The Breath of God (30 page)

“But Jigme, I'm really short on time here. In eleven days I'm supposed to go in front of a disciplinary committee at school that thinks I made this stuff up.” Grant stopped himself from going any further. He imagined that Kristin had heard him complain enough about his reputation by this point.

“Do you remember Kinley's words to you in the library?”

Grant recalled Kinley's analogy of climbing the steps, but he wondered how Jigme knew since he had waited outside, distracting the guard.
Each step must be used and then left behind to reach the top
. But what relevance was that now? He had climbed more than his fair share of steps, and he needed to reach the top.

The young monk continued, “When you are ready, you will find what you are searching for.”

“Ready?” Grant sputtered. He cut off his next comment when he felt Kristin squeeze his arm.

“You'll be coming to Sarnath with us?” she asked.

Jigme shook his head. “You won't need me. Only the two of you can complete this journey.”

Tim watched Matthews and Misaki exit the monument. The monk remained inside. He looked to the side of the building and didn't see the Muslim either.

Matthews and Misaki crossed the plaza and descended the steps. Indecision struck Tim. He hated to lose track of those two, but he could always locate them again via Matthews's cell phone. He made a split-second decision. Flexibility in the midst of an operation was the hallmark of a good combatant, he knew. He was tiring of the cat-and-mouse game. He suspected that Matthews
and Misaki would be heading for the texts soon. Tim would extract the same information from the monk and then beat them there.

After a full two minutes passed, the monk still hadn't appeared. Growing suspicious, Tim stood and strode toward the entrance of the Taj. The monk emerged from the darkness. Tim slowed, reaching into his right pocket. He grasped the EpiPen in his fingers. He was at most twenty meters from the monk. A quick glance around the near-empty plaza confirmed that neither the guards nor the Muslim were in sight. The few other tourists were widely scattered.

As the monk approached, Tim stopped and pretended to admire the pointed dome on top of the building. His thumb flicked off the cap of the EpiPen into his pocket. He withdrew it in a clenched fist. The young monk walked with an erect but relaxed posture, his hands clasped behind his back. When the monk passed within ten feet of him, Tim fought the urge to strike. They were bathed in floodlights on the exposed plaza. He turned and followed his target to the stairway.

After the monk descended several steps, Tim, a few paces behind, took a final survey of the landscape. No one in sight, and the stairway itself was satisfactorily hidden in shadow.

“Excuse me, sir. Do you speak English?” Tim called.

The monk turned. “Yes, may I be of some assistance to you?”

“I hope so. I got separated from my tour group. We're supposed to meet up in front of the guest house.”

He moved to the step immediately above the monk.

“Of course, my friend, I will take you there now. It is on the opposite side of the Taj Mahal from the mosque.”

The monk turned and started down the steps.

“Thank you. Are you from around here?”

They were near the bottom of the stairwell, shielded from view of either plaza.

“No, I'm from a small country between India and China called Bhutan.”

Tim struck with the speed and determination of an anaconda capturing a hare. His left hand darted out and around the monk's bald head, covering his mouth and jerking him backward at the same time. The monk lost his balance
on the narrow step and fell into Tim, who braced himself against the stone wall of the stairwell. In a swift sweeping motion, Tim jabbed the EpiPen clenched in his right fist into his target's thigh. He felt a slight click as the spring-loaded needle pierced the monk's jeans, instantly injecting the Versed into his victim.

Only after Tim replaced the spent EpiPen in his pocket did the monk overcome the initial shock of the attack and begin to struggle. But Tim had the advantage. With his right hand free, he snaked it around the monk's torso and grasped him tightly. His prey shook and wriggled in his arms but had no leverage. Less than a minute passed before the flailing legs and muffled cries subsided.

When the monk became more of a heavy weight than a trapped animal in his arms, Tim relaxed his grip. The monk struggled no more.

“Can you hear me, Kinley?” Tim slipped from behind his victim, allowing the body to slump to the steps.

An unintelligible groan emerged from his lips, in addition to a long string of drool. Tim squatted in front of his subdued prey, lifting the head, which lolled side to side. The eyes were open, but no one was home. Tim glanced at his watch. They needed to move quickly. It was only a matter of time before someone else decided to walk down the stairwell.

As if on cue, Tim's luck changed.

A voice from behind him called out, “Jigme!”

Tim turned his head. The Muslim stood at the top of the steps.

W
ILLIAM JENNINGS SHRUGGED off his suit jacket while cradling the telephone on his shoulder. “Yes, I understand these last few years have been very difficult for you,” he said.

“The entire country has turned against the evangelical movement!” Reverend Jimmy Jeffries, current president of the NAE, exclaimed on the other end of the line.

As Jennings listened to Jeffries rant about how no one appreciated the challenges he faced running the organization, Jennings hung his jacket on a wooden hanger and then placed the hanger on the back of his office door. Walking to his chair, he was careful not to let the extralong phone cord disturb the neat stacks of documents organized on the leather surface of his desk. What he really needed, he thought as Jeffries babbled on the other end of the line, was one of those cordless headsets.

“Your man seems to be doing well these days,” Jeffries said, “in spite of the rumors of the financial difficulties at your New Hope development.”

