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

antiquities.”
    “Was he selling it?”
    “No. It was the strangest thing. He wouldn’t even open the box. He called it an Agozyen, which is a term I’d never heard of—and I know as much about Tibetan art as anyone alive. I would have thrown him out immediately, except that the box was real, and very,
very
old—quite a prize in and of itself, covered with an archaic Tibetan script that dated it to the tenth century or before. I would have liked to have that box, and I was very curious about what was inside it. But he wasn’t a seller. He wanted to go into some kind of partnership with me. He needed financing, he said. To create some kind of bizarre traveling exhibit of the item in the box, which he claimed would astound the world. I think
transfigure
was the word he used. But he absolutely refused to show the item until I met his terms. Naturally, I found the whole proposition absurd.”
    “How did you respond?”
    “I tried to talk him into opening the box. You should have seen him. He began to frighten me, Mr. Pendergast. He was a madman.”
    Pendergast nodded. “How so?”
    “He laughed maniacally and said I was missing the opportunity of a lifetime. He said he would take it to London, where he knew a collector.”
    “The opportunity of a lifetime? Do you know what he meant by that?”
    “He babbled some nonsense about changing the world.
Pazzesco
.”
    “Do you know which collector he planned to go to in London?”
    “He didn’t mention a name. But I know most of them.” He scribbled on a piece of paper, handed it to Pendergast. “Here are a few names to start with.”
    “Why did he come to you?” Pendergast asked.
    Morin spread his hands. “Why did you come to me, Mr. Pendergast? I am the premier dealer in Asian antiquities in Italy.”
    “Yes, it’s true; no one has better pieces than you do—because no one is less scrupulous.”
    “There’s your answer,” Morin said, not without a touch of pride.
    The door chimes rang insistently, repeatedly, and there was a banging sound. “
Polizia
!” came a muffled voice.
    “Lavinia?” Morin called. “Please send the police away with my thanks. The undesirable has been taken care of.” He turned back to Pendergast. “Have I satisfied your curiosity?”
    “Yes, thank you.”
    “I trust those documents in your briefcase won’t fall into the wrong hands.”
    Pendergast flipped the briefcase up and opened it. Out spilled a number of old newspapers.
    Morin looked at him, his face reddening, and then a sudden smile broke out. “You are as unscrupulous as I am.”
    “One fights fire with fire.”
    “You made all that up, didn’t you?”
    Pendergast snapped the briefcase shut. “Yes—except for my comment on that Vishnu with Consorts. But I’m sure you will find some rich businessman who will buy it and enjoy it, and be none the wiser.”
    “Thank you. I intend to.” Then he stood and ushered Pendergast toward the door.

8

    A RECENT RAIN HAD SLICKED THE STREETS OF C ROYDON, A GRIM commercial suburb on the southern fringes of London. It was two o’clock in the morning, and Aloysius Pendergast stood on the corner of Cairo New Road and Tamworth. Cars rushed along the A23 and a train flashed past on the London-to-Southampton railway. An ugly, seventies-era hotel rose up at the corner of the block, its poured-cement façade streaked with soot and damp. Pendergast adjusted his hat and tightened his Burberry around his neck, tucked his Chapman game bag under his arm, and then approached the glass entry doors of the hotel. The doors were locked and he pressed a buzzer. A moment later an answering buzz unlocked the door.
    He entered a brightly lit lobby smelling of onions and cigarette smoke. Stained polyester carpeting in blue and gold covered the floor, and the walls were encased in a waterproof-finished textured gold wallpaper. A Muzak version of “Strawberry Fields Forever” drifted through the lobby. At one end, a clerk with long hair, mashed