The Wheel of Darkness

by Douglas Preston

  “The maid?” Blackburn frowned. “I have my own private maid, and she’s supposed to supervise your people.”

  “Santamaria cleaned your room twice. The second time was on the first night of the voyage, around eight-thirty P.M., when she went in to turn down your beds. Do you recall her coming to your suite?”

  “Eight-thirty last night?” Blackburn leaned back in his chair, took another sip of wine. “Nobody was there. My own maid was in medical, seasick and puking her guts out. I was at dinner. And on top of that, I gave strict instructions that no one was to enter my suite unsupervised.”

  “I apologize for that, sir. But you don’t know of anything that might have happened in the suite that evening? An incident, someone she might have interacted with? Or perhaps she might have broken something, or . . . perhaps stolen something?”

  “What, did something happen to her afterward?”

  The security officer hesitated. “As a matter of fact, yes. Ms. Santamaria had a breakdown shortly after leaving your suite. She subsequently took her own life. Yet those who knew her, bunkmates and the like, saw no sign of impending trouble. She was, they say, a well-adjusted, religious person.”

  “That’s what they always say about a mass murderer or suicide,” Blackburn said, with a scoff.

  “They also mentioned that, when Ms. Santamaria left for work that day, she was in good spirits.”

  “I can’t help you,” Blackburn said, swirling his wine and raising his glass to his nose again, inhaling. “Nobody was there. Nothing was broken or stolen. Believe me, I would know: I keep track of my stuff.”

  “Anything she might have seen or touched? Something that might have frightened her?”

  Blackburn suddenly paused in the middle of the oenophilic ritual, the glass arrested halfway to his mouth. After a long moment he set it down without having sipped from it.

  “Mr. Blackburn?” Kemper prodded.

  Blackburn turned to look at him. “Absolutely not,” he said in a thin, emotionless voice. “There was nothing. As I said, no one was there. My maid was in the infirmary. I was at dinner. What happened to this woman had nothing to do with me or my suite. She wasn’t even supposed to be there.”

  “Very good,” said Kemper, rising. “I assumed as much, but you know, protocol and everything. North Star would have my hide if I didn’t go through the motions.” He smiled. “Gentlemen, we’ll speak no more about this subject. Thank you for your patience, and have a pleasant evening.” He nodded at each man in turn, then quickly walked away.

  Lambe watched the security chief thread his way among the tables. Then he turned to Blackburn. “Well, what do you make of that, Scott old boy? Strange doings belowdecks!” And he struck a melodramatic pose.

  Blackburn did not reply.

  The waiter glided up to their table. “May I recite the chef’s specials for the evening, gentlemen?”

  “Please. I’ve got two days of eating to catch up on.” And Lambe rubbed his hands together.

  Abruptly, Blackburn stood up, his chair tilting backward violently.

  “Scott?” Calderón said, looking at him with concern.

  “Not hungry,” Blackburn said. His face had gone pale.

  “Hey, Scotty—” Lambe began. “Hey, wait! Where are you going?”

  “Stateroom.” And without another word, Blackburn turned and exited the restaurant.

  25

  THAT SOUNDS JUST AWFUL,” SAID THE KIND, ATTRACTIVE STRANGER. “Would it help if I spoke to the old lady?”

  “Oh, no,” Inge replied, horrified at the suggestion. “No, please don’t. It isn’t that bad, really. I’ve gotten used to it.”

  “As you wish. If you change your mind, just let me know.”

  “You’re very kind. It just helps to have somebody to talk to.” And then she paused, blushing furiously.

  Nothing like this had ever happened to Inge Larssen before. She’d always lived a cloistered existence, been painfully shy. And here she was, pouring her heart out to someone she’d just met half an hour before.

  The large, gilt-edged clock on the wallpapered wall of the Chats-worth Salon read five minutes to ten. A string quartet was playing quietly in a far corner, and couples strolled by at infrequent intervals, arm in arm or holding hands. The lounge was lit by a thousand tapered candles, and they freighted the evening air with a mellow golden glow. Inge didn’t think she’d ever been in a place quite so beautiful.

