The Wheel of Darkness by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Page A

object is currently in the possession of a passenger on this ship. It is my intention to retrieve the object and return it to the rightful owner.”
    “Are you a private investigator?” Hentoff asked.
    Pendergast considered this a moment, his pale eyes reflecting the light of the monitors. “You could certainly say that my investigations are private.”
    “So you’re a freelancer,” Hentoff said. The casino manager was unable to keep a note of disdain from his voice. “Sir, once again I must ask you to leave.”
    Pendergast glanced around at the screens, then returned his attention to Mayles. “It’s your job, isn’t it, Mr. Mayles, to know about the individual passengers?”
    “That’s one of my pleasures,” Mayles replied.
    “Excellent. Then you are just the person to provide me with information that can help me track down the thief.”
    “I’m afraid we can’t share passenger information,” Mayles said, his voice edging into winter.
    “But this man could be dangerous. He committed murder to obtain the object.”
    “Then our security staff would handle the matter,” said Hentoff. “I’d be happy to direct you to a security officer who could take down the information and keep it on file.”
    Pendergast shook his head. “Alas, I can’t involve low-level staff in my investigation. Discretion is paramount.”
    “What
is
this object?” Hentoff asked.
    “I’m afraid I can’t be specific. It is an Asian antique of great value.”
    “And how do you know it’s on board ship?”
    In response, Pendergast’s lips merely twitched in what might have been a faint smile.
    “Mr. Pendergast,” Mayles said in the voice he reserved for humoring the most truculent of passengers. “You won’t tell us what you’re looking for. You won’t tell us how you’re sure it’s aboard the
Britannia
. You aren’t here in any official capacity—and in any case we are now in international waters. Our own security staff is the law—U.S. and British law no longer applies. I’m sorry, but we simply can’t sanction your investigation or help you in any way. On the contrary, we will take it seriously amiss if your investigation disturbs any of our guests.” To ease the sting of this refusal, he gave Pendergast his most winning smile. “I’m sure you understand.”
    Pendergast nodded slowly. “I understand.” He gave a little bow, then turned to go. And then, hand on the doorframe, he stopped.
    “I suppose,” he said casually, “you’re aware that a group of card counters is active on your floor?” And he nodded his head vaguely toward a cluster of screens.
    Mayles glanced over, but he wasn’t trained in pit observation and all he saw were swarms of men and women at the blackjack tables.
    “What are you talking about?” Hentoff asked sharply.
    “Card counters. Highly professional and well organized, too, based on how successful they’ve been at not drawing, ah,
heat
.”
    “What rot,” Hentoff said. “We’ve seen nothing of the sort. What is this, some kind of game?”
    “It’s not a game to them,” Pendergast said. “At least, not in the sense you’d like it to be.”
    For a moment, Pendergast and the casino manager looked at each other. Then, with a hiss of irritation, Hentoff turned to one of his technicians. “What’s the running take?”
    The technician picked up the phone, made a quick call. Then he glanced up at Hentoff. “Mayfair’s down two hundred thousand pounds, sir.”
    “Where—across the board?”
    “At the blackjack tables, sir.”
    Quickly, Hentoff looked back at the screens and stared for a moment. Then he turned back to Pendergast. “Which ones are they?”
    Pendergast smiled. “Ah! I’m afraid they’ve just left.”
    “How convenient. And just how, exactly, were they counting cards?”
    “They appeared to be running a variant of the ‘Red-7’ or the ‘K-O.’ It’s hard to be certain, given that I wasn’t really studying the screens. And their cover is good