The Wheel of Darkness p-8

by Douglas Preston;Lincoln Child

  “Precisely! And to what advantage? What has it ever profited me other than frustration, regret, alienation, mortification, pain, and reprimand? If I were to leave the FBI, do you think my absence would be mourned? Thanks in part to my own incompetence, my only friend in the Bureau died a most unpleasant death. No, Constance: I haveat last learned a bitter truth. All this time, I’ve been laboring pointlessly—the fruitless labor of Sisyphus—trying to save that which, ultimately, is unsalvageable.” With that he eased himself down again in the leather armchair and picked up his teacup.

  Constance looked at him in horror. “This isn’t the Aloysius Pendergast I know. You’ve changed. Ever since you came back from Blackburn’s stateroom, you’ve been acting strangely.”

  Pendergast took another sip of tea, sniffed dismissively. “I’ll tell you what happened. The scales finally fell from my eyes.” Carefully, he placed the teacup back on the table and sat forward. “Itshowed me the truth.”

  “It?”

  “The Agozyen. It’s a truly remarkable object, Constance, a mandala that allows you to see through to thereal truth at the center of the world: the pure, unadulterated truth. A truth so powerful that it would break a weak mind. But for those of us with strong intellects, it is a revelation. Iknow myself now: who I am, and—most importantly—what I want.”

  “Don’t you remember what the monks said? The Agozyen is evil, a dark instrument of vengeance, whose purpose is to cleanse the world.”

  “Yes. A somewhat ambiguous choice of words, isn’t it? Cleanse the world. I, of course, will not put it to such purpose. Rather, I will install it in the library of our Riverside Drive mansion, where I can spend a lifetime contemplating its wonders.” Pendergast sat back and picked up his teacup again. “The Agozyen will thus accompany me into the flotation device. As will you—assumingyou find my plan to be a palatable one.”

  Constance swallowed. She did not reply.

  “Time is growing short. The time has come for you to make your decision, Constance—are you with me . . . or against me?”

  And as he took another sip, his pale cat’s eyes regarded her calmly over the rim of the teacup.

  59

  LESEUR HAD DECIDED THAT THE BEST WAY WAS TO GO ALONE.

  Now he paused before the plain metal door to Commodore Cutter’s quarters, trying to calm his facial muscles and regulate his breathing. Once he felt as composed as possible, he stepped forward and knocked softly, two quick taps.

  The door opened so quickly that LeSeur almost jumped. He was even more startled to see the commodore in civilian dress, wearing a gray suit and tie. The ex-master stood in the doorway, his cold stare affixed somewhere above and between LeSeur’s eyes, his small body projecting a granitelike solidity.

  “Commodore Cutter,” LeSeur began, “I’ve come in my authority as acting captain of the ship to . . . ask for your assistance.”

  Cutter continued to stare, the pressure of his gaze like a finger pushing on the middle of LeSeur’s forehead.

  “May I come in?”

  “If you wish.” Cutter stepped back. The quarters, which LeSeur had not seen before, were predictably spartan—functional, neat, and impersonal. There were no family pictures, no naval or nautical knick-knacks, none of the masculine accessories you normally saw in a captain’s quarters such as a cigar humidor, bar, or red leather armchairs.

  Cutter did not invite LeSeur to sit down and remained standing himself.

  “Commodore,” LeSeur began again slowly, “how much do you know about the situation the ship is in now?”

  “I know only what I’ve heard on the PA,” said Cutter. “Nobody has visited me. Nobody has bothered to speak to me.”

  “Then you don’t know that Captain Mason seized the bridge, took over the ship, increased speed to flank, and is intent on driving the

  Britannia

  onto the Carrion Rocks?”

  A beat, and he mouthed the answer.

  No.

  “We can’t figure out how to stop her. She locked down the bridge with a Code Three. We strike the rocks in just over an hour.”

  At this, Cutter took a slight step backward, wavered on his feet, then steadied. His face lost a little of its color. He said nothing.

  LeSeur quickly explained the details. Cutter listened without interruption, face impassive. “Commodore,” LeSeur concluded, “only you and the staff captain know the cipher sequence for shutting down a Code Three alert. Even if we managed to get on the bridge and take Mason into custody, we would still have to stand down from Code Three before we could gain control of the ship’s autopilot. You know those codes. Nobody else does.”

  A silence. And then Cutter said, “The company has the codes.”

  LeSeur grimaced. “They claim to be looking for them. Frankly, Corporate is in utter disarray over this situation. Nobody seems to know where they are, and everybody is pointing fingers at everyone else.”

  The flush returned to the captain’s face. LeSeur wondered what it was. Fear for the ship? Anger at Mason?

  “Sir, it isn’t just a question of the code. You know the ship better than anyone else. We’ve got a crisis on our hands and four thousand lives hang in the balance. We’ve only got seventy minutes until we hit Carrion Rocks. Weneed you.”

  “Mr. LeSeur, are you asking me to resume command of this ship?” came the quiet question.

  “If that’s what it takes, yes.”

  “Say it.” “I’m asking you, Commodore Cutter, to resume command of the

  Britannia

  .”

