The Wheel of Darkness

by Douglas Preston

  “He said it was an antiquity he had bought in Tibet—you know, these dirty Tibetans, they’d sell their own children for a few yuan. The Tibet Autonomous Region is awash in old things.”

  “Did you ask what was in it?”

  “He said it was a phur-bu ritual dagger.” He rummaged in a drawer, rifled through some papers, and brought out the permit. He pushed it to Pendergast, who glanced at it.

  “But the box was locked and he refused to open it,” the official continued. “That cost him quite a bit more, avoiding an inspection of the contents.” The bureaucrat smiled, exposing a row of tea-stained teeth.

  “What do you think was in there?”

  “I have no idea. Heroin, currency, gemstones?” He spread his hands.

  Pendergast pointed at the permit. “It states here he would be taking a train to Chengdu, then a China Air flight to Beijing, transferring on to a flight to Rome. Is this true?”

  “Yes. He was required to show me his ticket. If he followed any other route leaving China, he would be in danger of being stopped. The permit is only for Qiang–Chengdu–Beijing–Rome. So I am sure that is how he went. Of course, once in Rome . . .” Again he spread his hands.

  Pendergast copied down the travel information. “What was his demeanor? Was he nervous?”

  The bureaucrat thought for a moment. “No. It was very strange. He seemed . . . euphoric. Expansive. Almost radiant.”

  Pendergast stood. “I thank you most kindly for the tea, xian sheng.”

  “And I thank you, kindest sir,” said the official.

  An hour later, Pendergast had boarded a first-class car of the Glorious Trans-China Express, headed to Chengdu.

  6

  CONSTANCE GREENE KNEW THAT THE MONKS OF THE GSALRIG Chongg monastery lived according to a fixed schedule of meditation, study, and sleep, with two breaks for meals and tea. The sleeping period was set: from eight in the evening to one o’clock in the morning. This routine never varied, and it had probably remained the same for a thousand years. She thus felt certain that at midnight she would be unlikely to encounter anyone moving about the vast monastery.

  And so at twelve o’clock sharp, just as she had done the last three nights in a row, she folded back the coarse yak skin that served as her blanket and sat up in bed. The only sound was the distant moaning of the wind through the outer pavilions of the monastery. She rose and slipped into her robes. The cell was bitter cold. She went to the tiny window and opened the wooden shutter. There was no glass, and a chill flow of air came in. The window looked out into the darkness of night, upon a single star shivering high in the velvety blackness.

  She shut the window and went to the door, where she paused, listening. All was quiet. After a moment she opened the door, slipped into the hall, and walked down the long outer corridor. She passed the prayer wheels, endlessly creaking their blessings to heaven, then passed through a corridor that plunged deep into the riddle of rooms, searching for the immured anchorite who guarded the inner monastery. Although Pendergast had described its proximate location, the complex was so vast, and the corridors so labyrinthine, that it was proving nearly impossible to locate.

  But this evening, after many turns, she came at last to the polished stone wall indicating the outside of his cell. The loose brick was in place, its edges abraded and chipped from being moved countless times. She tapped on it a few times and waited. Minutes went by, and then the brick moved just a little; there was a small scraping noise and it began to turn. A pair of bony fingers appeared like long white worms in the darkness, grasped the brick’s edge, and moved it around so that a small opening appeared in the darkness.

  Constance had carefully worked out beforehand what she wanted to say in Tibetan. Now she leaned toward the hole and whispered.

  “Let me into the inner monastery.”

  She turned and placed her ear against the hole. A faint, whispery, insectlike voice answered. She strained to hear and understand.

  “You know it is forbidden?”

  “Yes, but—”

  Before she could even finish, she heard a scraping noise and a piece of the wall beyond the cell began to move, opening along an old stone seam to reveal a dark corridor. She was taken aback—the anchorite hadn’t even waited to hear her carefully crafted explanation.

  She knelt, lit a dragon joss stick, and proceeded inside. The wall closed. A dim corridor stretched ahead, exhaling the smell of damp air, wet stone, and a cloying, resinous scent. The air was hazy with incense.

