The Breath of God (51 page)

While his boss might have been a visionary thinker, Jennings made things happen. Without him, the church that Brady had envisioned would never have existed. Without him, Brady's bid to lead the NAE would be nothing more than a dream. As head of the NAE, Brady would be the voice that would lead the people out of the darkness and into the light. He had that gift. But Jennings would be right behind him, running the finely oiled machine of salvation. They were so close too: construction of the New Hope Community was under way, Brady's book was a best seller, and Brady had no challengers for the upcoming election.

But now their futures were on the verge of unraveling. The bank was threatening to freeze their loan and stop construction. The cost overruns from Brady's extravagant tastes combined with the slow economy had wrecked the
pro forma projections that Jennings had presented to the bankers when they'd initially approved the loan. And then there was the matter of the Issa texts.

When they'd first appeared, Jennings had turned the destructive potential that they would have on Brady's book and the faith of millions into a PR gold mine. Just as he'd been the one to encourage Brady to write a book, even securing the ghostwriter for him, Jennings had orchestrated the spectacle at Emory. The debate, the press, the humiliation of Grant Matthews had been his doing—all to wonderful results. But that strategy also depended on the real texts' never seeing the light of day.

When Tim Huntley had offered his services, Jennings had seized on what seemed to be the perfect solution to that problem. Tim was a professional, but he was also a believer. The initial misgivings Jennings had about the mental stability of the parishioner who sent weekly emails filled with all sorts of conspiracy nonsense were outweighed by the man's commitment to the cause and his military training. Jennings knew that God had provided them with a tool that they were meant to use.

What exactly Tim was doing overseas to obtain the texts, Jennings didn't want to know. War could be a messy business, especially when fighting for God. The plagues visited on Egypt, the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, the violence predicted in Revelation—each revealed that God recognized that force was needed to overcome evil. Jennings understood that they were in a critical time. The End Times were nearing. These heretical texts about Jesus were just another piece in the puzzle.

But now everything Jennings had worked for was in jeopardy. When Tim had called three days ago requesting a private jet to take him to the location of the texts, Jennings had originally resisted. Not only was the cost outrageous, but it would also tie the church directly to whatever the violent man did. Jennings had been careful to provide Tim only with cash that couldn't be traced back to the church. But at that point he was too far in, and Tim's insistence that he would beat Grant to the texts finally won him over.

As he continued pacing by his desk, Jennings wished that he'd listened to his initial reservations. Thirty minutes earlier, he'd received a call from the nervous pilot of the plane he'd chartered. Tim was three hours late for their
six AM departure time, and the tower had radioed the pilot asking if he would come into the terminal. The police were on their way and wanted to speak to him about his passenger. Something had gone terribly wrong. Jennings asked the pilot if he could take off right then. Not wanting to get involved in a controversy in a Third World country, the pilot readily agreed.

Now Jennings had to cover his tracks. Tim would be on his own in dealing with whatever trouble he'd caused. Fortunately Jennings knew better than to charter a plane with the company that operated the fractional jet ownership program the church used. He'd turned instead to a charter service in Dubai that had grown rapidly during the boom times and were desperate for business in the slow economy. They wouldn't ask questions as long as they received the wire for forty-five thousand dollars. He'd used funds from a Panamanian trust he'd formed ten years earlier to help certain wealthy patrons of New Hope who had moved their assets offshore. These supporters could donate money to the Panamanian trust without the greedy minions of the U.S. government ever knowing that their money was offshore. Jennings would then periodically wire “contributions” from the trust to the church.

Now that he'd destroyed the copies of the faxes from the charter company confirming the deal, he had to focus on the next threat.
What am I going to do about the texts now?

G
RANT LISTENED TO THE gurgling jade current splash over the small rapids of the Paro Chhu. Lining the riverbank, thirty monks stood in silence. Their crimson robes fluttered in the breeze as they waited to witness the ashes dissolve in the cold water. Jigme stood on the end. He held a black plastic bag—the type the women used to bring a month's supply of rice from the market. The bag held Kinley's ashes. In some cultures the ashes would be stored in an ornate box or decorative vase, but Grant knew that the monks viewed using a fancy container for ashes to be dumped into the water a waste. Another monk beside Jigme held a similar bag.

A tsunami of thoughts whipped through Grant. He and Kristin balanced themselves on the smooth rocks of the riverbank behind Jigme. If not for a simple accident that had cast him into the cold Himalayan water just a few hours from here, he would be hunched over his dissertation in Atlanta. The sun on this day shone as clear as it did on that day two months ago, but it hung lower in the sky, just above the mountain peaks that defined the green valley. The wind sweeping along the river had a bite, reminding him that winter was close by. Just as he'd lost Dasho, his kayaking guide, to the river, they were here to say good-bye to Kinley and the other monk murdered at Tiger's Nest.

The sound of tires crunching on gravel caused the monks to swivel their heads. Three silver Toyota Land Cruisers stopped on the grass shoulder. A murmur spread along the riverbank. First, three red-robed monks exited from the back seat of the lead car. Second, three orange-robed monks emerged from
the last car—senior monks, as Kinley had been. One of the seniors looked particularly displeased—Lama Dorji, the conservative monk from the Punakha Dzong who feared the dangers of Western influence in the monastery. Grant reluctantly admitted to himself: the monk had been right.