  The captain’s dark eyes glittered. When he spoke again, his voice was low and resonating with emotion. “Mr. LeSeur, you and the deck officers are mutineers. You are the vilest kind of human being to be found on the high seas. Some actions are so heinous they can’t be reversed. You mutinied and turned my command over to a psychopath. You and all your backstabbing, toadying, conniving, skulking lickspittles have been planning this treachery against me since we left port. Now you’ve reaped the whirlwind. No, sir: I will not help you. Not with the codes, not with the ship, not even to wipe your sorry nose. My remaining duty consists of only one thing: if the ship sinks, I will go down with it. Good day, Mr. LeSeur.”

  The flush on Cutter’s face deepened still further, and LeSeur suddenly understood that it was not the result of anger, hatred, or apprehension. No—it was a flush of triumph: the sick triumph of vindication.

  60

  DRESSED IN THE SAFFRON ROBES OF A TIBETAN BUDDHIST MONK, Scott Blackburn drew the curtains across the sliding glass doors of his balcony, shutting out the grayness of the storm. Hundreds of butter candles filled the salon with a trembling yellow light, while two brass censers scented the air with the exquisite fragrance of sandalwood and kewra flower.

  On a side table, a phone was ringing insistently. He eyed it with a frown, then walked over and picked it up.

  “What is it?” he said shortly.

  “Scotty?” came the high, breathless voice. “It’s me, Jason. We’ve been trying to reach your for hours! Look, everyone’s going crazy, we need to get ourselves to—”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Blackburn said. “If you call me again, I’ll rip your throat out and flush it down the toilet.” And he gently replaced the receiver in its cradle.

  His senses had never felt so keen, so alert, so focused. Beyond the doors of his suite he could hear shouting and cursing, pounding feet, screams, the deep boom of the sea. Whatever was happening, it did not concern him, and it could not touch him in his locked stateroom. Here he was safe—with the Agozyen.

  As he went through his preparations, he thought about the strange trajectory of the last several days, and how his life had transcendentally changed. The call out of nowhere about the painting; seeing it for the first time in the hotel room; liberating it from its callow and undeserving owner; bringing it aboard ship. And then, that very same day, running into Carol Mason, staff captain on the ship—how strange life was! In the first flush of p
roud possession, he had shared the Agozyen with her, and then they had fucked so wildly, with such total abandon, that the coupling seemed to shiver the very foundations of his being. But then he had seen the change in her, just as he had seen the change in himself. He’d noticed the unmistakable, possessive hunger in her eyes, the glorious and terrifying abandonment of all the old and hidebound moral strictures.

  It was only then he realized what he should have realized before: he had to be transcendentally careful to safeguard his prize. All who saw it would desire to possess it. Because the Agozyen, this incredible mandala-universe, had a unique power over the human mind. A power that could beliberated . And he, above all others, was in the perfect position to liberate it. He had the capital, the savvy, and—above all—thetechnology. With his graphical push technology he could deliver the image, in all its exquisite detail, to the entire world, at great profit and power to himself. With his unlimited access to capital and talent, he could unlock the image’s secrets and learn how it wrought its amazing effects on the human mind and body, and apply that information to the creation of other images. Everyone on the earth—at least, everyone who mattered even in the least degree—would be changed utterly. He would own the original; he would control how its likeness would be disseminated. The world would be a new place:his place.

  Except that there was another who knew about the murder he’d committed. An investigator who—he was now convinced—had pursued him onto the ship. A man who was employing every possible means, even housekeepers on theBritannia staff, to take from him his most precious possession. At the thought, he felt his blood pound, his heart quicken; he felt a hatred so intense that his ears seemed to hum and crackle with it. How the man learned about the Agozyen mandala, Blackburn didn’t know. Perhaps Ambrose had tried to sell it to him first; perhaps the man was another adept. But in the end it didn’t matter how the man had learned of it: his hours were severely numbered. Blackburn had seen the destructive work of a tulpa before, and the one he had summoned—through sheer force of will—was extraordinarily subtle and powerful. No human being could escape it.

  He took a deep, shivering breath. He could not approach the Agozyen in such a state of hatred and fear, of material attachment. Trying to fulfill earthly desires was like carrying water to the sea; a never- ending task, and an ultimately useless one.

  Taking deep, slow breaths, he sat down and closed his eyes, concentrating on nothing. When he felt the ripples in his mind smooth out, he stood again, walked to the far wall of the salon, removed the Braque painting, turned it over, and unfastened the false lining, exposing the thangka beneath. This he drew out with exquisite care and—keeping his eyes averted—hung it by a silken cord on a golden hook he had driven into the wall nearby.

  Blackburn took his place before the painting and arranged himself in the lotus position, placing his right hand on his left, the thumbs touching to form a triangle. He bent his neck slightly and allowed the top of his tongue to touch the roof of his mouth near his upper teeth, his gaze unfocused and on the floor before him. Then, with delicious slowness, he raised his eyes and gazed upon the Agozyen mandala.

  The image was beautifully illuminated by the glittering candles arrayed on silver platters, yellow and gold tints that played like liquid metal over the thangka’s surface. Gradually—very gradually—it opened to him. He felt its power flow through him like slow electricity.

