The Jericho Deception: A Novel (28 page)

He reached into the pocket of the white lab coat he wore. Wolfe had decided that he should assume the mantle of a doctor rather than another priest—an easy role, since that’s what he was. Wolfe had given him an electronic key that allowed access to the elevator and the lower monastery level of the facility, in addition to his room and the server area on the ground floor where the Logos machine was housed. He twirled the plastic card between his fingers. Wolfe had casually mentioned that it wouldn’t grant him access to the
outside of the building—“for your own safety.” He wasn’t quite a prisoner, but he wasn’t free, either.

He glanced behind him at the monk’s room he’d just left, one of the two who had been negatively affected by the Logos. The Arab man he’d just examined had babbled about visions. Even the interpreter, one of Wolfe’s priests, could barely make sense of the ramblings. The man claimed he’d glimpsed hell and was convinced that dragons would consume him. The monk he’d seen prior to him was catatonic. He lay in his bed staring at the ceiling, unresponsive to questions. He reacted to physical stimuli, touch and light, but he refused to engage in conversation. Ethan had examined the men’s files but couldn’t find any prior conditions that would indicate that they were predisposed to psychosis.

What went wrong with my programming?
Their negative reactions had started at the end of their sessions with the Logos. As suspected members of terrorist cells, both men had been treated harshly in their prior captivity, but no more harshly than the other eighteen men.
Could I have missed something in the algorithm?
He and Elijah had been concerned that the protocol might cause an epileptic event.
But visions of hell in an experiment meant to create a mystical experience of the divine?
That possibility had never occurred to them. He wondered whether an individual’s belief system could cause the effect, but in his heart he doubted that a difference in belief would cause such a psychotic break.
The problem’s in my code.
He’d decided to visit some of the other monks to see how the Logos had affected them. Although the CIA secret facility unnerved him, he couldn’t help but feel a bit of anticipation. Wolfe had more experience using his creation than he had.

He stopped in front of the door to the room of a third monk, pulled the man’s file from under his arm, and scanned the bio. Mousa bin Ibrahim Al-Mohammad was a Jordanian doctor who had been detained as a suspected accomplice to a bombing in Dubai. He recalled the bombing; it had decimated one of the largest malls in the Middle East. The file explained that the UAE’s secret police had determined after intense questioning that he was probably innocent, but he’d been so badly tortured that they were reluctant to release him, fearing negative publicity. Wanting to be rid of a problem,
they had turned him over to the Americans “for further debriefing,” happy to wash their hands of what could have become a difficult diplomatic situation with Jordan. Curious about how the well-educated doctor would react to the program, Wolfe had accepted him into Jericho even though he didn’t fit the profile of the other monks, who’d actually been involved in various terrorist cells.

When Ethan had reviewed the files early that morning, the notes from a new priest assigned to Mousa’s case had caught his attention. “Father” Christopher wrote about his frustration with his charge’s progress. The session with the Logos had gone well, but his handler was concerned that the Jordanian hadn’t taken to his Christian indoctrination like the other subjects had. If anything, he’d become an even stronger Muslim, although he appeared to be cooperating with the program.

To understand the effects of the Logos, Ethan knew he needed to explore every anomaly, and Mousa was unlike the other nineteen men in the facility. While the others were illiterate and had been subjected to intense indoctrination in various religious camps as young men, the Jordanian doctor was educated and approached his faith from a different background. Ethan wanted to meet him.

He peered through the one-way glass window. The Jordanian doctor was alone, sitting on the edge of the bed with an open Bible on his lap. Ethan took a breath, knocked, and opened the door.

“Good morning, Brother Mousa.” Wolfe had been clear that the patients should only be referred to as “Brother” followed by their first name. All aspects of communication should reinforce their conditioning. Ethan felt the form of address disrespectful, especially considering that this man was another doctor—a peer—but he played along with the protocol.

Mousa’s eyebrows rose and then his eyes settled on the white lab coat.

“I’m Dr. Ethan Lightman.” He approached the bed with an outstretched hand. “But please call me Ethan.”

“Doctor?” Mousa’s took the hand. His grip was strong. “MD, shrink, or PhD?” He spoke with a touch of a British accent.

Ethan smiled. “All three, actually.”

“Are you here to determine whether I’m fit to return to my wife and children?” His voice held a note of hope.

Ethan was unsuccessful at suppressing the look of surprise that passed over his face. “I just arrived yesterday. Today I’m here to introduce myself and get to know the men.”

“Where did you arrive?”

He caught himself just before the word “Aswan” came from his mouth. Wolfe had prepped him on how to answer. “Here at the monastery. Now”—he sat on the edge of the bed and removed the stethoscope from his neck—“let’s have a look at you.”

Mousa’s eyes narrowed.
He’s not buying it
, Ethan thought. He hoped the Jordanian wouldn’t notice how sweaty his palms were.
I’m a doctor, not a spook
. He tried changing the conversation.

“What’s your specialty?”

“Orthopedics.”

“A couple of my friends from med school are too. While I’m stuck in my lab year-round, they’re taking vacations to the Caribbean.”

Mousa grinned for the first time. “In Jordan, our work doesn’t pay quite the same as it does in the States, but we live comfortably too.”

As he continued the physical exam, they shared stories about their favorite patients and more unusual colleagues. Mousa was the first doctor from a foreign country he’d talked shop with. Their practices weren’t that different, he realized. The more they spoke, the more he felt a kinship to the man who exuded a warmth that he suspected won over his patients.

When he completed the exam, he pulled over the only chair in the room. “Well, physically you seem to be in good health—much better than was the case when you were brought here, I see from reading your chart.”

“The priests have treated me well.”

