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

enough that they obviously haven’t been caught before: if they had been, you’d have had mug shots in your database and your facial recognition scanners would have picked them up.”
    As he listened, Hentoff’s face grew increasingly red. “How in the world would you know something like this?”
    “As you said yourself, Mr.—Hentoff, is it? I’m a
freelancer
.”
    For a long moment, nobody spoke. The two technicians sat as if frozen, not daring to look away from their screens.
    “It’s clear you could use some assistance in this matter, Mr. Hentoff. I’d be happy to provide it.”
    “In exchange for our help with your little problem,” Hentoff said sarcastically.
    “Precisely.”
    There was another strained silence. At last, Hentoff sighed. “Jesus. What exactly is it you want?”
    “I have great faith in Mr. Mayles’s abilities. He has access to all the passenger files. His job is socializing with everyone on board, asking questions, soliciting information. He’s in an excellent position to help. Please don’t worry, Mr. Mayles, about disturbing the passengers—I’m interested in a handful of passengers only. I’d like to know, for example, if any of this handful consigned items to the central safe, if their cabins are on the ‘no entry’ list for housekeeping . . . that sort of thing.” Then he turned to Hentoff. “And I might need your help as well.”
    “With what?”
    “With—let’s see, what is the expression?—greasing the wheels.”
    Hentoff glanced from Pendergast to Mayles.
    “I’ll consider it,” Mayles muttered.
    “For your sakes,” said Pendergast, “I hope you don’t take too long. Down two hundred thousand pounds in five hours—that’s a rather nasty trend.” He rose with a smile and slipped out of the pit without another word.

14

    C ONSTANCE G REENE DRIFTED DOWN THE BROAD THOROUGHFARE of boutiques and upscale shops on Deck 6 known as St. James’s. Although it was past midnight, the
Britannia
showed no signs of settling down for the night: beautifully dressed couples strolled along, gazing at the window displays or chatting in low tones. Large vases of fresh flowers lined the passages, and a string quartet could be heard sawing learnedly over the chatter and laughter. The air smelled of lilac, and lavender, and champagne.
    Constance moved slowly on, passing a wine bar, jeweler, and art gallery, the latter featuring original signed prints by Miró, Klee, and Dalí at astronomical prices. Inside the doorway, an ancient woman in a wheelchair was scolding the young blonde woman pushing her. Something about the young woman gave Constance pause: the girl’s downcast eyes and faraway expression, hinting of some private sorrow, could have been her own.
    Past the arcade of St. James’s, a set of ornate double doors opened onto the Grand Atrium: a vast eight-story space in the heart of the ship. Constance stepped up to the railing, glanced first upward, then down. It was a remarkable vista of terraced balconies and sparkling chandeliers and countless vertical rows of lights and exposed elevators of stained glass and crystal. Below, at the King’s Arms restaurant on Deck 2, knots of people were sitting around red leather banquettes, dining on Dover sole, oysters Rockefeller, and tournedos of beef. Waiters and sommeliers wound their way among them, one setting down a plate brimming with delicacies, another bending solicitously over a diner to better hear his request. Tiers of balconies on Decks 3 and 4 overlooking the Atrium held additional tables. The clatter of silverware, the murmur of conversation, the ebb and flow of music, all drifted up to Constance’s ears.
    It was a hothouse atmosphere of luxury and privilege, a huge floating city-palace, the grandest the world had ever seen. And yet Constance remained utterly unmoved. Indeed, there was something repellent to her in all this desperate pursuit of pleasure. How different was this frantic activity, this coarse