The Wheel of Darkness

by Douglas Preston

  “Yes. Tell me exactly what the Agozyen is.”

  The change that came over the monk was startling. His face grew guarded, almost frightened. “I cannot,” he said in a quavering voice pitched so low it was barely audible.

  “It’s unavoidable. If I’m to recover it, I must know what it is.”

  “You misunderstand me. I cannot tell you what it is because we don’t know what it is.”

  Pendergast frowned. “How can that be?”

  “The Agozyen has been sealed within a wooden box ever since it was received for safekeeping by our monastery a thousand years ago. We never opened it—it was strictly forbidden. It has been passed down, from Rinpoche to Rinpoche, always sealed.”

  “What kind of box?”

  The monk indicated with his hands the dimensions, about five inches by five inches by four feet.

  “That’s an unusual shape. What do you think might have been stored in a box that shape?”

  “It could be anything long and thin. A wand or sword. A scroll or rolled-up painting. A set of seals, perhaps, or ropes with sacred knots.”

  “What does the name Agozyen mean?”

  The monk hesitated. “Darkness.”

  “Why was opening it forbidden?”

  “The founder of the monastery, the first Ralang Rinpoche, received it from a holy man in the east, from India. The holy man had carved a text on the side of the box which contained the warning. I have a copy of the text here, which I will translate.” He took out a tiny scroll, written with Tibetan characters, held it at arm’s length in his slightly trembling hands, and recited:

  Lest into the dharma you unchain

  An uncleanness of evil and pain,

  And darkness about darkness wheel,

  The Agozyen you must not unseal.

  “The ‘dharma’ refers,” said Pendergast, “to the teachings of the Buddha?”

  “In this context it implies something even larger—the entire world.”

  “Obscure and alarming.”

  “It is just as enigmatic in Tibetan. But the words used are very powerful. The warning is a strong one, Mr. Pendergast—very strong.”

  Pendergast considered this for a moment. “How could an outsider know enough about this box to steal it? I spent a year here some time ago and never heard of it.”

  “That is a great enigma. Surely none of our monks ever spoke of it. We are in the greatest dread of the object and never talk of it, even amongst ourselves.”

  “This fellow, Ambrose, could have scooped up a million dollars’ worth of gemstones in one hand. Any ordinary thief would have taken the gold and jewels first.”

  “Perhaps,” said the monk after a moment, “he is not an ordinary thief. Gold, gemstones . . . you speak of earthly treasures. Passing treasures. The Agozyen . . .”

  “Yes?” Pendergast prompted.

  But the old monk simply spread his hands, and returned Pendergast’s gaze with haunted eyes.

  3

  THE BLACK SHROUD OF NIGHT HAD JUST BEGUN TO LIFT WHEN Pendergast made his way through the ironbound doors of the monastery’s inner gate. Ahead, beyond the outer wall, the bulk of Annapurna reared up, adamant, a purple outline emerging from the receding darkness. He paused in the cobblestone courtyard while a monk silently brought his horse. The chill predawn air was heavy with dew and the scent of wild roses. Throwing his saddlebags over the animal’s withers, he checked the saddle, adjusted the stirrups.

  Constance Greene watched wordlessly as the FBI agent went through his final preparations. She was dressed in a monastic robe of faded saffron, and, were it not for her fine features and her spill of brown hair, could almost have been mistaken for a monk herself.

  “I’m sorry to leave you early, Constance. I have to get on our man’s trail before it gets cold.”

  “They really have no idea what it is?”

  Pendergast shook his head. “Beyond its shape and its name, none.”

  “Darkness . . . ,” she murmured. She glanced at him, her eyes troubled. “How long will you be gone?”

  “The difficult part is already done. I know the thief’s name and what he looks like. It’s simply a matter of catching up to him. Retrieving the artifact should be the work of a week, perhaps two at the most. A simple assignment. In two weeks, your studies will be completed and you can rejoin me to finish up our European tour.”

  “Be careful, Aloysius.”