  She took a step forward, holding up the joss stick. The flame flickered, as if in protest. She moved down the long passageway, its dark walls dimly frescoed with disturbing images of strange deities and dancing demons.

  The inner monastery, she realized, must have once held far more monks than it did now. It was vast, cold, and empty. Not knowing where she was going, and without even a clear idea of what she was doing—beyond finding the monk Pendergast had spoken to and questioning him further—she turned several corners, passing through large, vacant rooms, the walls painted with half-glimpsed thangkas and mandalas, almost obliterated by time. In one room, a lone, forgotten candle guttered in front of an ancient bronze statue of the Buddha eaten away by verdigris. The joss stick she was using for light began to fizzle and she pulled another from her pocket and lit it, the scent of sandalwood smoke filling the passageway.

  She turned another corner, then halted. A monk stood there, tall, gaunt, in a ragged robe, his eyes hollow and staring with a strange, almost fierce intensity. She faced him. He said nothing. Neither moved.

  And then Constance reached up to her hood, drew it back, and let her brown hair fall across her shoulders.

  The monk’s eyes widened, but only slightly. Still he said nothing.

  “Greetings,” Constance said in Tibetan.

  The monk faintly inclined his head. His large eyes continued staring at her.

  “Agozyen,” she said.

  Again, no reaction.

  “I have come to ask: what is Agozyen?” She spoke haltingly, continuing in her poor Tibetan.

  “Why are you here, little monk?” he asked quietly.

  Constance took a step toward him. “What is Agozyen?” she repeated more fiercely.

  He closed his eyes. “Your mind is in a turmoil of excitement, young one.”

  “I must know.”

  “Must,” he repeated.

  “What does Agozyen do?”

  His eyes opened. He turned and began walking away. After a moment, she followed.

  The monk wound his way through many narrow passages and convoluted turnings, down and up staircases, through rough-cut tunnels and long, frescoed halls. Finally he paused before a stone doorway curtained in frayed orange silk. He drew it aside and Constance was surprised to see three monks seated on stone benches, as if in council, with candles arrayed in front of a gilded statue of the seated Buddha.

  One of the monks rose. “Please come in,” he said in surprisingly fluent English.

  Constance bowed. Had they been expecting her? It seemed impossible. And yet there was no other logical explanation.

  “I’m studying with Lama Tsering,” she said, grateful to switch to English.

  The man nodded.

  “I want to know about the Agozyen,” she said.

  He turned to the others and began speaking in Tibetan. Constance strained to catch the thread of what he was saying, but the voices were too low. At last the monk turned back to her.

  “Lama Thubten told the detective all we knew,” he said.

  “Forgive me, but I don’t believe you.”

  The monk seemed taken aback by her directness, but he recovered quickly. “Why do you speak this way, child?”

  The room was freezing and Constance began to shiver. She pulled her robe tightly about her. “You may not know exactly what the Agozyen is, but you know its purpose. Its future purpose.”

  “It is not time to reveal it yet. The Agozyen was taken from us.”

/>   “Taken prematurely, you mean?”

  The monk shook his head. “We were its guardians. It is imperative that it be returned to us, before . . .” He stopped.

  “Before what?”

  The monk merely shook his head, the anxious lines of his face gaunt and stark in the dim light.

  “You must tell me. It will help Pendergast, help us, in locating the object. I won’t reveal it to anyone but him.”

  “Let us close our eyes and meditate,” said the monk. “Let us meditate, and offer prayers for its speedy and safe return.”

  She swallowed, tried to calm her mind. It was true, she was acting impulsively. Her behavior was no doubt shocking to the monks. But she had made a promise to Aloysius and she was going to keep it.

  The monk began chanting, and the others took it up. The strange, humming, repetitive sounds filled her mind, and her anger, her desperate desire to know more, seemed to flow from her like water from a pierced vessel. The strong need to fulfill Pendergast’s request faded somewhat. Her mind became wakeful, almost calm.

  The chanting stopped. She slowly opened her eyes.

  “Are you still passionately seeking the answer to your question?”

