The Wheel of Darkness (6 page)

“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,
very
old—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
transfigure
was 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.

A
RECENT RAIN HAD SLICKED THE STREETS OF
C
ROYDON, 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.