  Pendergast smiled thinly. “The man may be of questionable moral character, but he does not strike me as a killer. The risk should be minimal. It’s a simple crime, but with one puzzling aspect: why did he take the Agozyen and leave all that treasure? He seems to have no previous interest in things Tibetan. It suggests the Agozyen is something remarkably precious and valuable—or that it is in some way truly extraordinary.”

  Constance nodded. “Do you have any instructions for me?”

  “Rest. Meditate. Complete your initial course of study.” He paused. “I’m skeptical that no one here knows what the Agozyen is—somebody must have peeked. It’s human nature—even here, among these monks. It would help me greatly to know what it was.”

  “I’ll look into it.”

  “Excellent. I know I can count on your discretion.” He hesitated, then turned toward her. “Constance, there’s something I need to ask you.”

  Seeing his expression, her eyes widened, but when she spoke her voice remained calm. “Yes?”

  “You’ve never spoken of your journey to Feversham. At some point you may need to talk about it. When you rejoin me . . . if you’re ready . . .” Again, his voice fell into atypical confusion and indecision.

  Constance looked away.

  “For weeks now,” he went on, “we haven’t spoken of what happened. But sooner or later—”

  She turned on him abruptly. “No!” she said fiercely. “No.” She paused a moment, mastering herself. “I want you to promise me something: never mention him or . . . Feversham . . . in my presence again.”

  Pendergast remained motionless, looking at her carefully. It appeared that his brother Diogenes’s seduction had affected her even more deeply than he realized. At last, he nodded again, faintly. “I promise.”

  Then, withdrawing his hands from hers, he kissed her on both cheeks. Taking hold of the reins, he swung up in the saddle, kicked his horse, passed through the outer gate, and set off down the winding trail.

  4

  IN A BARREN CELL DEEP IN THE GSALRIG CHONGG MONASTERY, Constance Greene sat in the lotus position, her eyes closed, visualizing the exceedingly complex knotted silk cord that lay on a cushion in front of her. Tsering sat behind her in the dim light, her only awareness of him the low sound of his voice, murmuring in Tibetan. She had been studying the language intensively for nearly eight weeks and had developed a halting fluency, acquiring a modest vocabulary along with some phrases and idioms.

  “See the knot in your mind,” came the low, mesmerizing voice of her teacher.

  At will, the knot began to materialize, about four feet before her closed eyes, radiating light. That she was sitting on the bare, cold floor of a nitre-encrusted cell receded from her consciousness.

  “Make it clear. Make it steady.”

  The knot came into focus, sharply, wavering a little or going fuzzy when her attention wavered, but always returning to focus.

  “Your mind is a lake in twilight,” the teacher said. “Still, calm, and clear.”

  A strange sense of being there and yet not being there enveloped Constance. The knot she had chosen to visualize remained in front of her. It was one of medium complexity, tied over three hundred years ago by a great teacher. It was known by the name of the Double Rose.

  “Increase the image of the knot in your mind.”

  It was a difficult balance of effort and letting go. If she concentrated too hard on clarity and stability, the image began to break up and other thoughts intruded; if she let go too much, the image faded into the mists of her mind. There was a perfect b
alancing point; and gradually—very gradually—she found it.

  “Now gaze upon the image of the knot you have created in your mind. Observe it from all angles: from above, from the sides.”

  The softly glistening coils of silk remained steady in her mind’s eye, bringing her a quiet joy, a mindfulness, that she had never before experienced. And then the voice of her teacher disappeared entirely, and all that was left was the knot itself. Time vanished. Space vanished. Only the knot remained.

  “Untie the knot.”

  This was the most difficult part, requiring immense concentration—being able to trace the coils of the knot, and then mentally untie it.

  Time passed; it could have been ten seconds, or ten hours.

  A gentle hand touched her shoulder and her eyes opened. Tsering was standing before her, robe tucked around an arm.

  “How long?” she asked in English.

  “Five hours.”

  She rose, and found her legs so wobbly she could barely walk. He grasped her arm and helped her steady herself.