  Perhaps it was the magical atmosphere of this place and this night that had helped her let down her guard. Or maybe it was simply the nature of her new friend: tall, self-assured, radiating confidence.

  At the far end of the sofa, the stranger languidly crossed one leg over the other. “So you’ve lived in convents all your life?”

  “Almost. Ever since I was six. That was when my parents died in an automobile accident.”

  “And you have no other family? No siblings?”

  Inge shook her head. “None. Except my great-uncle, who was the one who put me in the convent school at Evedal instead of one of the state schools. But he’s gone now. I have some friends from school. They’re almost like family, in a way. And then there’s my employer.” My employer, she thought. Why couldn’t I work for somebody like this? She began to speak, then stopped, feeling herself blushing again.

  “You were about to say something.”

  Inge laughed self-consciously. “No, it’s nothing.”

  “Please tell me. I’d love to hear it.”

  “It’s just . . .” She hesitated again. “Well, you’re such an important person. So successful, so . . . You’ve heard all about me, now—I was hoping to hear your story.”

  “It’s nothing, no big deal,” came the somewhat tart reply.

  “No, really. I’d love to hear how you accomplished the impossible and got to be where you are. Because . . . well, someday I’d like . . .” Her voice trailed off as she lost the words.

  There was a brief silence.

  “I’m sorry,” Inge said hastily. “I had no right to ask. I’m sorry.” She felt a sudden awkwardness. “It’s late—I should really get back to bed. The lady I take care of—if she wakes up, she’ll be frightened if I’m not there.”

  “Nonsense,” the stranger said, voice suddenly warm again. “I’d be happy to tell you my story. Let’s take a turn on deck—it’s stuffy in here.”

  Inge didn’t think it was especially stuffy, but she said nothing and they made their way to the elevator and rode it four flights up, to Deck 7. “I’ll show you something I’ll bet you’ve never seen,” her new friend said, leading the way down the corridor, past the Hyde Park restaurant—quiet at this late hour—and to a heavy hatchway. “We can step out here.”

  It was the first time that Inge had actually been on deck. It was quite chilly, and a wind moaned about the ship, while drifting spray misted her hair and shoulders. The scene could not have been more dramatic. Angry clouds scudded past a pale lemon moon. The huge ship ploughed its way through heavy waves. Above and below them, lights from countless windows and portholes turned the sea spume to molten gold. It was impossibly romantic.

  “Where are we?” she breathed.

  “The promenade deck. Here, I want to show you something.” And her companion led the way to the aft rail at the very rear of the ship. “On a dark night like this you can see the plankton glowing in the wake. Take a look—it’s unbelievable.”

  Holding tightly to the railing, Inge leaned over. It was a straight drop to the sea below, which creamed and boiled around the stern. Sure enough: a billion lights winked in the creamy wake, the ocean alive with phosphorescence, a separate universe of pearlescent life brought temporarily into being by the thrust of the ship.

  “It’s gorgeous,” she whispered, shivering in the cold air.

  In response, a gentle hand curled around her shoulder, drawing her near.

  Inge resisted only a moment. Then she allowed herself to be pulled in close, glad of the warmth. As she stared dow
n at the otherworldly glow in the ship’s wake, she felt another hand slide up and grasp her other shoulder. The grip grew tighter.

  And then—with a single, brutal tug—she felt herself lifted into the air and swung bodily over the railing.

  A long, confused rush of air, and then, suddenly, a dreadful shock as she hit the icy water.

  She tumbled and twisted, disoriented by the water, dazed and battered by the impact. Then she fought her way upward, her clothes and shoes like dead weight, and broke the surface, sputtering, clawing into the air as if trying to climb up into the sky.

  For a moment, her mind a confused whirl, she wondered how she had fallen—if the railing had given way somehow—but then her head cleared.

