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

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.”
    “The man had something to sell?”
    Morin paused. “You’re not working with this . . . individual, are you?”
    “No. I’m looking for him. And the object he stole.”
    “I sent him and his object away.”
    “When did he come?”
    Morin rose, consulted a large daybook. “Two days ago, at two o’clock. He had a box with him. He said he’d heard I was a dealer in Tibetan