The Wheel of Darkness

half-naive, half-coy posturing of the legs; the almost scandalously sensual face. Look at the way Matthew’s dusty left foot kicks out at us, almost breaking the plane of the painting. No wonder the patron refused it! But if the angel seems effeminate, we only need to glimpse the power, the glory in those magnificent wings, to remind us that we are in the presence of the divine.” He paused a moment. “Do you know, Constance, why—of all the reproductions in this monograph—this one is in black and white?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Because no color photograph of it exists. The painting was destroyed. Yes—this magnificent expression of creative genius was bombed into oblivion during World War II. Now, tell me: if I had to choose between this painting or the lives of a million useless, ignorant, ephemeral people—the humanity you say is so important to me —which do you thinkI’d choose to perish in that conflagration?” He pushed the image toward her.

Constance stared at him in horror. “How can you say such a vile thing? And what gives you the

right

to say it? What makes you so different?”

“My dear Constance! Don’t think for a minute that I believe I’m better than the rest of the horde. I’m as guilty of the fundamental flaws of bestial man as anyone. And one of those flaws is self-interest. I am worth saving because I wish my life to continue—and I’m in a position to do something about it. This is not just the thin end of the wedge anymore: we are sailing toward catastrophe at flank speed. And on a practical level, how could I possibly save this ship? As in any catastrophe, it’s every man for himself.”

“Do you really think you could live with yourself if you abandoned all these people to their fate?”

“Of course I could. And so could you.”

Constance hesitated. “I’m not so sure,” she murmured. Deep down, a part of her found something deeply seductive in his words—and that is what disturbed her most of all.

“These people mean nothing to us. They are like the dead you read about in the newspapers. We will simply leave this floating Gomorrah and return to New York. We shall lose ourselves in intellectual pastimes, philosophy, poetry, discourse: 891 Riverside is exceedingly well furnished as a place of retirement, reflection, and seclusion.” He paused. “And was this not the way of your own first guardian, my distant relation, Enoch Leng? His crimes were far more heinous than our little moment of self-interest. And yet he managed to devote himself to a life of physical comfort and intellectual satisfaction. A long, long life. You know this to be true, Constance: you were there with him, all along.” And he nodded again, as if this were the killing stroke of his argument.

“It’s true. I was there. I was there to see the pangs of conscience slowly eat through his peace of mind like worms through rotten wood. In the end there was so little left of a brilliant man it was almost a blessing when . . .” She could say no more. But her mind was made up now: she knew she could not be persuaded by Pendergast’s nihilistic message. “Aloysius, I don’t care what you say. This is horribly wrong. You’ve always helped others. You’ve devoted your entire career to it.”

“Precisely! And to what advantage? What has it ever profited me other than frustration, regret, alienation, mortification, pain, and reprimand? If I were to leave the FBI, do you think my absence would be mourned? Thanks in part to my own incompetence, my only friend in the Bureau died a most unpleasant death. No, Constance: I haveat last learned a bitter truth. All this time, I’ve been laboring pointlessly—the fruitless labor of Sisyphus—trying to save that which, ultimately, is unsalvageable.” With that he eased himself down again in the leather armchair and picked up his teacup.

Constance looked at him in horror. “This isn’t the Aloysius Pendergast I know. You’ve changed. Ever since you came back from Blackburn’s stateroom, you’ve been acting strangely.”

Pendergast took another sip of tea, sniffed dismissively. “I’ll tell you what happened. The scales finally fell from my eyes.” Carefully, he placed the teacup back on the table and sat forward. “Itshowed me the truth.”

“It?”

“The Agozyen. It’s a truly remarkable object, Constance, a mandala that allows you to see through to thereal truth at the center of the world: the pure, unadulterated truth. A truth so powerful that it would break a weak mind. But for those of us with strong intellects, it is a revelation. Iknow myself now: who I am, and—most importantly—what I want.”

“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.