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“It is just as enigmatic in Tibetan. But the words used are very powerful. The warning is a strong one, Mr. Pendergast—very strong.”
Pendergast considered this for a moment. “How could an outsider know enough about this box to steal it? I spent a year here some time ago and never heard of it.”
“That is a great enigma. Surely none of our monks ever spoke of it. We are in the greatest dread of the object and never talk of it, even amongst ourselves.”
“This fellow, Ambrose, could have scooped up a million dollars’ worth of gemstones in one hand. Any ordinary thief would have taken the gold and jewels first.”
“Perhaps,” said the monk after a moment, “he is not an ordinary thief. Gold, gemstones . . . you speak of earthly treasures.
Passing
treasures. The Agozyen . . .”
“Yes?” Pendergast prompted.
But the old monk simply spread his hands, and returned Pendergast’s gaze with haunted eyes.
3
THE BLACK SHROUD OF NIGHT HAD JUST BEGUN TO LIFT WHEN Pendergast made his way through the ironbound doors of the monastery’s i
Constance Greene watched wordlessly as the FBI agent went through his final preparations. She was dressed in a monastic robe of faded saffron, and, were it not for her fine features and her spill of brown hair, could almost have been mistaken for a monk herself.
“I’m sorry to leave you early, Constance. I have to get on our man’s trail before it gets cold.”
“They really have no idea what it is?”
Pendergast shook his head. “Beyond its shape and its name, none.”
“Darkness . . . ,” she murmured. She glanced at him, her eyes troubled. “How long will you be gone?”
“The difficult part is already done. I know the thief’s name and what he looks like. It’s simply a matter of catching up to him. Retrieving the artifact should be the work of a week, perhaps two at the most. A simple assignment. In two weeks, your studies will be completed and you can rejoin me to finish up our European tour.”
“Be careful, Aloysius.”
Pendergast smiled thinly. “The man may be of questionable moral character, but he does not strike me as a killer. The risk should be minimal. It’s a simple crime, but with one puzzling aspect: why did he take the Agozyen and leave all that treasure? He seems to have no previous interest in things Tibetan. It suggests the Agozyen is something remarkably precious and valuable—or that it is in some way truly extraordinary.”
Constance nodded. “Do you have any instructions for me?”
“Rest. Meditate. Complete your initial course of study.” He paused. “I’m skeptical that no one here knows what the Agozyen is—somebody must have peeked. It’s human nature—even here, among these monks. It would help me greatly to know what it was.”
“I’ll look into it.”
“Excellent. I know I can count on your discretion.” He hesitated, then turned toward her. “Constance, there’s something I need to ask you.”
Seeing his expression, her eyes widened, but when she spoke her voice remained calm. “Yes?”
“You’ve never spoken of your journey to Feversham. At some point you may need to talk about it. When you rejoin me . . . if you’re ready . . .” Again, his voice fell into atypical confusion and indecision.
Constance looked away.
“For weeks now,” he went on, “we haven’t spoken of what happened. But sooner or later—”
She turned on him abruptly.
“No!”
she said fiercely. “No.” She paused a moment, mastering herself. “I want you to promise me something: never mention him or . . . Feversham . . . in my presence again.”
Pendergast remained motionless, looking at her carefully. It appeared that his brother Diogenes’s seduction had affected her even more deeply than he realized. At last, he nodded again, faintly. “I promise.”
Then, withdrawing his hands from hers, he kissed her on both cheeks. Taking hold of the reins, he swung up in the saddle, kicked his horse, passed through the outer gate, and set off down the winding trail.
4
IN A BARREN CELL DEEP IN THE GSALRIG CHONGG MONASTERY, Constance Greene sat in the lotus position, her eyes closed, visualizing the exceedingly complex knotted silk cord that lay on a cushion in front of her. Tsering sat behind her in the dim light, her only awareness of him the low sound of his voice, murmuring in Tibetan. She had been studying the language intensively for nearly eight weeks and had developed a halting fluency, acquiring a modest vocabulary along with some phrases and idioms.
“See the knot in your mind,” came the low, mesmerizing voice of her teacher.
At will, the knot began to materialize, about four feet before her closed eyes, radiating light. That she was sitting on the bare, cold floor of a nitre-encrusted cell receded from her consciousness.
“Make it clear. Make it steady.”
The knot came into focus, sharply, wavering a little or going fuzzy when her attention wavered, but always returning to focus.
“Your mind is a lake in twilight,” the teacher said. “Still, calm, and clear.”
A strange sense of being there and yet not being there enveloped Constance. The knot she had chosen to visualize remained in front of her. It was one of medium complexity, tied over three hundred years ago by a great teacher. It was known by the name of the Double Rose.
“Increase the image of the knot in your mind.”
It was a difficult balance of effort and letting go. If she concentrated too hard on clarity and stability, the image began to break up and other thoughts intruded; if she let go too much, the image faded into the mists of her mind. There was a perfect balancing point; and gradually—very gradually—she found it.
“Now gaze upon the image of the knot you have created in your mind. Observe it from all angles: from above, from the sides.”
The softly glistening coils of silk remained steady in her mind’s eye, bringing her a quiet joy, a mindfulness, that she had never before experienced. And then the voice of her teacher disappeared entirely, and all that was left was the knot itself. Time vanished. Space vanished. Only the knot remained.
“Untie the knot.”
This was the most difficult part, requiring immense concentration—being able to trace the coils of the knot, and then mentally untie it.
Time passed; it could have been ten seconds, or ten hours.
A gentle hand touched her shoulder and her eyes opened. Tsering was standing before her, robe tucked around an arm.
“How long?” she asked in English.
“Five hours.”