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“Don’t you remember what the monks said? The Agozyen is evil, a dark instrument of vengeance, whose purpose is to cleanse the world.”
“Yes. A somewhat ambiguous choice of words, isn’t it? Cleanse the world. I, of course, will not put it to such purpose. Rather, I will install it in the library of our Riverside Drive mansion, where I can spend a lifetime contemplating its wonders.” Pendergast sat back and picked up his teacup again. “The Agozyen will thus accompany me into the flotation device. As will you—assumingyou find my plan to be a palatable one.”
Constance swallowed. She did not reply.
“Time is growing short. The time has come for you to make your decision, Constance—are you with me . . . or against me?”
And as he took another sip, his pale cat’s eyes regarded her calmly over the rim of the teacup.
59
LESEUR HAD DECIDED THAT THE BEST WAY WAS TO GO ALONE.
Now he paused before the plain metal door to Commodore Cutter’s quarters, trying to calm his facial muscles and regulate his breathing. Once he felt as composed as possible, he stepped forward and knocked softly, two quick taps.
The door opened so quickly that LeSeur almost jumped. He was even more startled to see the commodore in civilian dress, wearing a gray suit and tie. The ex-master stood in the doorway, his cold stare affixed somewhere above and between LeSeur’s eyes, his small body projecting a granitelike solidity.
“Commodore Cutter,” LeSeur began, “I’ve come in my authority as acting captain of the ship to . . . ask for your assistance.”
Cutter continued to stare, the pressure of his gaze like a finger pushing on the middle of LeSeur’s forehead.
“May I come in?”
“If you wish.” Cutter stepped back. The quarters, which LeSeur had not seen before, were predictably spartan—functional, neat, and impersonal. There were no family pictures, no naval or nautical knick-knacks, none of the masculine accessories you normally saw in a captain’s quarters such as a cigar humidor, bar, or red leather armchairs.
Cutter did not invite LeSeur to sit down and remained standing himself.
“Commodore,” LeSeur began again slowly, “how much do you know about the situation the ship is in now?”
“I know only what I’ve heard on the PA,” said Cutter. “Nobody has visited me. Nobody has bothered to speak to me.”
“Then you don’t know that Captain Mason seized the bridge, took over the ship, increased speed to flank, and is intent on driving the
Brita
onto the Carrion Rocks?”
A beat, and he mouthed the answer.
No.
“We can’t figure out how to stop her. She locked down the bridge with a Code Three. We strike the rocks in just over an hour.”
At this, Cutter took a slight step backward, wavered on his feet, then steadied. His face lost a little of its color. He said nothing.
LeSeur quickly explained the details. Cutter listened without interruption, face impassive. “Commodore,” LeSeur concluded, “only you and the staff captain know the cipher sequence for shutting down a Code Three alert. Even if we managed to get on the bridge and take Mason into custody, we would still have to stand down from Code Three before we could gain control of the ship’s autopilot. You know those codes. Nobody else does.”
A silence. And then Cutter said, “The company has the codes.”
LeSeur grimaced. “They claim to be looking for them. Frankly, Corporate is in utter disarray over this situation. Nobody seems to know where they are, and everybody is pointing fingers at everyone else.”
The flush returned to the captain’s face. LeSeur wondered what it was. Fear for the ship? Anger at Mason?
“Sir, it isn’t just a question of the code. You know the ship better than anyone else. We’ve got a crisis on our hands and four thousand lives hang in the balance. We’ve only got seventy minutes until we hit Carrion Rocks. Weneed you.”
“Mr. LeSeur, are you asking me to resume command of this ship?” came the quiet question.
“If that’s what it takes, yes.”
“Say it.” “I’m asking you, Commodore Cutter, to resume command of the
Brita
.”
The captain’s dark eyes glittered. When he spoke again, his voice was low and resonating with emotion. “Mr. LeSeur, you and the deck officers are mutineers. You are the vilest kind of human being to be found on the high seas. Some actions are so heinous they can’t be reversed. You mutinied and turned my command over to a psychopath. You and all your backstabbing, toadying, co
The flush on Cutter’s face deepened still further, and LeSeur suddenly understood that it was not the result of anger, hatred, or apprehension. No—it was a flush of triumph: the sick triumph of vindication.
60
DRESSED IN THE SAFFRON ROBES OF A TIBETAN BUDDHIST MONK, Scott Blackburn drew the curtains across the sliding glass doors of his balcony, shutting out the grayness of the storm. Hundreds of butter candles filled the salon with a trembling yellow light, while two brass censers scented the air with the exquisite fragrance of sandalwood and kewra flower.
On a side table, a phone was ringing insistently. He eyed it with a frown, then walked over and picked it up.
“What is it?” he said shortly.
“Scotty?” came the high, breathless voice. “It’s me, Jason. We’ve been trying to reach your for hours! Look, everyone’s going crazy, we need to get ourselves to—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Blackburn said. “If you call me again, I’ll rip your throat out and flush it down the toilet.” And he gently replaced the receiver in its cradle.
His senses had never felt so keen, so alert, so focused. Beyond the doors of his suite he could hear shouting and cursing, pounding feet, screams, the deep boom of the sea. Whatever was happening, it did not concern him, and it could not touch him in his locked stateroom. Here he was safe—with the Agozyen.
As he went through his preparations, he thought about the strange trajectory of the last several days, and how his life had transcendentally changed. The call out of nowhere about the painting; seeing it for the first time in the hotel room; liberating it from its callow and undeserving owner; bringing it aboard ship. And then, that very same day, ru
It was only then he realized what he should have realized before: he had to be transcendentally careful to safeguard his prize. All who saw it would desire to possess it. Because the Agozyen, this incredible mandala-universe, had a unique power over the human mind. A power that could beliberated . And he, above all others, was in the perfect position to liberate it. He had the capital, the savvy, and—above all—thetechnology. With his graphical push technology he could deliver the image, in all its exquisite detail, to the entire world, at great profit and power to himself. With his unlimited access to capital and talent, he could unlock the image’s secrets and learn how it wrought its amazing effects on the human mind and body, and apply that information to the creation of other images. Everyone on the earth—at least, everyone who mattered even in the least degree—would be changed utterly. He would own the original; he would control how its likeness would be disseminated. The world would be a new place:his place.