all been kind to me and my ward,” said Pendergast. “I welcome the opportunity to do something in return—if I can.”
“Thank you. The story I am about to tell you involves revealing some details of a secret nature.”
“You can count on my discretion.”
“First I will tell you a little of myself. I was born in the remote hill country of Lake Manosawar in western Tibet. I was an only child, and my parents were killed in an avalanche before my first birthday. A pair of English naturalists—a husband-and-wife team doing an extensive survey of Manchuria, Nepal, and Tibet—took pity on such a young orphan and informally adopted me. For ten years I stayed with them as they traveled the wilds, observing, sketching, and taking notes. Then one night a roving band of soldiers came upon our tent. They shot both the man and the woman, and burned them with all their possessions. I alone escaped.
“Losing two sets of parents—you can imagine my feelings. My lonely wanderings took me here, to Gsalrig Chongg. In time I took a vow and entered the inner monastery. We devote our lives to extreme mental and physical training. We occupy ourselves with the deepest, the most profound, and the most enigmatic aspects of existence. In your study of Chongg Ran, you have touched upon some of the truths that we plumb to an infinitely greater depth.”
Pendergast inclined his head.
“Here in the inner monastery, we are cut off from all existence. We are not permitted to look upon the outside world, to see the sky, to breathe fresh air. All is focused on turning within. It is a very great sacrifice to make, even for a Tibetan monk, and that is why there are only six of us. We are guarded by the anchorite, not allowed to speak to an outside human being, and I have violated that sacred vow to speak with you now. That alone should help impress upon you the seriousness of the situation.”
“I understand,” Pendergast said.
“We have certain duties here as monks of the inner temple. In addition to being keepers of the monastery’s library, relics, and treasure, we are also the keepers of . . . the Agozyen.”
“The Agozyen?”
“The most important object in the monastery, perhaps in all of Tibet. It is kept in a locked vault, over in that corner.” He pointed to a niche carved in the stone, with a heavy iron door, which was hanging ajar. “All six monks gather here once a year to perform certain rituals of warding over the vault of the Agozyen. When we performed this duty in May, a few days before you arrived, we found the Agozyen was no longer in its place.”
“Stolen?”
The monk nodded. “Who has the key?”
“I do. The only one.”
“And the vault was locked?”
“Yes. Let me assure you, Mr. Pendergast, that it is quite impossible for one of our monks to have committed this crime.”
“Forgive me if I am skeptical of that assertion.”
“Skepticism is good.” He spoke with peculiar force and Pendergast did not reply. “The Agozyen is no longer at the monastery. If it was, we should know.”
“How?”
“That is not to be spoken of. Please believe me, Mr. Pendergast—we
know. None of the monks here have taken the item into their possession.”
“May I take a look?”
The monk nodded.
Pendergast rose and, taking a small flashlight from his pocket, went over to the vault and peered at the round keyhole of the lock. After a moment he examined it with a magnifying glass.
“The lock’s been picked,” he said, straightening up.
“I am sorry. Picked?”
“Coaxed open without the use of a key.” He glanced at the monk. “Forced, actually, by the looks of it. You say none of the monks could have stolen it. Have there been other visitors to the monastery?”
“Yes,” said the monk with a ghost of a smile. “In fact, we know who stole it.”
“Ah,” said Pendergast. “That makes things much simpler. Tell me about it.”
“A young man came to us in early May—a mountaineer. His was a strange arrival. He came from the east— from the mountains on the Nepalese border. He was half dead, a man in mental and physical collapse. He was a professional mountaineer, the lone survivor of an expedition up the unclimbed west face of Dhaulagiri. An avalanche swept all to their deaths save him. He’d been forced to cross and descend the north face, and from there make his way over the Tibetan frontier illegally, through no fault of his own. It took him three weeks of walking and finally crawling down glaciers and valleys to reach us. He survived by eating berry rats, which are quite nourishing if you catch one with a stomach full of berries. He was on the verge of death. We nursed him back to health. He is an American—his name is Jordan Ambrose.”
“Did he study with you?”
“He took little interest in Chongg Ran. It was strange—he certainly had the power of will and activity of mind to succeed, perhaps as much as any westerner we have seen . . . besides the woman, that is. Constance.”
Pendergast nodded. “How do you know it was him?”
The monk did not answer directly. “We would like you to trace him, find the Agozyen, and bring it back to the monastery.”
Pendergast nodded. “This Jordan Ambrose —what did he look like?”
The monk reached into his robes and pulled out a tiny, scrolled parchment. He untied the strings binding it and unrolled it. “Our thangka painter made a likeness of him at my request.”
Pendergast took the scroll and examined it. It showed a young, fit, and handsome man, in his late twenties, with long blond hair and blue eyes, and a look on his face of physical determination, moral casualness, and high intelligence. It was a remarkable likeness that seemed to capture both the outer and inner person.
“This will be very useful,” said Pendergast, tying it up and slipping it into his pocket.
“Do you need any more information to find the Agozyen?” the monk asked.
“Yes. Tell me exactly what the Agozyen is.”
The change that came over the monk was startling. His face grew guarded, almost frightened. “I cannot,” he said in a quavering voice pitched so low it was barely audible.
“It’s unavoidable. If I’m to recover it, I must know what it is.”
“You misunderstand me. I cannot tell you what it is because
”
Pendergast frowned. “How can that be?”
“The Agozyen has been sealed within a wooden box ever since it was received for safekeeping by our monastery a thousand years ago. We never opened it—it was strictly forbidden. It has been passed down, from Rinpoche to Rinpoche, always sealed.”
“What kind of box?”
The monk indicated with his hands the dimensions, about five inches by five inches by four feet.
“That’s an unusual shape. What do you think might have been stored in a box that shape?”
“It could be anything long and thin. A wand or sword. A scroll or rolled-up painting. A set of seals, perhaps, or ropes with sacred knots.”
“What does the name