The murmur grew louder when the doors to the middle car opened. A civilian dressed in the traditional plaid Bhutanese
gho
exited the driver's seat and then assisted from the rear of the vehicle a monk who appeared to be in his midseventies. Tall and thin, the monk held his posture erect but relaxed. The chestnut eyes set in the weathered face were sharp and alive as they surveyed the assembled group. He was dressed in saffron robes.

The Je Khenpo.

Only the king and the Je Khenpo, who was head of the country's monk body—the
dratshang
—wore yellow. With help from the civilian, the Je Khenpo descended the bank to the river's edge. The entire gathering of monks, including Lama Dorji and the other orange-robed seniors, bowed to him. The Je Khenpo spoke for some time to the gathered monks, who drank in every word he uttered. When he finished speaking, a melancholy chant rose from the group. Jigme and the monk beside him took turns emptying the bags of ashes into the flowing waters.

A cloud of gray dust billowed from Jigme's bag. Grant watched the fine particles cling to the surface of the water, riding the ripples over the small rapids.

Just when he was so close to true understanding, his teacher had been snatched away. Over the past day he'd been contemplating everything he'd learned from Kinley. The monk had wanted him to experience the messages contained in the Issa texts firsthand, just as Issa had done. Grant worried that he'd failed his teacher. Issa had traveled to the east; he had studied Hindu and Buddhist doctrine; he had struggled with his own teachers; he had taught the lessons he learned to the disenfranchised; he had had a spiritual awakening to the presence of God within himself and the world around him—an awakening that transcended any particular religious doctrine. But something was missing for Grant.

Now that he was in possession of the texts he'd worked so hard to obtain, he was surprised that he experienced a feeling he wasn't expecting: incompleteness.
Even if he was successful in persuading the authorities to let him take the texts out of the country, Grant feared that he wasn't ready yet to assume the role of teacher. Recovering the texts was supposed to solve his problems: his dissertation, his reputation, his future, and the legacy of his past, but he felt only emptiness.

Grant glanced at the now empty plastic bag that had held Kinley's ashes. He thought of the emptiness in his own heart. He cast his eyes upward to the heavens. Not even a cloud.

Then he heard the familiar voice. It came from inside. Kinley's voice. The voice chastised Grant for looking to the sky for his answers. It chastised him for looking to the bag as well. Both revealed nothing but emptiness. The voice reminded him that the answers he sought were within, if only he would look deeply. Although the lesson was familiar to him, at this moment, the words in his mind suddenly became clear.

He was grasping. Grasping for the answers. The river water playing over the smooth pebbles reminded him of one of Kinley's earliest lessons. By looking deeply, he could understand the nature of water, but only by tasting it could he truly experience it.

He exhaled fully and closed his eyes. His teacher's voice faded and was replaced by the mournful cry of the chanting monks. Grant stood still for many minutes. He wasn't aware of the passage of time, only the sensations of his gentle heartbeat, his soft breath, and the chant that vibrated to his bones.

After the ceremony ended, the Je Khenpo walked directly toward Grant and Kristin. Jigme kneeled and touched his forehead to the ground in front of his leader, while Grant and Kristin bowed deeply. Grant lifted his head when he felt the old man's hand on his shoulder.

Bhutan's religious leader spoke in a deep baritone. “So you are Grant Matthews and Kristin Misaki.”

Grant was unsure of the proper protocol when addressing the most senior monk. Should he keep his eyes averted? Kristin replied in a quiet voice beside him, “Yes, we are, sir.”

“Please, call me Ummon. That was the name Kinley used many years ago, when he was my student.” He gestured to the yellow robes on his body. “Before all this.” Grant glanced down the line of monks now all staring at them. In the middle was the small boy, another Ummon, who'd brought him food when he was incapacitated in Punakha and who'd alerted them to the tragedy at Tiger's Nest.

“Kinley spoke to me of his fondness for both of you.” The Je Khenpo spoke English with a British accent as Kinley had, and Grant was surprised by his warm, casual tone.

“You were Kinley's mentor?” Kristin asked.

“So full of energy and ideas that boy was.” The Je Khenpo chuckled. “Quite a handful for his teachers. Constantly questioning, challenging them. It was I who thought a few years of regular school outside the confines of the monastery would suit young Kinley better in the long run. When he was one of only two students in the country to apply for a scholarship at Oxford, he asked me to write his recommendation. I always believed he would return one day to life as a monk.”

Although Grant had a hard time picturing Kinley as a young student, the image of his friend as a rebel suited him just fine. “I'm so sorry, sir, I mean, Ummon.” The words stumbled out of Grant. “Tiger's Nest. We didn't mean to ...” How did he apologize to the country's religious leader for the death and destruction that had followed them to Bhutan's most sacred site?

The Je Khenpo placed a comforting hand on each of their shoulders. “Evil exists in the world, as does good. From what I have heard, the two of you put your own lives in danger, both physically and professionally, in order to pursue what is right. All you can hope to do is to put forward the right effort with the right intentions. The results will fall where they will.”

“Jigme is the one who should be commended. He saved our lives,” Grant said.

“So I heard.” The Je Khenpo shot a reproving look at Jigme, who bowed deeply again. “A shame that monks are forbidden from competing in our national sport.”

“I know that nonviolence is one of the key precepts of Buddhism,” Grant hastily added, “but without his actions, Kristin wouldn't be with us today.”

Kristin cast her eyes to the ground. Grant guessed her thoughts. While Jigme had shot Tim Huntley with the arrow, she'd been the one who actually killed him. He'd assured her that stabbing Tim had been necessary, that she'd saved both of them from being engulfed in flames, but he knew that she was still disturbed.