The Codex by Douglas Preston Read Free Book Online Page B

lawyers. I need a cash retainer up front. If I succeed, there will be an additional fixed fee.”
    “A retainer? Like how much?”
    “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
    Philip almost laughed. “What makes you think I’ve got that kind of money?”
    “I never think anything, Mr. Broadbent. I know. Sell the Klee.”
    Philip felt his heart stop for a moment. “What?”
    “Sell the large Paul Klee watercolor you own, Blau Kirk. It’s a beaut. I should be able to get you four hundred for it.”
    Philip exploded. “Sell it? Never. My father gave me that painting.”
    Hauser shrugged.
    “And how did you know about that painting anyway?”
    Hauser smiled and opened the soft white palms of his hand, like two calla lilies. “You do want to hire the best, don’t you, Mr. Broadbent?”
    “Yes, but this is blackmail.”
    “Let me explain how I work.” Hauser leaned forward. “My first loyalty is to the case, not the client. When I take a case, I solve it, regardless of the consequences to the client. I keep the retainer. If I succeed, I get an additional fee.”
    “This discussion is irrelevant. I’m not selling the Klee.”
    “Sometimes the client loses his nerve and wants to back out. Sometimes bad things happen to good people. I kiss the babies and attend the funerals and keep going until the case is solved.”
    “You can’t expect me to sell that painting, Mr. Hauser. It’s the only thing I have of any value from my father. I love that painting.”
    Philip found Hauser gazing at him in a way that made him feel odd. The man’s eyes were vacant, his face calm, emotionless. “Think of it this way: The painting is the sacrifice you need to make to recover your inheritance.”
    Philip hesitated. “You think we’ll succeed?”
    “I do.”
    Philip gazed at him. He could always buy the painting back. “All right, I’ll sell the Klee.”
    Hauser’s eyes narrowed further. He took another careful puff. Then he removed the cigar from his mouth and spoke.
    “If successful, my fee will be one million dollars.” Then he added, “We don’t have much time, Mr. Broadbent. I’ve already booked us tickets to San Pedro Sula, leaving first thing next week.”
     
    7
     
    When Vernon Broadbent finished chanting, he took a few moments to sit quietly in the cool, dark room with his eyes closed, allowing his mind to resurface after its long meditation. As consciousness returned, he began to hear the distant boom of the Pacific and smell the salt air just penetrating the myrrh-fragrant confines of the vihara. The glow of candles on his eyelids filled his internal vision with a reddish, flickering glow.
    Then he opened his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and rose, still cradling the fragile feeling of peace and serenity that the hour of meditation had given him. He went to the door and paused, looking out over the hills of Big Sur, dotted with live oaks and manzanita, to the wide blue Pacific beyond. The wind off the ocean caught his robes and filled them with cool air.
    He had been living at the Ashram for more than a year, and now, in his thirty-fifth year, he finally believed he had found the place he wanted to be. It had been a long journey, from those two years in India through Transcendental Meditation, Theosophy; EST, Lifespring, and even a brush with Christianity. He had rejected the materialism of his childhood and had tried to find some deeper truth to his life. What to others—especially his brothers—seemed a wasted life, had been to him a life of richness and striving. What else was the point of life, if not to find out why?
    Now he had the chance, with this inheritance, to do some real good. Not just for himself this time but for others. It was his chance to do something for the world. But how? Should he try to find the tomb on his own? Should he call Tom? Philip was an asshole, but maybe Tom would want to join forces with him. He had to make a decision, and quickly.
    He tucked up his linen robes and