellent.” Pendergast took out the portrait given him by the monk and handed it to Morin. The man unrolled it, flicked open a pair of glasses and put them on, then examined it. After a moment, he pulled the glasses off and handed the scroll back to Pendergast. “Modern. Worthless.”

“I’m not here for an evaluation. Look at the face in the portrait. Did this man visit you?” Morin hesitated, took back the painting, and examined it more closely. A look of surprise crossed his face. “Why, yes—I do recognize this man. Who in the world made this portrait? It’s done in perfect thangka style.”

“The man had something to sell?”

Morin paused. “You’re not working with this . . . individual, are you?”

“No. I’m looking for him. And the object he stole.”

“I sent him and his object away.”

“When did he come?”

Morin rose, consulted a large daybook. “Two days ago, at two o’clock. He had a box with him. He said he’d heard I was a dealer in Tibetan antiquities.”

“Was he selling it?”

“No. It was the strangest thing. He wouldn’t even open the box. He called it an Agozyen, which is a term I’d never heard of—and I know as much about Tibetan art as anyone alive. I would have thrown him out immediately, except that the box was real, and very, veryold—quite a prize in and of itself, covered with an archaic Tibetan script that dated it to the tenth century or before. I would have liked to have that box, and I was very curious about what was inside it. But he wasn’t a seller. He wanted to go into some kind of partnership with me. He needed financing, he said. To create some kind of bizarre traveling exhibit of the item in the box, which he claimed would astound the world. I think transfigurewas the word he used. But he absolutely refused to show the item until I met his terms. Naturally, I found the whole proposition absurd.”

“How did you respond?”

“I tried to talk him into opening the box. You should have seen him. He began to frighten me, Mr. Pendergast. He was a madman.”

Pendergast nodded. “How so?”

“He laughed maniacally and said I was missing the opportunity of a lifetime. He said he would take it to London, where he knew a collector.”

“The opportunity of a lifetime? Do you know what he meant by that?”

“He babbled some nonsense about changing the world.

Pazzesco

.”

“Do you know which collector he planned to go to in London?”

“He didn’t mention a name. But I know most of them.” He scribbled on a piece of paper, handed it to Pendergast. “Here are a few names to start with.”

“Why did he come to you?” Pendergast asked. Morin spread his hands. “Why did you come to me, Mr. Pendergast? I am the premier dealer in Asian antiquities in Italy.”

“Yes, it’s true; no one has better pieces than you do—because no one is less scrupulous.”

“There’s your answer,” Morin said, not without a touch of pride.

The door chimes rang insistently, repeatedly, and there was a banging sound.

“Polizia!”

came a muffled voice.

“Lavinia?” Morin called. “Please send the police away with my thanks. The undesirable has been taken care of.” He turned back to Pendergast. “Have I satisfied your curiosity?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I trust those documents in your briefcase won’t fall into the wrong hands.”

Pendergast flipped the briefcase up and opened it. Out spilled a number of old newspapers.

Morin looked at him, his face reddening, and then a sudden smile broke out. “You are as unscrupulous as I am.”

“One fights fire with fire.”

“You made all that up, didn’t you?”

Pendergast snapped the briefcase shut. “Yes—except for my comment on that Vishnu with Consorts. But I’m sure you will find some rich businessman who will buy it and enjoy it, and be none the wiser.”

“Thank you. I intend to.” Then he stood and ushered Pendergast toward the door.

8

ARECENT RAIN HAD SLICKED THE STREETS OF CROYDON, A GRIM commercial suburb on the southern fringes of London. It was two o’clock in the morning, and Aloysius Pendergast stood on the corner of Cairo New Road and Tamworth. Cars rushed along the A23 and a train flashed past on the London-to-Southampton railway. An ugly, seventies-era hotel rose up at the corner of the block, its poured-cement façade streaked with soot and damp. Pendergast adjusted his hat and tightened his Burberry around his neck, tucked his Chapman game bag under his arm, and then approached the glass entry doors of the hotel. The doors were locked and he pressed a buzzer. A moment later an answering buzz unlocked the door.

He entered a brightly lit lobby smelling of onions and cigarette smoke. Stained polyester carpeting in blue and gold covered the floor, and the walls were encased in a waterproof-finished textured gold wallpaper. A Muzak version of “Strawberry Fields Forever” drifted through the lobby. At one end, a clerk with long hair, mashed a bit on one side of his skull, waited sullenly for him at the reception desk.

“A room, please.” Pendergast kept his collars turned up and stood in a way that blocked most of his face. He spoke in a gruff voice with a Midlands accent.

“Name?”

“Crowther.”

The clerk shoved a card over to Pendergast, who filled it in with a false name and address.

“Mode of payment?”

Pendergast took a sheaf of pound notes from his pocket and paid in cash.

The man gave him a swift glance. “Luggage?”

“Bloody airline misplaced it.”

The clerk handed him a card key and disappeared into the back, no doubt to go back to sleep. Pendergast took his card key and went to the bank of elevators.