  “You learn well,” he said. “Be sure no take pride in it.”

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  They walked slowly down an ancient passageway, turned a corner. She could hear, up ahead, the faint sound of the prayer wheels echoing down the stone passageway.

  Another corner. She felt refreshed, clear, alert. “What drives those prayer wheels?” she asked. “They never cease turning.”

  “There is a spring of water under monastery—source of Tsangpo River. It pass over wheel, turn gears.”

  “Ingenious.”

  They passed by the wall of creaking, rattling brass wheels, like some Rube Goldberg confection. Constance could see, behind the wheels, a forest of moving brass rods and wooden gears.

  They left the wheels behind and came into one of the outer corridors. Ahead loomed one of the far pavilions of the monastery, the square pillars framing the three great mountains. They entered the pavilion and Constance drank in the pure high-altitude air. Tsering indicated a seat and she took it. He sat down next to her. For a few minutes they gazed over the darkening mountains in silence.

  “The meditation you are learning is very powerful. Someday, you may come out of meditation and find the knot . . . untied.”

  Constance said nothing.

  “Some can influence the physical world with pure thought, create things out of thought. There is story of monk who meditate so long on rose that when he open his eyes, there is rose on the floor. This is very dangerous. With enough skill and meditation, there are those who can create things . . . other than roses. It is not something to desire, and it is a grave deviancy from Buddhist teaching.”

  She nodded her understanding, not believing a word of it.

  Tsering’s lips stretched into a smile. “You skeptical person. That very good. Whether you believe or not, choose with care image you meditate on.”

  “I will,” said Constance.

  “Remember: Though we have many ‘demons,’ most not evil. They are attachments you must conquer to reach enlightenment.”

  Another long silence.

  “Have question?”

  She was quiet for a moment, recalling Pendergast’s parting request. “Tell me. Why is there an inner monastery?”

  Tsering was silent for a moment. “Inner monastery is oldest in Tibet, built here in remote mountains by group of wandering monks from India.”

  “Was it built to protect the Agozyen?”

  Tsering looked at her sharply. “That is not to be spoken of.”

  “My guardian has left here to find it. At this monastery’s request. Perhaps I can be of some help, too.”

  The old man looked away, and the distance in his eyes had nothing to do with the landscape beyond the pavilion. “Agozyen carried here from India. Taken far away, into mountains, where it not threaten. They build inner monastery to protect and keep Agozyen. Then, later, outer monastery built around inner one.”

  “There’s something I don’t understand. If the Agozyen was so very dangerous, why not just destroy it?”

  The monk was silent for a very long time. Then he said, quietly, “Because it has important future purpose.”

  “What purpose?”

  But her teacher remained silent.

  5

  THE JEEP CAME CAREENING AROUND THE CORNER OF THE HILL, bumped and splashed though a series of enormous, mud-filled potholes, and descended onto a broad dirt road toward the town of Qiang, in a damp valley not far from the Tibet-Chinese border. A gray drizzle fell from the sky into a pall of brown smoke, which hung over the town from a cluster of smokestacks across a greasy river. Trash lined both shoulders.

  The driver of the jeep passed an overloaded truck, honking furiously. He swerved past another truck on a blind curve, slewing within a few feet of a cliff edge, and began descending into town.

  “To the railroad station,” Pendergast told the driver in Mandarin.

  “Wei wei, xian sheng!”

  The jeep dodged pedestrians, bicycles, a man driving a pair of oxen. The driver screeched to a halt in a crush of traffic at a rotary, then inched forward, leaning continuously on the horn. Exhaust fumes and a veritable symphony of claxons filled the air. The windshield wipers slapped back and forth, streaking the mud that covered the jeep, the anemic rainfall sufficient only to spread it around.

  Beyond the rotary, the broad avenue ended at a low gray cement structure. The driver stopped abruptly before it. “We are here,” he said.

