The Wheel of Darkness by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Read Free Book Online

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

    A LOYSIUS P ENDERGAST STEPPED OFF THE VAPORETTO AT C A ’ D ’O RO 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