He took the elevator to his floor—the fourth—but did not get off. After the doors closed again, he remained on the elevator while it waited at the floor. He opened his bag, took out a small magnetic card-reading device, swiped his card through it, and studied the readout that appeared on the small LCD screen. After a moment he punched in some other numbers, slowly repassed the card through the reader, and tucked the device back into his bag. Then he pressed the button for the seventh floor and waited while the car rose.

The doors rolled back on a hall that was brightly lit with fluorescent tubes. It was empty, the same blue-and-gold rug stretching the length of the building, doors lining both walls. Pendergast exited the elevator, walked quickly to room 714, then paused to listen. It was quiet within, the lights out.

He inserted his key card, and the door snapped ajar with a little trill and a green light. He slowly eased it open and stepped inside, quickly shutting it behind him.

With any luck, he would simply locate the box and steal away without waking the inhabitant. But he was uneasy. He had done a bit of research into Jordan Ambrose. The man came from an upper-middle-class family in Boulder, Colorado; he was an expert snowboarder, climber, and mountain bike rider who had dropped out of college to climb the Seven Summits. It was an accomplishment claimed by only two hundred people in the world, summiting the highest peak on each of the seven continents, and it took him four years. After that, he had become a highly paid professional mountaineer, guiding trips to Everest, K2, and the Three Sisters. During the winter he made money doing extreme snowboarding stunts for videos and also collected money from endorsements. The expedition to Dhaulagiri had been a well-organized and financed attempt to scale the unclimbed west face of the mountain, one of the last epic climbs left in the world, a staggering twelve-thousand-foot sheer face of rotten rock and ice swept by avalanches, high winds, and temperature swings from day to night of fifty to sixty degrees. Thirty-two climbers had already died in the attempt, and Ambrose’s group would add five more fatalities to the list. They hadn’t even made it halfway up.

That Ambrose had survived was extraordinary. That he had made it to the monastery was nothing short of miraculous.

And then, everything he had done since the monastery had been out of character—beginning with the theft. Jordan Ambrose didn’t need money, and up to this point had shown little interest in it. He wasn’t a collector. He had no interest in Buddhism or any kind of spiritual seeking. He had been an honest and highly intelligent man. He had always been focused—one might say obsessed—with climbing.

Why had he stolen the Agozyen? Why had he carted it all over Europe, not looking to sell it, but trying to arrange for some kind of partnership? What was the purpose of this “partnership” he sought? Why had he refused to show it to anyone? And why had he made no effort to contact the families of the five dead climbers—who were all close friends of his—something utterly at variance with the climbing ethic?

Everything Jordan Ambrose had done since the monastery had been completely out of character. And this concerned Pendergast deeply.

He stepped past the foyer, took a dogleg, and entered the darkened room. The rusty-iron smell of blood hit him immediately and he could see, in the harsh light of the motorway that filtered through the curtains, a body splayed on the floor.

Pendergast felt a swell of dismay and annoyance. The simple resolution he had hoped for was not to be.

Keeping his raincoat tight about him and his hat on his head, he reached out and turned on a light with a gloved hand.

It was Jordan Ambrose.

Pendergast’s dismay increased when he saw the condition of the body. It lay on its back, arms thrown wide, mouth open, blue eyes staring at the ceiling. A small bullet hole in the center of the forehead, with powder burns and tattooing, indicated the man had been executed at point-blank range with a .22. There was no exit wound: the .22 had rattled around inside the skull, no doubt killing Ambrose instantly. But it appeared the murderer had not been content merely to kill—he had indulged himself in an utterly gratuitous orgy of knife play with the victim’s corpse, cutting, stabbing, and slicing. It did not bespeak a normal mind, or even an average killer.

Pendergast quickly searched the room and determined the Agozyen was gone.

He went back to the body. The clothes had been badly cut up in the brutal postmortem knife work, but several partially turned-out pockets indicated the killer had searched the body before going into a bloody frenzy. Careful to touch the corpse as little as possible, Pendergast slipped the man’s wallet out of his back pocket and looked through it. It was full of cash—Ambrose had not been robbed of his money. Rather, Pendergast guessed, the man had been searched to make sure he had not written anything down about the fateful appointment.

He slipped the wallet into his game bag. Then he stood back and examined the room again, taking in everything. He noted the bloodstains, the marks in the carpet and on the bed, splashed across the suitcase.

Ambrose was well dressed, in a suit and tie, as if expecting a visitor of some importance. The room was neat, the bed carefully made, the toiletries arranged in the bathroom. A new bottle of scotch and two nearly full glasses stood on a table. Pendergast examined the sweating on the sides of the glasses, dipped in a finger and tasted the liquor, estimating the amount of ice that had been present and had subsequently melted. Based on the dilution of the whisky and the temperature of the glasses, he estimated that the drinks had been poured four or five hours before. The glasses had been wiped clean—no fingerprints.

Once again he was struck by the bizarre dichotomy of the killer’s actions. He placed his bag on the bed, extracted some test tubes and tweezers, knelt, and took samples of blood, fibers, and hair. He did the same in the bathroom, on the off-chance the visitor had used it. But the visitor appeared to have been careful, and a cheap, perfunctorily cleaned hotel room was one of the worst places to conduct forensic evidence gathering. Nevertheless, he did a thorough job, dusting the doorknobs and other surfaces for prints—even underneath the Formica table—only to find that every surface had been meticulously wiped clean. A damp spot in the corner near the door indicated an individual had placed an umbrella there, which had dripped water, and then retrieved it.

