Read Online The Wheel of Darkness by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child - Free Book Online
Authors: Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Americans, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Suspense fiction, Monks, Government investigators, Archaeological Thefts, Pendergast; Aloysius (Fictitious character), Ocean liners, Himalaya Mountains, Americans - Himalaya Mountains, Queen Victoria (Ship)
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possible.”
“Did he tell you his name or pay by credit card?”
“Paid in cash and never said a bleedin’ word the whole way—after telling me where he was going, that is.”
“Where did you take him?”
“Southampton. To the quay.”
“The quay?”
“Right, guv. To the
Britannia
.”
“North Star’s new ocean liner?”
“You got it.”
“Was he a passenger?”
“Think so. He had me drop him off at the customs building, and he had what looked like a ticket in his hand.”
“Could he have been crew?”
Another raspy laugh. “Not bloody likely. It were a two-’undred-pound cab ride.”
“He had no luggage other than the box?”
“No, sir.”
“Was there anything else unusual about him?”
The driver thought for a moment. “He had a strange smell about him.”
“Smell?”
“Like he worked in a tobacconist, like.”
Pendergast paused for a moment, thinking. “Do you know when the
Britannia
is sailing, by any chance?”
“They said it were sailing at noon, with the tide.”
Pendergast handed the mike back to the cabbie and thought for a moment. And in that moment his cell phone rang.
He flipped it open. “Yes?”
“It’s Constance.”
Pendergast sat up, surprised. “Where are you?”
“I’m at the Brussels airport, I’ve just deplaned from a nonstop flight from Hong Kong. Aloysius, I’ve got to see you. I’ve some critical information.”
“Constance, your timing is excellent. Listen to me carefully. If you can get to Heathrow in four hours or less, I’ll pick you up at the airport. Can you do that—four hours, not one minute more? Otherwise I’ll be forced to leave without you.”
“I’ll do my best. But what’s this about leaving? What’s happening?”
“We’re about to set sail.”
9
T HE BLACK L ONDON CAB TORE ALONG THE M3 MOTORWAY AT one hundred and forty kilometers per hour, passing cars and lorries in a blur. In the distance, the squat, cream-colored tower of Winchester Cathedral was visible amidst a tangle of gray urban landscapes.
In the rear seat, Pendergast, sitting next to Constance, glanced at his watch. “We need to be at the Southampton docks in fifteen minutes,” he told the driver.
“Impossible.”
“There’s another fifty pounds in it for you.”
“Money won’t make ’er fly, sir,” the driver said.
Still, the vehicle accelerated even further, tires squealing as the cabbie negotiated the ramp onto the southbound A335. The Winchester suburbs quickly gave way to greenery. Compton, Shawford, and Otterbourne passed by in heartbeats.
“Even if we do make the ship,” Constance said at last, “how are we going to board? I read in
Le Monde
this morning that every stateroom’s been booked for months. They’re calling this the most sought-after maiden voyage since the
Titanic
.”
Pendergast shuddered. “A rather unfortunate comparison. As it happens, I’ve already secured us acceptable accommodations. The Tudor Suite, a duplex at the ship’s stern. It has a third bedroom we’ll be able to use as an office.”
“How did you manage that?”
“The suite had been booked by a Mr. and Mrs. Prothero of Perth, Australia. They were happy to exchange the tickets for an even larger suite on the
Britannia
’s world cruise this coming fall, along with a modest monetary consideration.” Pendergast allowed himself the briefest of smiles.
The cab shot over the M27 interchange, then began to slow as the traffic inbound to Southampton grew heavier. They passed through a dreary industrial zone, then row after row of semidetached brick houses, as they approached the maze of streets in the old town center. They made a left onto Marsh Lane, then an immediate right onto Terminus Terrace, the big vehicle dipping and swerving deftly through the traffic. The sidewalks were thick with people, most of them holding cameras. From ahead came the sound of cheering and shouting.
“Tell me, Constance, what it is you discovered that caused you to
“Did he tell you his name or pay by credit card?”
“Paid in cash and never said a bleedin’ word the whole way—after telling me where he was going, that is.”
“Where did you take him?”
“Southampton. To the quay.”
“The quay?”
“Right, guv. To the
Britannia
.”
“North Star’s new ocean liner?”
“You got it.”
“Was he a passenger?”
“Think so. He had me drop him off at the customs building, and he had what looked like a ticket in his hand.”
“Could he have been crew?”
Another raspy laugh. “Not bloody likely. It were a two-’undred-pound cab ride.”
“He had no luggage other than the box?”
“No, sir.”
“Was there anything else unusual about him?”
The driver thought for a moment. “He had a strange smell about him.”
“Smell?”
“Like he worked in a tobacconist, like.”
Pendergast paused for a moment, thinking. “Do you know when the
Britannia
is sailing, by any chance?”
“They said it were sailing at noon, with the tide.”
Pendergast handed the mike back to the cabbie and thought for a moment. And in that moment his cell phone rang.
He flipped it open. “Yes?”
“It’s Constance.”
Pendergast sat up, surprised. “Where are you?”
“I’m at the Brussels airport, I’ve just deplaned from a nonstop flight from Hong Kong. Aloysius, I’ve got to see you. I’ve some critical information.”
“Constance, your timing is excellent. Listen to me carefully. If you can get to Heathrow in four hours or less, I’ll pick you up at the airport. Can you do that—four hours, not one minute more? Otherwise I’ll be forced to leave without you.”
“I’ll do my best. But what’s this about leaving? What’s happening?”
“We’re about to set sail.”
9
T HE BLACK L ONDON CAB TORE ALONG THE M3 MOTORWAY AT one hundred and forty kilometers per hour, passing cars and lorries in a blur. In the distance, the squat, cream-colored tower of Winchester Cathedral was visible amidst a tangle of gray urban landscapes.
In the rear seat, Pendergast, sitting next to Constance, glanced at his watch. “We need to be at the Southampton docks in fifteen minutes,” he told the driver.
“Impossible.”
“There’s another fifty pounds in it for you.”
“Money won’t make ’er fly, sir,” the driver said.
Still, the vehicle accelerated even further, tires squealing as the cabbie negotiated the ramp onto the southbound A335. The Winchester suburbs quickly gave way to greenery. Compton, Shawford, and Otterbourne passed by in heartbeats.
“Even if we do make the ship,” Constance said at last, “how are we going to board? I read in
Le Monde
this morning that every stateroom’s been booked for months. They’re calling this the most sought-after maiden voyage since the
Titanic
.”
Pendergast shuddered. “A rather unfortunate comparison. As it happens, I’ve already secured us acceptable accommodations. The Tudor Suite, a duplex at the ship’s stern. It has a third bedroom we’ll be able to use as an office.”
“How did you manage that?”
“The suite had been booked by a Mr. and Mrs. Prothero of Perth, Australia. They were happy to exchange the tickets for an even larger suite on the
Britannia
’s world cruise this coming fall, along with a modest monetary consideration.” Pendergast allowed himself the briefest of smiles.
The cab shot over the M27 interchange, then began to slow as the traffic inbound to Southampton grew heavier. They passed through a dreary industrial zone, then row after row of semidetached brick houses, as they approached the maze of streets in the old town center. They made a left onto Marsh Lane, then an immediate right onto Terminus Terrace, the big vehicle dipping and swerving deftly through the traffic. The sidewalks were thick with people, most of them holding cameras. From ahead came the sound of cheering and shouting.
“Tell me, Constance, what it is you discovered that caused you to
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