Blasphemy

by Douglas Preston

  He was just about out of time.

  A hard shove and the window sash gave. A split second later the intruder made his rush. Ford dived headlong through the window, ripping through the plastic screen just as two rapid shots from a silenced small-caliber handgun shattered the window above him. He rolled on the ground, glass showering around him.

  In a flash he was up and running, zigzagging through the shadows under the cottonwoods. At the far end of the trees he sprinted across open ground, heading up the valley. The moon was so bright that he could see his shadow running beside him.

  The dull whine of low-muzzle-velocity rounds passed his ears. It had to be Wardlaw—nobody else would have a silencer or shoot like that.

  Ford sprinted toward the dark shape of Nakai Rock, swung left behind the rock, and ran up the trail toward the top of the low bluffs. The waspy hum of another round passed to his left. He made a quick jog off the trail and scrambled up through tumbled boulders toward the rim, keeping to cover. A few moments later he came out on top, his legs burning from the effort, and paused to look back. Two hundred yards below he glimpsed a dark figure darting up through the rocks after him.

  Ford sprinted along a low spine of slickrock. It was devoid of vegetation and offered no cover—but at least it wouldn’t record his footprints. Ahead he could make out several small gullies that zigzagged toward the far edge of the mesa. In a moment he had reached the first. He leapt and ran down the dry wash at the bottom until it angled sharply as it approached the mesa edge. He flattened himself behind a fin of rock and looked behind. His pursuer had halted at the rim and was examining the sandy ground with his flashlight.

  It was unmistakably Wardlaw.

  The SIO rose and played the beam about the arroyo, clambered down, and began moving in his direction, gun at the ready.

  Ford scrambled up the hidden side, keeping out of sight. As he topped the ravine, briefly showing himself, two more shots followed in quick succession, one kicking off a spray of chips from a nearby rock.

  Ford ran across an open expanse of sand, hoping to reach the far side before the SIO reached the top of the canyon. He sprinted over the sandy flat so hard, it felt as if someone were knifing his lungs. Toward the far end he angled toward a scabland of naked, hollowed-out bedrock. It was absurdly open, but beyond lay a crazy mass of hoodoo rocks that would provide cover and a possible means of escape. He jumped off the last dune and ran into the scabland, momentarily obscured from Wardlaw’s view.

  He suddenly saw his chance, and changed his idea. Halfway across the scabland was a hollow in the bedrock with a pool of moonshadow just deep enough to hide him. With a quick turn he dropped into it and huddled down. It wasn’t much of a hiding place—all Wardlaw had to do was point his flashlight in the right direction. But he wouldn’t—because he would assume Ford had headed into the excellent cover of the hoodoo rocks beyond.

  A few minutes passed—and then he heard the fall of Wardlaw’s running feet on stone, his rasping breath pass by.

  He counted to sixty, then cautiously peeked above the shadow. Beyond, in the hoodoo rocks, he could see the play of Wardlaw’s Maglite as he searched deeper and deeper into the rock maze.

  Ford leapt up and sprinted back toward Nakai Valley.

  AFTER TAKING A CONVOLUTED ROUTE HOME, Ford crept up behind his casita. He circled around, satisfying himself that Wardlaw wasn’t keeping a lookout, then slipped in the back door. The moon had set and dawn was just lightening the eastern sky. The distant scream of a mountain lion drifted across the mesa.

  He went into the bedroom, hoping to grab at least a few moments of sleep before breakfast. He paused, staring at the bed.

  A envelope lay on the pillow. He plucked it up and pulled out the note. Sorry I missed you, read the generous, looping script. It was signed,Melissa.

  Ford dropped it back on the pillow and thought wryly that the hazards of the assignment were only now beginning to reveal their true dimensions.

  18

  AN HOUR LATER, FORD ARRIVED AT breakfast to the reviving smell of coffee, bacon, and flapjacks. He paused in the doorway. It was a reduced group—several team members were down in the Bunker and others were being interviewed by the FBI in the rec room. Hazelius occupied his usual place at the head of the table.

  With a deep breath, Ford entered the room. If the scientists seemed haggard before, they looked like zombies now, eating in silence, their red-rimmed eyes staring off into space. Hazelius in particular looked like hell.

