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“Brown-haired bitch! May you burn in hell!”
More security guards were called in from a nearby detail and the commodore was subdued with great difficulty. He was finally wrestled off, his thundering voice hurling imprecations down the companionway until at last silence fell.
LeSeur looked at Mason and was surprised to see a flush of poorly concealed triumph on her face. She looked at her watch. “I will note for the log that command of theBrita
“Yes, sir.”
She turned to the navigator. “And now, if you please, reduce speed to twenty-four knots and lay in a course for St. John’s, Newfoundland.”
48
THE DOOR OPENED SOFTLY. CONSTANCE ROSE FROM THE DIVAN with a sharp intake of breath. Pendergast slipped through the door, strolled over to the small bar, pulled down a bottle, and examined the label. He removed the cork with a faint pop, took out a glass, and casually poured himself a sherry. Carrying the bottle and glass with him, he took a seat on the sofa, put the bottle on a side table, and leaned back, examining the color of the sherry in the light.
“Did you find it?” Constance asked.
He nodded, still examining the color of the sherry, and then tossed off the glass. “The storm has intensified,” he said.
Constance glanced toward the glass doors that opened onto the balcony, lashed with flecks of spume. The rain was now so heavy she couldn’t see down to the water; there was only a field of gray, grading to darkness.
“Well?” She tried to control the excitement in her voice. “What was it?”
“An old mandala.” He poured himself a second glass, then raised it toward Constance. “Care to join me?”
“No, thank you. What kind of mandala? Where was it hidden?” His coyness could be maddening.
Pendergast took a long, lingering sip, exhaled. “Our man had hidden it behind a Braque painting. He trimmed down and restretched the painting in order to hide the Agozyen behind it. A lovely Braque, from his early cubist period—utterly spoiled. A shame. He’d hidden it recently, too. He had evidently learned about the maid that went crazy after cleaning his rooms—and perhaps he even knew of my interest. The box was in the safe. Apparently, he felt the safe wasn’t secure enough for the mandala—with good reason, as it turns out. Or perhaps he simply wanted to have it accessible at all times.”
“What did it look like?”
“The mandala? The usual four-sided arrangement of interlocking squares and circles, done in the ancient Kadampa style, astonishingly intricate—but of little interest to anyone beyond a collector or a superstitious group of Tibetan monks. Constance, would you kindly sit down? It is not agreeable to speak to a standing person when one is seated.”
Constance subsided into her seat. “That’s all? Just an old mandala?”
“Are you disappointed?”
“I thought, somehow, that we’d be dealing with something extraordinary. Perhaps even . . .” She hesitated. “I don’t know. Something with almost supernatural power.”
Pendergast issued a dry chuckle. “I fear you took your studies at Gsalrig Chongg a trifle too literally.” He sipped his sherry again.
“Where is it?” she asked. “I left it in situ for the time being. It’s safe with him and we know where it is now. We’ll take it from him at the end of the voyage, at the last minute, when he won’t have time to respond.”
Constance sat back. “Somehow I can’t believe it. Just a thangka painting.”
Pendergast eyed the sherry again. “Our little pro bono assignment is nearly finished. All that remains is the problem of relieving Blackburn of his ill-gotten goods, and as I said, that is trifling. I have already worked out most of the details. I do hope we won’t have to kill him, although I wouldn’t consider it much of a loss.”
“Kill him? Good God, Aloysius, I would certainly hope to avoid that.”
Pendergast raised his eyebrows. “Really? I should have thought you would be accustomed to it by now.”
Constance stared at him, flushing. “What are you talking about?”
Pendergast smiled, dropped his eyes again. “Constance, forgive me; that was insensitive. No, we won’t kill Blackburn. We’ll find another way to take his precious toy.”
There was a long silence as Pendergast sipped his sherry.
“Did you hear the rumor of the mutiny?” said Constance.
Pendergast didn’t seem to hear.
“Marya just informed me of it. Apparently the staff captain has taken command, and now we’re heading to Newfoundland instead of New York. The ship’s in a panic. They’re instituting a curfew, there’s supposed to be an important a
Pendergast set down the empty glass and rose. “I am somewhat fatigued from my labors. I believe I shall take a rest. Would you see to it that upon rising at three o’clock I have a breakfast of eggs Benedict and Hojicha green tea waiting for me, fresh and hot?”
Without another word, he glided up the stairs to his bedroom. A moment later, his door eased shut behind him and the lock turned with a soft click.
49
LESEUR WAS ONE HOUR INTO THE AFTERNOON WATCH, AND HE stood at the integrated bridge workstation, before the giant array of ECDIS chartplotters and vector radar overlays, tracking the progress of the ship as it cut across the Grand Banks on a course for St. John’s. There had been no sea traffic—merely a few large ships riding out the storm—and progress had been rapid.
Since the change of command the bridge had been eerily silent. Captain Mason seemed subdued by the weight of her new responsibilities. She had not left the bridge since relieving Cutter of command, and it struck him that she would probably remain there until the ship came into port. She had raised the state of emergency to ISPS Code Level Two. Then she’d cleared the bridge of all but essential perso
He wondered just how this Article V action was going to play out with Corporate and how it would affect his career. Adversely, no doubt. He consoled himself that he’d had no choice. He had done the right thing and that was what counted. That was the best you could do in life. How others took it was beyond his control.
LeSeur’s experienced eye roved over the big-screen electronics, the Trimble NavTrac and Northstar 941X DGPS, the four different sets of electronic charts, the gyro, radar, speed logs, loran, and depth sounders. The bridge would be hardly recognizable to a naval officer of even ten years before. But on one side, at a navigational table, LeSeur still charted the ship’s course the old-fashioned way, on paper, using a set of fine brass navigation instruments, parallel rulers and dividers given to him by his father. He even occasionally took a sun or star sight to determine position. It was u
He glanced at the speed and course readouts. The ship was on autopilot, as usual, and LeSeur had to admit theBrita