  Pendergast stepped out and opened his umbrella. The air smelled of sulfur and petroleum fumes. He entered the station and made his way through hordes of people, pushing, yelling, lugging huge sacks and wheeling baskets. Some carried live, trussed-up chickens or ducks, and one even wheeled along a piteously squalling pig tied up in an old wire shopping cart.

  Toward the back of the station, the throngs thinned and Pendergast found what he was looking for: a dim passageway leading to the officials’ offices. He passed by a half-sleeping guard, walked swiftly down the long corridor, glancing at the names on the doors as he passed. At last he stopped before a particularly shabby door. He tried the handle, found it unlocked, and walked in without knocking.

  A Chinese official, small and rotund, sat behind a desk heaped with papers. A battered tea set stood to one side, the cups chipped and dirty. The office smelled of fried food and hoisin sauce.

  The official leapt up, furious at the unannounced entry. “Who you?” he roared out in bad English.

  Pendergast stood there, arms folded, a supercilious smile on his face.

  “What you want? I call guard.” He reached to pick up the phone, but Pendergast quickly leaned over and pressed the receiver back into its cradle.

  “Ba,” said Pendergast in a low voice, in Mandarin. “Stop.”

  The man’s face reddened at this further outrage.

  “I have some questions I would like answered,” said Pendergast, still speaking in coldly formal Mandarin.

  The effect on the official was pronounced, his face reflecting outrage, confusion, and apprehension. “You insult me,” he finally shouted back in Mandarin. “Barging into my office, touching my telephone, making demands! Who are you, that you can come in here like this, behaving like a barbarian?”

  “You will please sit down, kind sir, remain quiet, and listen. Or”—Pendergast switched to the insulting informal—“you will find yourself on the next train out of here, reassigned to a guardpost high in the Kunlun Mountains.”

  The man’s face edged toward purple, but he did not speak. After a moment he sat stiffly down, folded his hands on the desk, and waited.

  Pendergast also seated himself. He took out the scroll Thubten had given him and held it out to the official. After a moment, the man took it grudgingly.

  “This man came through here two months ago. His name is Jordan Ambrose. He was carrying a wooden box, very old. He bribed you, and in return you gave him an export permit for the box. I would li
ke to see a copy of the export permit.”

  There was a long silence. Then the official laid the painting on the table. “I do not know what you are speaking about,” he said truculently. “I do not take bribes. And in any case a lot of people come through this station. I wouldn’t remember.”

  Pendergast removed a flat bamboo box from his pocket, opened it, and tipped it upside down, depositing a neat stack of fresh hundred-yuan renminbi notes on the table. The man stared at them, swallowed.

  “You would remember this man,” Pendergast said. “The box was large—a meter and a half long. It was obviously old. It would have been impossible for Mr. Ambrose to have taken the box through here or gotten it out of the country without a permit. Now, kind sir, you have a choice: bend your principles and take the bribe, or stick to your principles and end up in the Kunlun Mountains. As you may have guessed from my accent and fluency in the language, although I am a foreigner, I have very important connections in China.”

  The official wiped his hands with a handkerchief. Then he extended a hand, covering the money. He pulled it back toward him and it quickly disappeared into a drawer. Then he rose. Pendergast rose likewise, and they shook hands and exchanged polite, formal greetings, as if meeting for the first time.

  The man sat down. “Would the gentleman like some tea?” he asked.

  Pendergast glanced at the filthy, stained tea set, then smiled. “I would be greatly honored, kind sir.”

  The man shouted roughly into a back room. An underling came trotting out and removed the tea set. Five minutes later he brought it back, steaming. The bureaucrat poured out the cups.

  “I remember the man you speak of,” he said. “He had no visa to be in China. He had a long box. He wanted both an entry visa—which he would need to leave—as well as an export permit. I gave him both. It was . . . very expensive for him.”

  The tea was a long gin green and Pendergast was surprised at its quality.

  “He spoke no Chinese, of course. He told me a quite incredible story of having crossed from Nepal into Tibet.”

  “And the box? Did he say anything about it?”