“How’re you feeling? From a mental standpoint, I mean.”

Mousa glanced at the closed door. A look of uncertainty passed over his face, as if he were contemplating how much to trust him. He lowered his voice. “I appreciate what these men have done for me. They’ve been kind, if somewhat persistent in their religious missionary work. But I don’t fault them for
that. I’ve seen far worse in my own country. I just want to get home to my family.”

Missionary work
. He wondered how to ask him about his experiences with the Logos.

“I’m sure you’ll be heading home soon.” He didn’t know that to be the case, but he didn’t see how or why Wolfe could hold the man much longer, even if the Logos wasn’t as effective on him as it was on most of the others.

“There’s something else, though.” Mousa glanced again around the room as if to confirm they were alone.

“What’s that?”

“Something strange is going on here. I think—”

Before he could finish his thoughts, a knock rang out from the door and then it sprang open.

“Good morning, Mousa. I’ve brought your tea.”

Ethan stood and turned toward the oddly familiar voice behind him. The identity of the man dressed in the priest’s robes took his breath away.

“C
hris?” Ethan took a step backward at the sight of Christian Sligh, his graduate assistant.

“You know Father Christopher?” Mousa asked.

“We first met last year.” Chris’s wide grin never faltered. He carried a tray with a steaming cup of tea into the room. “I heard that the doctor just arrived, and I wanted to stop by and say hi.”

Ethan stared at his student, unsure of which of the many questions racing through his head he should ask first. He sensed that Mousa was studying him.

Chris set the tea on the table by the bed. With his back to Mousa, his student shot a look to him that told him to hold his questions. He’d never seen such authority on his face before. He shifted his weight from one foot to another. He was usually the one giving the instructions.

“If you two are finished with your checkup, do you mind if I borrow Dr. Lightman for a minute?” Chris rested a hand on Ethan’s shoulder.

Mousa glanced between the two of them. He held up the Bible in his lap. “I’ll just get back to my reading. I was engrossed in the story of Job.”

“A favorite of mine, too,” Chris said. “Maybe we can chat about it later this afternoon.”

“I’d enjoy that,” Mousa said with a smile that looked forced.

“What in the hell is going on?” Ethan demanded as soon as the door closed behind them.

“Not here,” Chris said under his breath. He hurried down the hall. Minutes later they sat across from one another at a long oak table, alone in the dining hall.

“I want some answers.” Ethan brought his palm down on the hard surface. The slap echoed through the hall. “You work for Wolfe here at Jericho?”

“Beginning the summer after my sophomore year at Notre Dame, I started an unpaid internship at the CIA. It was a very competitive process to get selected. After all the interviews, the polygraph tests, they still took six months to do a background check. They interviewed my roommates, friends, and professors, trying to dig up dirt like whether I smoked pot and who I’d slept with.” The student grinned, but Ethan didn’t return the smile. “I returned the next two summers, and then the CIA offered to pay for grad school. I could pursue a PhD in psychology in exchange for working my vacations and summers during school, plus five years after I graduate. How could I refuse?”

Wolfe’s use of the Logos in the Monastery fell into place for Ethan. He rocked back in his seat as if he’d been struck in the chest. “So you’re the one who’s been feeding our research—the design of the Logos, the software protocols, everything—to Wolfe?” The loose ends made sense to him now.

“Wolfe rescued the project!” Chris’s voice rose an octave. “Without his financial help, Houston would have shut us down before we could have run the tests on Sister Terri.”

He sensed that his student was trying to rationalize his actions to himself as much as to him.

“How much did Elijah know?” He wondered how far the conspiracy went.

Chris shook his head emphatically. “Wolfe followed Elijah’s research from a distance for years. He pulled some strings to get me into Yale in order to place me with you guys. I was his eyes and ears. Wolfe didn’t approach him directly until we ran out of money a couple months ago.”

“When our original grant expired, I thought they refused to continue funding us because of our lack of results with the Logos, but now—”

“Wolfe made a few calls to that foundation. He knew Elijah wouldn’t accept his help unless he was desperate.”

Then the memory of Chris’s actions immediately after Sister Terri’s test came to him—he’d been texting someone on his phone. Then he’d left New Haven.

“Your father wasn’t really sick?”

“I’m sorry I had to lie to you, but Wolfe required that I fly over the moment we had a successful test so I could supervise the Logos here.”

He leaned across the table. “Do you know that Elijah was murdered?”

“I”—Chris’s brow creased and his voice caught in his throat—“I can’t believe he’s gone. You and Elijah have been mentors to me ever since I arrived. You have to understand—although the CIA is paying my way through grad school, my passion is psychology. I’ve learned so much from you two.” He wiped his reddening eyes with the sleeve of his robe. “Wolfe told me he was killed in a robbery?”

“That’s what the police are saying, but—” Ethan glanced around the room, confirming they were alone, and then explained how he’d found Elijah sitting in the Logos, the cryptic note that had led him to the library, the chase by Wolfe’s goon, and the mysterious transfer of the money into his bank account. Repeating the details for the first time aloud inside the multimillion-dollar secret prison whose success relied on his device raised the hairs on his arms. As much as he didn’t want to believe it, he knew the strange events were not random. He noticed that his student’s brow was scrunched in concern.

Does Chris know more than he’s saying?

As disturbing as it was to find that his student was working for the CIA, he couldn’t believe that he was involved in Elijah’s death. He’d known Chris for over three years, but then, he’d also been lying to him all along.

“No way was Wolfe involved in Elijah’s death. They were friends years ago.”

He studied the pained expression on his student’s face. “Why did you do it? I mean, beyond the funding for your education. You see what’s happening here—the religious indoctrination, the brainwashing—it goes against everything our research is designed to explore.”