  I didn’t fall. I was thrown.

  The mere fact of it stupefied her. This couldn’t be real. She looked around wildly, instinctively treading water. The great stern of the ship, like a glowing tower, was already receding into the night. She opened her mouth to scream but it was immediately filled with the churning wake. She flailed, trying to remain on the surface, coughing. The water was paralyzingly frigid.

  “Help!” she cried, her voice so feeble and choked that she could hardly hear it herself above the rush of the wind, the throbbing engines, the loud hiss of rising bubbles in the wake. Above her, she heard the faint cries of the gulls that followed the ship day and night.

  It was a dream. It had to be. And yet the water was so cold, so very cold. She thrashed, her bruised limbs turning to lead.

  She had been thrown off the ship.

  She stared in horror at the diminishing cluster of lights. She could even see, through the stern windows of the huge King George II ballroom on Deck 1, black moving dots silhouetted against the blaze of light—people.

  “Help!” She tried to wave her arm and went under, clawing her way back to the surface.

  Kick off the shoes. Swim.

  It took but a moment to scrape off her shoes, the stupid, low-heeled pumps her employer made her wear. But it did no good. She couldn’t even feel her feet anymore. She made a few feeble strokes, but swimming was hopeless; it took all her strength now just to keep her head above water.

  The Britannia was starting to fade into the night mists that lay low on the surface of the water. The lights were getting dimmer. The cry of the gulls disappeared. The hiss of rising bubbles and the green color of the wake slowly dissipated. The water turned black, as black as it was deep.

  The lights vanished. A moment later, the faint throb of the engines faded to silence.

  She stared in horror at the place where the lights and sound had been. All was blackness. She kept her eyes fixed to the spot, terrified to glance away and lose the place, as if somehow that was her last hope. The sea around her was dark, heaving. The moon peeked from a bank of scudding clouds. The mist lay on the sea, momentarily silvery in the moonlight, then it darkened again as the moon slid back into cloud. She felt herself rise on a wave, top it, sink, rise again.

  As she strained to see into the misty darkness, a comber broke over her with a hiss, forcing her down. She flailed and clawed. All around her there was nothing—nothing at all; just pitch black and a terrible, implacable cold.

  But even as she struggled, the fierce chill seemed to ease slightly, replaced by inexplicable warmth. Her limbs disappeared. As the seconds passed, her movements grew slower, until it took an effort of immense will just to move. She made a ferocious effort to stay afloat, but her whole body had turned into a sack of useless weight. She began to realize she wasn’t in the sea at all, but asleep in her bed. It had all been a nightmare. She felt flooded by relief and gratitude. The bed was warm, soft, pillowy, and she turned over and felt herself sinking into the black warmth. She sighed—and as she did so, she felt something solid and heavy on her chest, like a huge weight. A glimmer of understanding forced its way back into her consciousness: she was not in her bed after all; this was not a dream; she was truly sinking into the black bottomless depths of the North Atlantic, her lungs at their last extremity.

  I was murdered, was the last thought that went through her mind as she drifted down, and then she sighed once again, the last of her air escaping her mouth in an eruption of silent horror more intense than the wildest cry.

  26

  IT WAS ELEVEN-FIFTEEN WHEN KEMPER WALKED INTO THE SHIP’S central security station. The door was half open, and he could hear boisterous chatter and what sounded like a low cheer from within central monitoring. He put his hand on the door and eased it open.

  Hundreds of video screens lined the walls of the circular room, each showing a closed-circuit feed of some place on the ship. The security officers of the watch were all crowded around a single screen, laughing and talking, so engrossed they were unaware of his entrance. They were bathed in a bluish light from the many flickering monitors. The room smelled of old pizza from a stack of greasy boxes shoved in one corner.

  “Oh, yeah, grandma, take it all!” one cried.

  “To the root!”

  “It’s the little old lady from Pasadena!”