The rain had started at nine and stopped by eleven.

Pendergast knelt again at the body, slipped his hand inside the suit, and felt the temperature of the skin. Based on body temperature, the evidence of the drinks, and the timing of the rain shower, death had taken place around ten o’clock.

Carefully, Pendergast rolled the body over. The carpet underneath was marked by cuts where the knife had gone clear through the body into the floor. Taking his own knife, he cut out a square of carpet, peeled it up, and examined the marks in the plywood subfloor, probing into them with the tip of his knife. They were remarkably deep.

Pendergast retreated to the door, then gave the room a final look over. There was nothing more to see. The general outlines of what had happened were now plain: the killer had arrived for an appointment around ten; he’d placed his wet umbrella in the corner and his wet raincoat over a chair; Ambrose had poured out two scotches from a bottle he had purchased for the occasion; the man had taken out a .22 Magnum, pressed it to Ambrose’s head, and fired a bullet into his brain. Next, he had searched the body and the room; then savagely and senselessly stabbed and cut up the corpse—and then, still apparently calm, had wiped down the room, taken the Agozyen, and left.

Behavior well outside the bell curve of most murderers.

The hotel wouldn’t discover the corpse until checkout time or later. Pendergast had plenty of time to get far away.

He turned off the light, exited the room, and took the elevator to the lobby. He went to the desk and gave the bell a pair of sharp rings. After a long wait, the clerk came slouching out of the back, his hair mashed even further.

“Problem?” he asked.

“I’m a friend of Jordan Ambrose, registered in room 714.”

The clerk scratched his skinny ribs through his shirt. “So?”

“He had a visitor about ten this evening. Do you recall him?”

“I’m not likely to forget

that

,” said the clerk. “Man came in around ten, said he had an appointment with the gentleman in 714.”

“What did he look like?”

“Had a bloody patch over one eye, along with some bandages. Wore a cap and raincoat, it was tiddling down outside. Didn’t get a closer look and didn’t want to.”

“Height?”

“Oh, about average.”

“Voice?”

The man shrugged. “American, I think. Kind of high. Soft-spoken. Didn’t say much.”

“When did he leave?”

“Didn’t see him go. Was in the back doing paperwork.”

“He didn’t ask you to call him a cab?”

“No.”

“Describe what he was wearing.”

“Raincoat, like yours. Didn’t see what he had on his feet.”

“Did he come by car or cab?”

The clerk shrugged and scratched again.

“Thank you,” Pendergast said. “I’ll be going out for a few hours. Call me a cab from your standard pool, please.”

The clerk made a call. “Just buzz when you return,” he said over his shoulder, as he went back to his “paperwork.”

Pendergast stood outside. In about five minutes, a cab came. He got in.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

Pendergast took out a hundred-pound note. “Nowhere yet. Can I ask you a few questions?”

“You a copper?”

“No. Private detective.”

“A regular Sherlock, eh?” The cabbie turned, his red, bloodshot face lighting up with excitement and pleasure. He took the note. “Thanks.”

“A man left here about a quarter past ten or half past ten this evening, most likely in one of your cabs. I need to locate the driver.”

“Right.” He plucked his radio off the dash, spoke into it. The exchange went on for a few minutes, and then he pressed a button and handed the mike back to Pendergast. “Got your bloke on the line.” Pendergast took the mike. “You’re the man who picked up a fare in front of the Buckinghamshire Gardens Hotel this evening about ten-twenty?”

“I’m your man,” came the raspy voice, in a heavy Cockney accent.

“Where are you? Can I meet you?”

“I’m driving back from Southampton on the M3.”

“I see. Can you describe your fare for me?”

“To tell the truth, guv, your man ’ad an eye that warn’t too lovely. A patch over it, oozing blood like, didn’t want to take too close a butcher’s, if you get my meaning.”

“Was he carrying anything?”

“A big, long cardboard box.”

“His accent?”

“American, southern or something.”

“Could he have been a woman in disguise?”

A raspy laugh followed. “With all the nancy boys around today, I suppose it’s possible.”

“Did he tell you his name or pay by credit card?”

“Paid in cash and never said a bleedin’ word the whole way—after telling me where he was going, that is.”

“Where did you take him?”

“Southampton. To the quay.”

“The quay?”

“Right, guv. To the

Britannia

.”

“North Star’s new ocean liner?”

“You got it.”

“Was he a passenger?”

“Think so. He had me drop him off at the customs building, and he had what looked like a ticket in his hand.”

“Could he have been crew?”

Another raspy laugh. “Not bloody likely. It were a two-’undred-pound cab ride.” “He had no luggage other than the box?”

“No, sir.”

“Was there anything else unusual about him?”

The driver thought for a moment. “He had a strange smell about him.”

“Smell?”

“Like he worked in a tobacconist, like.”

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 Mondethis 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 wasripe 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 wantedit 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.”