How transparent,
Jennings thought. Jeffries was obviously fishing for details about his boss's campaign to unseat him from his position. “A minor hiccup we've moved past. The bank loans are being finalized as we speak, and the book sales are beyond our expectations. The country seems to be responding to Brian's warnings: the economy, the natural disasters, the terrorist incidents are all evidence of God's displeasure with our direction.”

“The timing of that spectacle of a debate last week must have helped.”

Jennings thought he detected a note of resentment in Jeffries's tone. The release of the texts followed by the debate had been a publicity coup. Brady's press appearances had dwarfed Jeffries's that week. Jennings was particularly pleased with the upcoming issue of
Christianity Today
with Brady on its cover under the headline THE NEW VOICE OF EVANGELICALS. With all the media attention, sales of Brady's book had jumped 63 percent. The timing couldn't have worked out better for them. Jennings thought about how Brady had almost blown the debate when he'd veered from his script. Fortunately, he recovered and concluded it as Jennings had planned. The mainstream press had lampooned the student in the days that followed while the Christian media had hailed Brady as a hero.

“Brian just responded naturally to the situation,” Jennings replied.

“What will you do if that Grant Matthews character actually produces some ancient manuscripts?”

Jennings opened his desk drawer and removed a box of antacid pills. He popped two of the tiny pills into his mouth and downed them with a swig of lukewarm black coffee.

“Won't happen,” Jennings said more confidently than he felt. He wiped his palms on his trousers. “The texts are just as fake as Grant Matthews is.”

“Yes, of course. The whole idea of Jesus becoming inspired through his studies of false religions is preposterous.”

As Jeffries continued to ramble on, Jennings began to scroll through his email. The important update he was waiting for hadn't arrived yet. Nothing bothered Jennings more than dealing with incompetence, except maybe stupidity. Although he was only half listening to Jeffries, the NAE president's next words caught him by surprise.

“William, I plan to announce next month that I'm retiring from my position as head of the NAE.”

Jennings almost dropped the phone. In all his strategic planning, this was one contingency he hadn't dreamed of. With Jeffries out of the way, Brady would be a shoo-in.

“And,” the subdued voice on the other end of the line continued, “if everything is still moving in the right direction over at New Hope, I'd like to offer my support to Brian's campaign.”

After they discussed the details of how such an endorsement would work and exchanged pleasantries, Jennings hung up the phone, still in shock from Jeffries's offer. He had begun to scribble notes on a white legal pad when the door to his office flew open. Brady stood there, his face glowing red and the armpits of his tailored French-cuffed shirt soaked through with sweat.

“William, explain this phone call I just received!”

S
TARING AT THE MUSLIM, Tim felt his mind racing. He now faced two new problems. First, the Muslim would have to be dealt with. Second, the monk in his arms was named Jigme, not Kinley.

The man ran down the steps. “What happened?”

“Uh, I don't ... I don't know,” Tim stuttered. “I saw this young man lying here. He must have tripped and hit his head. Can you help me?”

The Muslim bent over the monk, who stared vacantly. “Jigme, can you hear me?” he asked loudly. An incoherent moan escaped the monk's lips.

“Is he a friend of yours?” Tim asked. His hand slipped into his left pants pocket, which still contained three full EpiPens—the ones he'd marked with red stripes.

“I only met him recently,” the Muslim said. He leaned close to the monk's head and felt for injury. “He's a monk from Bhutan. I met his teacher earlier. Will you find one of the monument guards while I stay with him?”

“Sure.” Tim made his best attempt at looking concerned.

When the Muslim turned to tend to his friend, Tim struck.

Using his entire body weight, he fell on top of the Muslim, pushing him to the steps. Before his victim could react, Tim grabbed his head with one hand and jerked it backward, exposing the man's neck, just as if he were going to slice his throat with a Ka-Bar knife. Without hesitating, he rammed the EpiPen into the exposed bulging vein, injecting the entire dose of hydrocyanic acid.

The man thrashed underneath him. An elbow caught Tim in the ribs, momentarily taking his breath away, but he held on to his target with both hands, pushing the man's face into the marble. The Muslim was larger than the monk and almost succeeded in throwing Tim off him, but Tim spread his legs to distribute his weight. He knew the Muslim fought a losing battle.

Twenty seconds later, the man's breathing became more rapid and shallower, as if he were hyperventilating from the effort of the struggle. Tim knew that it wasn't the effort affecting his breathing. Another twenty seconds later, the Muslim went into convulsions. His limbs flailed about like a fish pulled from the water and tossed onto a hot dock in the summer sun. Finally, the poison completed its journey to the man's heart.

Tim rose and brushed off his clothes. Flushed, his breath came in short bursts. He replaced the plastic cap to the EpiPen and returned it to his pocket. He surveyed his handiwork: the Muslim lay next to the semiconscious monk. A red welt had formed on the man's neck, and a white froth bubbled from his mouth. Tim would be gone before anyone suspected foul play.

Standing over the two bodies, Tim realized that for the first time in months his skin didn't itch. In fact, it felt silky. Then the reverend's words came to him: “Aliens as well as citizens, when they blaspheme the Name, shall be put to death.”

Grasping the monk's right arm, Tim tossed it around his neck.
Jigme
, he thought,
not Kinley
. But the Muslim mentioned a teacher. He would just have to extract the information from the student.

“Walk with me now,” he said, as he half carried his “drunk friend” onto the lower sandstone plaza.