  A Whoo-eeeh! came from the group, mingled with catcalls and laughter. One officer swayed his hips lasciviously. “Attaboy! Ride ’em, cowboy!”

  Kemper strode over. “What the hell’s going on?”

  The men jumped away from the closed-circuit security screen, revealing two overweight passengers in a dim, remote hallway having vigorous sex.

  “Jesus Christ.” Kemper turned. “Mr. Wadle, aren’t you supposed to be the supervisor this shift?” He looked around at all the officers, standing ridiculously at attention.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ve got a missing passenger, a suicide on the crew, we’re losing thousands in the casino, and you’re busy watching the Viagra Show. You think that’s funny?”

  “No, sir.”

  Kemper shook his head.

  “Shall I—?” And Wadle indicated the switch to turn off the monitor.

  “No. Anytime a camera is shut off it’s logged, and that’ll raise questions. Just . . . avert your eyes.”

  At this, someone stifled a laugh, and Kemper, despite himself, couldn’t help but join in. “All right, all right. You’ve had your fun. Now get back to your stations.”

  He walked through the monitoring station to his tiny back office. A moment later his intercom buzzed.

  “A Mr. Pendergast here to see you.”

  Kemper felt his mood sour. A moment later the private investigator entered.

  “You here for the show, too?” Kemper asked.

  “The gentleman in question has studied the Kama Sutra. I believe that position is called ‘the Churning of the Cream.’ ”

  “We don’t have a lot of time,” Kemper replied. “We’re down another two hundred thousand in Covent Garden so far tonight. I thought you were going to help us.”

  Pendergast took a seat, throwing one leg over the other. “And that is why I’m here. May I have photographs of tonight’s winners?”

  Kemper handed him a sheaf of blurry photographs. Pendergast flipped through them. “Interesting—a different group from last night. Just as I thought.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “This is a large, sophisticated team. The players change every night. The spotters are the key.”

  “Spotters?”

  “Mr. Kemper, your naïveté surprises me. While the system is complex, the principles are simple. The spotters mingle in the crowd, keeping track of the play at the high-stakes tables.”

  “Who the hell are these spotters?”

  “They could be anyone: an elderly woman at a strategically placed slot machine, a tipsy businessman talking loudly on a cell phone, even a pimply teenager gaping at the action. The spotters are highly trained and quite often masters of creating an artificial persona to cover their activities. They count the cards—they don’t play.”

  “And the players?”

  “One spotter might have two to four players in his string. The spotters keep t
rack of all the cards played at a table and ‘count’ them, which usually involves assigning negative numbers to low cards and positive numbers to tens and aces. All they have to remember is a single number—the running count. When the ratio of high cards to low cards remaining in the deck grows beyond a certain point, the odds shift temporarily in favor of the players; high cards in blackjack disfavor the dealer. A spotter who sees a table shift in this way sends a prearranged signal to one of his players, who then sits down at that table and starts betting heavily. Or, if the player is already at the table, he will suddenly up his bets. When the ratio slips back to normal or below, another signal from the spotter tells the player it’s time to leave, or to drop back to smaller bets.”

  Kemper shifted uneasily. “How can we stop it?”

  “The only foolproof countermeasure is to identify the spotters and give them the, ah, bum’s rush.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  “No doubt that’s why they’re here and not Las Vegas.”

  “What else?”

  “Combine the cards into eight-deck shoes and then deal only a third of the shoe before reshuffling.”

  “We deal out of a four-deck shoe.”

  “Another reason you’ve attracted counters. You could stop them cold by instructing your dealers to shuffle up every time a new player sits down or when a player suddenly ups his wager.”

  “No way. That would slow play and reduce profits. Besides, the more experienced players would object.”

  “No doubt.” Pendergast shrugged. “Of course, none of these countermeasures solve the problem of how to get back your money.”

  Kemper looked at him, eyes red-rimmed. “There’s a way to get back the money?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “We can’t do anything that would involve cheating.”

  “You can’t.”