The Wheel of Darkness

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors' imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Original poetry on page 59 is from "Proserpine" by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1872. Original Russian poetry on page 83 is from "Poem Without a Hero" by Anna Akhmatova, 1943. Translation by Stanley Kunitz and Max Hayward © 1967-1973.

Copyright © 2007 by Splendide Mendax, Inc. and Lincoln Child

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Preston, Douglas. The wheel of darkness / Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child.—1st ed. p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-0-446-58028-1 (regular edition) ISBN-13: 978-0-446-58141-7 (large print) ISBN-10: 0-446-58028-7 (regular edition) ISBN-10: 0-446-58141-0 (large print) 1. Pendergast, Aloysius (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Government investigators—Fiction. 3. Americans—Himalaya Mountains—Fiction. 4. Archaeological thefts—Fiction. 5. Monks— Fiction. 6.
Britannia
(Ship)—Fiction. 7. Ocean liners—Fiction. I. Child, Lincoln. II. Title. PS3566.R3982W43 2007 813'.54—dc22

2007020551

Book design by Charles Sutherland

Lincoln Child dedicates this book to his daughter, Veronica

Douglas Preston dedicates this book to

Nat and Ravida, Emily, Andrew, and Sarah

Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child would like to express their great appreciation to the following people for their invaluable help: Jaime Levine, Jamie Raab, Eric Simonoff, Eadie Klemm, Evan Boorstyn, Jennifer Romanello, Kurt Rauscher, Claudia Rülke, and Laura Goeller. We also express our thanks to Captain Richard Halluska of ISM Solutions and to Videotel Marine International, UK.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, corporations, locales, events, vessels, and religious practices, rituals, and iconography described in these pages are fictitious or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events, ships, persons, religious establishments, government entities, or corporations is unintentional and coincidental. In particular, North Star Lines, the
Britannia
, and all who serve or sail aboard her are caprices of our imaginations.

T
HE ONLY THINGS MOVING IN THE VASTNESS OF THE
L
LÖLUNG
VALLEY
were two black specks, barely larger than the frost-split boulders that covered the valley floor, inching along a faint track. The valley was a desolate place, devoid of trees; the wind chuckled and whispered among the rocks, the cries of black eagles echoed from the cliffs. The figures, on horseback, were approaching an immense wall of granite, two thousand feet high, from which poured a slow plume of water—the source of the sacred Tsangpo River. The trail disappeared into the mouth of a gorge that split the rock face, reappeared at higher altitude as a cut angled into the sheer wall of rock, and finally topped out on a long ridge before disappearing once again into the jagged peaks and fissures beyond. Framing the scene, and forming a backdrop of stupendous power and majesty, stood the frozen immensity of three Himalayan mountains—Dhaulagiri, Annapurna, and Manaslu—trailing plumes of snow. Beyond them, a sea of stormclouds rose up, the color of iron.

The two figures rode up the valley, cowled against the chill wind. This was the last stage of a long journey, and despite the rising storm they rode at a slow pace, their horses on the verge of exhaustion. As they approached the mouth of the gorge, they crossed a rushing stream once, and then a second time. Slowly, the two entered the gorge and vanished.

Inside the gorge, they continued following the faint trail as it climbed above the roaring stream. Hollows of blue ice lay in the shadows where the rock wall met the boulder-strewn floor. Dark clouds scudded across the sky, pushed before a rising wind that moaned in the upper reaches of the gorge.

The trail changed abruptly at the base of the great rock wall, mounting upward through a steep and terrifying cut. An ancient guard station, built on a projecting tongue of rock, lay in ruins: four broken stone walls supporting nothing more than a row of blackbirds. At the very foot of the cut stood a huge
mani
stone, carved with a Tibetan prayer, rubbed and polished by thousands of hands of those wishing a blessing before attempting the dangerous journey to the top.