  The Agozyen mandala was a world unto itself, a separate universe as intricate and deep as our own, an infinite complexity locked on a two-dimensional surface with four edges. But to gaze upon the Agozyen was to magically liberate the image from its two dimensions. It took shape and form within the mind; the painting’s strange, intertwined lines becoming as so many electric wires flowing with the currents of his soul. As he became the painting and the painting became him, time slowed, dissolved, and ultimately ceased to exist; the mandala suffused his consciousness and his soul, owning him utterly: space without space, time without time, becoming everything and nothing at once . . .

  61

  THE HUSH THAT HAD FALLEN OVER THE DIMLY LIT SALON OF THE Tudor Suite belied the undercurrent of tension in the stateroom. Constance stood before Pendergast, watching as the agent calmly took another sip of his tea and placed the cup aside.

  “Well?” he asked. “We don’t have all day.”

  Constance took a deep breath. “Aloysius, I can’t believe you can sit there, so calmly, advocating something that’s against everything you’ve ever stood for.”

  Pendergast sighed with ill-concealed impatience. “Please don’t insult my intelligence by protracting this pointless argument.”

  “Somehow, the Agozyen has poisoned your mind.”

  “The Agozyen has done no such thing. It has

  liberated

  my mind. Swept it clean of jejune and hidebound conventions of morality.”

  “The Agozyen is an instrument of evil. The monks knew as much.”

  “You mean, the monks who were too fearful to even gaze upon the Agozyen themselves?”

  “Yes, and they were wiser than you. It seems the Agozyen has the power to strip away all that is good, and kind, and . . . andmoderate in those who gaze upon it. Look what it did to Blackburn, how he murdered to get it. Look what it’s doing to you.”

  Pendergast scoffed. “It breaks a weaker mind, but strengthens the stronger one. Look what it did to that maid, or to Captain Mason, for that matter.”

  “What?”

  “Really, Constance, I expected better of you. Of course Mason has seen it—what other explanation could there be? How, I don’t know and don’t care. She’s behind the disappearances and murders—very carefully escalated, you’ll notice—all to effect a mutiny and get the ship to divert to St. John’s, on which heading she could contrive to run it up onto the Carrion Rocks.”

  Constance stared at him. The theory seemed preposterous—or did it? Almost despite herself, she could see some of the details begin to lock into place.

  “But none of that is important anymore.” Pendergast waved his hand. “I won’t stand for any more delays. Come with me now.”

  Constance hesitated. “On one condition.”

  “And what is that, pray tell?”

  “Join me in a Chongg Ran session first.”

  Pendergast’s eyes narrowed. “Chongg Ran? How perverse—there isn’t time.”

  “There

  is

  time. We both have the mental training to reach

  stong pa nyid

  quickly. What are you afraid of? That meditation will bring you back to normality?” This was, in fact, her own most fervent hope. “That’s absurd. There’s no turning back.”

  “Then meditate with me.”

  Pendergast remained motionless for a moment. Then his face changed again. Once more, he grew relaxed, confident, aloof.

  “Very well,” he said. “I shall agree. But on one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “I intend to take the Agozyen before leaving this ship. If Chongg Ran does not work to your satisfaction, then you will gaze on the Agozyenyourself . It shall free you, as it did me. This is a great gift I am giving you, Constance.”

  Hearing this, Constance caught her breath.

  Pendergast gave a cold smile. “You’ve named your terms. Now I’ve named mine.”

  For a moment longer, she remained silent. Then she found her breath, looked into his silver eyes. “Very well. I accept.”

  He nodded. “Excellent. Then shall we begin?”

  Just then, a knock sounded on the front door of the suite. Constance stepped over to the entryway and opened it. Outside in the hallway stood a worried-looking Marya.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Greene,” she said. “No doctor to be found. I search everywhere, but this ship go crazy, crying, drinking, looting—”

  “It’s all right. Will you do me one last favor? Could you wait outside the door for a few minutes, please, and make sure we’re not disturbed?”


  The woman nodded.

  “Thank you so much.” Then, shutting the door softly behind her, she returned to the living room, where Pendergast had settled himself cross-legged on the carpet, placed the backs of his wrists on his knees, and was waiting with perfect complacency.

  62

  COREY PENNER, INFORMATION TECHNOLOGY MATE SECOND CLASS, sat in the glow of the central server room on Deck B, hunched over a data access terminal.

  Hufnagel, the IT chief, leaned over Penner’s shoulder, gazing at the display through filmy glasses. “So,” he said. “Can you do it?”

  The question was accompanied by a wash of sour breath, and Penner tightened his lips. “Doubt it. Looks pretty heavily defended.”

  Privately, he was sure he could do it. There were few, if any, systems on theBritannia he couldn’t hack his way into—but it didn’t pay to advertise that, especially to his boss. The more they thought you could do, the more they’d ask you to do—he’d learned that the hard way. And the fact was he didn’t really want anybody to know just how he traversed the ship’s off-limits data services during his leisure hours. Close attention to theBritannia ’s pay-for-play movie streaming, for example, had allowed him to amass a nice private library of first-run DVDs.