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Cleanse
it, they said.”
“Did they hint as to what form this ‘vengeance,’ this ‘cleansing,’ might take?”
“They had no idea.”
“When is this to happen?”
“When the earth is drowning in selfishness, greed, and evil.”
“How fortunate, then, that the world has nothing to fear,” said Pendergast, his voice heavy with irony.
“The monk who did most of the talking said it was not their intent to release it. They were its
guardians
, there to ensure it didn’t escape prematurely.”
Pendergast thought for a moment. “It appears that one of his brothers might not agree with him.”
“What do you mean?”
Pendergast turned to her, his gray eyes luminous. “I would guess that one particular monk felt the earth was ripe for cleansing. And he contrived for Jordan Ambrose to steal the Agozyen—and ultimately unleash it upon the world.”
“What makes you think that?”
“It’s very clear. The Agozyen was extraordinarily well protected. I spent more than a year at the monastery and never even knew it existed. How is it that a casual visitor, a mountain climber not even there for study, managed to find and steal it? That could only happen if one or more of the monkswanted it stolen. Lama Thubten told me he was certain none of the monks had the object in their possession. But that doesn’t mean a monk couldn’t have helped an outsider obtain it.”
“But if the artifact is as terrible as they say—what kind of a person would want to see it
deliberately
unleashed?”
“Interesting question. When we return the Agozyen to the monastery, we’ll have to seek out the guilty monk out and ask him directly.” Pendergast thought for a moment. “Curious that the monks didn’t simply destroy the object. Burn it.”
“That was the last question I asked. The monks grew very frightened and said it was impossible for them to do so.”
“Interesting. In any case, to business. Our first task will be to get a list of passengers—and when they boarded.”
“You think the killer is a passenger?”
“I’m quite sure. All crew and hospitality staff were required to be on board ship well before the hour of Ambrose’s death. I find it significant that he disguised himself with this bloody bandagebefore going to see Ambrose.”
“Why? He was disguising himself so he wouldn’t be traced to the crime.”
“I doubt he intended to commit a crime when he went to the hotel. No, Constance—the killer disguised himself even before he knew what Ambrose was offering, which suggests he’s a well-known, recognizable person who wished to remain incognito.”
Their conversation was cut short as the taxi pulled up at the foot of Queen Dock. Pendergast leapt from the car, Constance following. To the left lay the Customs and Departures building; to the right, a perfect Babel of onlookers and well-wishers, camera crews and media types. Everyone was waving British flags, throwing confetti, and cheering. To one side a band was playing, adding to the general din.
And over everything towered the Brita
But the shadow was moving. The horns were blasting. The dockworkers had slipped the hawsers and retracted the boarding gantry. High overhead, hundreds of people stood at its railing or on the countless balconies, taking pictures, throwing streamers, and waving good-bye to the crowd. With a final ground-shaking blast of its horn, theBrita
“Ever so sorry, guv,” the driver said. “I did my best, but—”
“Bring the bags,” Pendergast interrupted. Then he dashed off through the crush of onlookers toward a security checkpoint. As Constance watched, he stopped only long enough to flash his badge at the police, then he was off again, heading past the band and the camera crews toward a scaffold covered with bunting, on which stood a thick press of dignitaries and—Constance assumed—North Star corporate officers. Already the group was begi
Pendergast darted through a sea of lesser functionaries that surrounded the scaffold and singled out one man standing at its center: a portly gentleman with an ebony walking stick and a white carnation on his dove-gray vest. He was being congratulated by those around him, and he was clearly surprised and taken aback when Pendergast inserted himself into the little group, uninvited. The man listened to Pendergast for a moment, a mixture of impatience and irritation on his face. Then, abruptly, he frowned and began to shake his head furiously. When Pendergast continued to talk urgently, the man drew himself up and began to gesticulate, poking his finger first at the ship, then at Pendergast, his face flushing a deep red. Security perso
Constance waited by the taxi, the driver at her side. He had not bothered to retrieve the luggage, and she was not surprised; the huge bulk of theBrita
As she watched, the ship’s horn let out another blast. Abruptly, large jets of water began to boil around the bows. Constance frowned: it almost seemed as if the vessel was slowing down. She glanced back in Pendergast’s direction. He was visible again now, standing beside the man with the carnation, who was talking into a cell phone. The man’s face had gone from red to purple.
Constance returned her attention to the ship. It was no illusion: the ship’s bow thrusters had reversed, and theBrita
“Blimey,” the driver muttered. Then, walking around to the rear of the taxi, he opened the boot and began to pull out their baggage.
Pendergast gestured to Constance, indicating that she should meet him at the security checkpoint. She made her way through the buzzing crowds, the driver at her heels. On the dock itself, workers were hastily extending the lower boarding gantry again. The band faltered, then gamely started up again.
The horn gave yet another blast as the gangway was maneuvered into position against the ship’s black flanks. Pendergast ushered her through the checkpoint and together they walked quickly down the dock.
“No need to make haste, Constance,” he said, taking her arm lightly and slowing her down to a leisurely stroll. “We might as well enjoy the moment—of keeping the world’s largest ocean liner waiting, that is—not to mention its more than four thousand passengers and crew.”
“How did you manage it?” she asked as they stepped onto the gantry.
“Mr. Elliott, principal director of the North Star Line, is a warm acquaintance of mine.”
“He is?” she asked dubiously.