  A long silence passed. Constance remembered one of her lessons—a teaching on desire. She bowed her head. “No,” she lied. She wanted the information more than ever.

  The monk smiled. “You have much to learn, little monk. We know quite well that you need this information, that you desire this information, and that it will be useful to you. It is not good for you personally that you seek it. The information is extremely dangerous. It has the potential of destroying not just your life, but your very soul. It may bar you from enlightenment for all of time.”

  She looked up. “I need it.”

  “We do not know what the Agozyen is. We do not know where it came from in India. We do not know who created it. But we know why it was created.”

  Constance waited.

  “It was created to wreak a terrible vengeance on the world.”

  “Vengeance? What kind of vengeance?”

  “To cleanse the earth.”

  For a reason she could not quite explain, Constance wasn’t sure she wanted the monk to continue. She forced herself to speak. “Cleanse it—how?”

  The man’s anxious expression now turned almost sorrowful. “I am very sorry to burden you with this difficult knowledge. When the earth is drowning in selfishness, greed, violence, and evil, the Agozyen will cleanse the earth of its human burden.”

  Constance swallowed. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “It will cleanse the earth entirely of its human burden,” the monk said in a very low voice. “So that all might start afresh.”

  7

  ALOYSIUS PENDERGAST STEPPED OFF THE VAPORETTO AT CA’ D’ORO and paused, leather briefcase in hand. It was a warm summer day in Venice, and sunlight sparkled off the waters of the Grand Canal and glowed on the intricate marble façades of the palazzi.

  He consulted a small piece of paper, then walked down the quay toward a little warren of streets leading northeast to the Chiesa dei Gesuiti. Soon he had left the bustle and noise behind and was deep in the shadowy coolness of the side streets running behind the palaces along the Grand Canal. Music spilled from a restaurant, and a small motorboat plied the back canal, leaving behind the sound of water lapping against the marble and travertine bridges. A man leaned out a window and called across the canal to a woman, who laughed.

  A few more turns brought Pendergast to a door with a worn bronze button, labeled simply Dott. Adriano Morin. He pressed once and waited. After a moment he heard the creak of a window opening above and looked up. A woman gazed out.

  “What do you want?” she asked in Italian.

  “I have an appointment to see il Dottore. My name is Pendergast.”

  The head ducked back in, and after a moment the door was opened. “Come in,” she said.

  Pendergast entered a small foyer with walls of red silk brocade and a floor of black and white marble squares. Various exquisite works of Asian art decorated the room—an ancient Khmer head from Cambodia; a Tibetan dorje in solid gold, inlaid with turquoises; several old thangkas; an illuminated Mughal manuscript in a glass case; an ivory head of the Buddha.

  “Please sit down,” the woman said, taking her place behind a small desk.

  Pendergast seated himself, placed his briefcase on his knees, and waited. He knew that Dr. Morin was one of the most notorious dealers in “unprovenanced” antiquities in Europe. He was, essentially, a high-level black-market dealer, one of many who received looted antiquities from various corrupt Asian countries, supplied them with phony paperwork, and then sold them on the legitimate art market to museums and collectors who knew better than to ask questions.

  A moment later Morin appeared in the doorway, a neat, elegant man with exquisitely trimmed and polished fingernails, tiny feet encased in fine Italian shoes, and a carefully barbered beard.

  “Mr. Pendergast? How delightful.”

  They shook hands. “Please come with me,” the man said.

  Pendergast followed him into a long salone, with a wall of Gothic windows looking out over the Grand Canal. Like the foyer, it was filled with extraordinary examples of Asian art. Morin indicated a seat and they settled down. The man slipped a gold cigarette case from his pocket, snapped it open, offered it to Pendergast.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Do you mind if I do?”

  “Of course not.”

  Morin plucked a cigarette from the case and threw one elegant leg over the other. “Now, Mr. Pendergast. How may I be of service to you?”

  “You have a lovely collection, Dr. Morin.”

  Morin smiled, gestured around the room. “I sell only through private placement. We are not, obviously, open to the public. How long have you been collecting? I haven’t run across your name before, and I pride myself in knowing most everyone in the field.”

  “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.”