At the guard station, the two travelers dismounted. From here they were forced to proceed on foot, leading their horses up the narrow trail as the overhang was too low to admit a rider. In places, landslides had peeled away the sheer rock wall, taking the trail with it; these gaps had been bridged by rough planks and poles drilled into the rock, forming a series of narrow, creaking bridges without railings. Elsewhere, the trail was so steep that the travelers and their mounts were forced to climb steps carved into the rock, made slick and uneven by the passage of countless pilgrims and animals.

The wind shifted now, driving through the gorge with a booming sound, carrying flakes of snow with it. The stormshadow fell into the gorge, plunging it into a gloom as deep as night. Still the two figures pushed up the vertiginous trail, up the icy staircases and rock pitches. As they rose, the roar of the waterfall echoed strangely between the walls of stone, mingling with the rising wind like mysterious voices speaking in an unknown tongue.

When the travelers at last topped the ridge, the wind almost halted them in their tracks, whipping their robes and biting at their exposed skin. They hunched against it and, pulling their reluctant horses forward, continued along the spine of the ridge until they reached the remains of a ruined village. It was a bleak place, the houses thrown down by some ancient cataclysm, their timbers scattered and broken, the mud bricks dissolving back into the earth from which they had been formed.

In the center of the village, a pile of prayer stones rose, topped by a pole from which snapped dozens of tattered prayer flags. To one side lay an ancient cemetery whose retaining wall had collapsed, and now erosion had opened the graves, scattering bones and skulls down a long scree slope. As the two approached, a group of ravens flapped up in noisy protest from the wreckage, their scratchy cries rising toward the leaden clouds.

At the pile of stones, one of the travelers stopped and dismounted, gesturing for the other to wait. He bent down, picked up an old stone, and added it to the pile. Then he paused briefly in silent meditation, the wind lashing at his robes, before retaking the reins of his horse. They continued on.

Beyond the deserted village the trail narrowed sharply along a knife-edge ridge. Struggling against the violence of the wind, the two figures crept along it, arcing around the shoulder of a mountain—and then at last they could just begin to spy the battlements and pinnacles of a vast fortress, standing dully against the dark sky.

This was the monastery known as Gsalrig Chongg, a name that might be translated as “the Jewel of the Awareness of Emptiness.” As the trail continued around the side of the mountain, the monastery came fully into view: massive red-washed walls and buttresses mounting the sides of a barren granite rock, ending in a complex of pinnacled roofs and towers that shone here and there with patches of gold leaf.

The Gsalrig Chongg monastery was one of very few in Tibet to have escaped the ravages of the Chinese invasion, in which soldiers drove out the Dalai Lama, killed thousands of monks, and destroyed countless monasteries and religious structures. Gsalrig Chongg was spared partly because of its extreme remoteness and its proximity to the disputed border with Nepal, but also due to a simple bureaucratic oversight: its very existence had somehow escaped official attention. Even today, maps of the so-called Tibet Autonomous Region do not locate this monastery, and the monks have taken great pains to keep it that way.

The trail passed by a steep scree slope, where a group of vultures picked away at some scattered bones.

“There appears to have been a recent death,” the man murmured, nodding toward the heavy birds, which hopped about, utterly fearless.

“How so?” asked the second traveler.

“When a monk dies, his body is butchered and thrown to the wild animals. It is considered the highest honor, to have your mortal remains nourish and sustain other living things.”

“A peculiar custom.”

“On the contrary, the logic is impeccable.
Our
customs are peculiar.”

The trail ended at a small gate in the massive encircling wall. The gate was open and a Buddhist monk stood there, wrapped in robes of scarlet and saffron, holding a burning torch, as if expecting them.

The two huddled travelers passed through the gate, still leading their horses. A second monk appeared and silently took the reins, leading the animals off to stables within the encircling wall.

The travelers stopped before the first monk, in the gathering darkness. He said nothing, but merely waited.

The first traveler pulled back his cowl—revealing the long, pale face, white-blond hair, marble features, and silvery eyes of Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.