The Wheel of Darkness by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child

glass had been discreetly set into the ceiling over each one, almost invisible among the dazzling crystal chandeliers. The decor was fin de siècle London, all crushed velvet and rich wood and antique brass. In the center of the vast room rose a bizarre sculpture carved out of pale pink ice: Lord Nelson, clad rather perversely in a toga.
    Reaching the casino’s bar, Mayles took a right and stopped before an unmarked door. Pulling a passcard from his pocket, he swiped it through an adjoining reader and the lock popped open. He glanced from left to right, then slipped quickly inside, away from the noise and bustle.
    The room beyond had no overhead lights. Instead, it was illuminated by a hundred small CCTV monitors set into all four walls, each displaying a different perspective of the casino: bird’s-eye views of tables, banks of slot machines, cashiers. This was the “pit” of the Mayfair Casino, where the casino staff vigilantly monitored gamblers, croupiers, dealers, and money handlers alike.
    Two technicians in chairs with rollers studied the displays, their faces spectral in the wash of blue light. Victor Hentoff, the casino manager, stood behind them, also frowning at the monitors. He would spend most of the next six days shuttling between the ship’s casinos, and he had spent so many years staring at screens that his face had acquired a kind of perpetual squint. At the sound of Mayles’s entrance, he turned.
    “Roger,” he said in a gruff voice, holding out his hand.
    Mayles reached into his pocket and pulled out a sealed envelope.
    “Thanks,” Hentoff said. He slit open the envelope with a fat finger and pulled out several sheets. “My God,” he said, flipping through them.
    “Lots of low-hanging fruit,” Mayles said. “Ripe for the picking.”
    “Care to give me an executive summary?”
    “Sure.” Along with everything else Mayles had to do, the casino staff expected him to provide them, discreetly, with a list of potential high rollers—or easy marks—for special cultivation and buttering up. “The Countess of Westleigh is back for another fleecing. Remember what happened on the maiden voyage of the
Oceania
?”
    Hentoff rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe she’d return after that.”
    “She has a weakness for maiden voyages. And baccarat dealers. Then there’s—”
    Suddenly, Hentoff wasn’t looking at Mayles anymore. He was looking over the cruise director’s shoulder. At the same moment, Mayles noticed that the noise level in the room had gone up tremendously. He turned to follow Hentoff’s gaze and with a thrill of dismay saw that his dinner guest, Pendergast, had somehow let himself into the pit and was now closing the door behind him.
    “Ah, Mr. Mayles,” Pendergast said. “Here you are.”
    The feeling of dismay deepened. The cruise director rarely made poor choices for his dining companions, but selecting Pendergast and his “ward” had been a mistake he didn’t intend to repeat.
    Pendergast swept his gaze around the walls of monitors. “Charming view you have in here.”
    “How did you get in?” Hentoff demanded.
    “Just a little parlor trick.” Pendergast gave a dismissive wave.
    “Well, you can’t stay here, sir. This area is off-limits to passengers.”
    “I just have a request or two to make of Mr. Mayles, then I’ll be on my way.”
    The casino manager turned to Mayles. “Roger, you know this passenger?”
    “We dined together. How can I help you, Mr. Pendergast?” Mayles asked, with an ingratiating smile.
    “What I’m about to tell you all is confidential,” Pendergast said.
    Oh no
, Mayles thought, feeling his sensitive nerves tense up. He hoped this wasn’t going to be a continuation of Pendergast’s morbid dinner conversation.
    “I’m not just aboard the
Britannia
to relax and take the air.”
    “Indeed?”
    “I’m here as a favor to a friend. You see, gentlemen, my friend has had something stolen from him—something of great value. That