The Wheel of Darkness (7 page)

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.”

T
HE BLACK
L
ONDON 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 Monde
this 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
was
ripe 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
wanted
it 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.”

“That was the last question I asked. The monks grew very frightened and said it was impossible for them to do so.”

“Interesting. In any case, to business. Our first task will be to get a list of passengers—and when they boarded.”

“You think the killer is a passenger?”

“I’m quite sure. All crew and hospitality staff were required to be on board ship well before the hour of Ambrose’s death. I find it significant that he disguised himself with this bloody bandage
before
going to see Ambrose.”

“Why? He was disguising himself so he wouldn’t be traced to the crime.”

“I doubt he intended to commit a crime when he went to the hotel. No, Constance—the killer disguised himself even before he knew what Ambrose was offering, which suggests he’s a well-known, recognizable person who wished to remain incognito.”

Their conversation was cut short as the taxi pulled up at the foot of Queen Dock. Pendergast leapt from the car, Constance following. To the left lay the Customs and Departures building; to the right, a perfect Babel of onlookers and well-wishers, camera crews and media types. Everyone was waving British flags, throwing confetti, and cheering. To one side a band was playing, adding to the general din.

And over everything towered the
Britannia
. It seemed to dwarf not only the dock, but the entire city, its black hull rising toward a glittering snow-white superstructure more than a dozen decks high, all glass and balconies and mahogany brightwork. It was a vessel larger and grander than anything Constance had ever imagined, and its bulk threw an entire neighborhood—Platform Road, the Banana Wharf building, Ocean Village marina—into shadow.