  Ford poured himself a mug of coffee. When Wardlaw arrived a few minutes later, Ford observed him out of the corner of his eye. In contrast to the others, the man seemed rested, unperturbed, and unusually friendly, nodding as he made his way to his seat.

  Kate went back and forth from the kitchen, laying down platters of food. Ford tried to keep his eyes off her. A desultory conversation arose around him, trivialities. Nobody wanted to talk about Volkonsky. Anything but Volkonsky.

  Corcoran took a seat beside him. He could feel her eyes on him, and he turned, to see a knowing smile on her face. She leaned over and spoke sotto voce. “Where were you last night?”

  “Out for a walk.”

  “Yeah, right.” She smirked and her eyes slid over to Kate.

  She thinks I’m sleeping with Kate.

  Corcoran turned to the group and said, “We’re all over the news this morning. You hear about it?”

  Everyone paused in their eating.

  “No one?” Corcoran looked around with an air of triumph. “It’s not what you think. There was nothing in the news about Peter Volkonsky—at least, not yet.”

  Again she surveyed the group, enjoying the attention. “This is something different. Weird. You know that televangelist, Spates, who runs a megachurch over in Virginia? There was a story about him and us in the Times online this morning.”

  “Spates?” Innes leaned in from across the table. “The preacher who was busted with those prostitutes? What could he possibly have to do with us?”

  Her smile broadened. “His sermon last Sunday was all about us.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” said Innes.

  “Said we were a bunch of godless scientists putting the lie to the book of Genesis. The whole sermon is available as a podcast on his Web site. ‘Ah greet yeew in the nayum of our Lorud and Saveeyore Cheesus Chraiyst,’ ” she intoned in a near-perfect imitation of his southern drawl, once again demonstrating her ability to mimic.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” said Innes.

  She nudged Ford under the table with her leg. “You hadn’t heard this?”

  “No.”

  “Who has time to surf the news?” Thibodeaux said, her voice high and irritated. “I can’t get my work done as it is.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Dolby. “How are we putting the lie to the book of Genesis?”

  “We’re researching the Big Bang—that secular humanist theory which claims the universe was created without the guiding hand of God. We’re part of the war on faith. We’re Christ haters.”

  Dolby shook his head in disgust.

  “According to the Times, the sermon’s caused an uproar. Several southern congressmen are calling for an investigation, threatening to kill our funding.”

  Innes turned to Hazelius. “Did you know about this, Gregory?”

  Hazelius nodded wearily.

  “What are we going to do about it?”

  Hazelius laid down his coffee mug, wiped his eyes. “The Stanford-Binet curve demonstrates that seventy percent of human beings fall in the average or below-average range in intelligence. In other words, more than two-thirds of all human beings are average, which is stupid enough, or they’re clinical morons.”

  “I’m not sure I follow your point,” said Innes.

  “What I’m saying is, this is the way of the world, George. Live with it.”

  “But surely we need to issue a statement refuting the accusation,” said Innes. “As far as I’m concerned, the Big Bang the
ory is perfectly consistent with a belief in God. One doesn’t exclude the other.”

  Edelstein’s eyes rose from his book, suddenly glittering with amusement. “If that’s what you really think, George, then you understand neither God nor the Big Bang.”

  “Just a second, Alan,” said Ken Dolby, interrupting. “You can have an entirely physical theory, like the Big Bang, and still believe God was behind it.”

  Edelstein’s dark eyes turned to him. “If the theory is fully explanative—which a good theory must be—then God would be unnecessary. A mere spectator. What kind of a useless God is that?”

  “Alan, why don’t you tell us what you really think?” said Dolby sarcastically.

  Innes spoke loudly, shifting into his professional voice. “Surely the world is big enough for God and science.”

  Corcoran rolled her eyes.

  “I would object to any statement made in the name of the Isabella project that mentions God,” said Edelstein.

  “Enough discussion,” said Hazelius. “There will be no statements. Let the politicians handle it.”

  The door to the rec room opened and three scientists came out, followed by Special Agents Greer and Alvarez, and Lieutenant Bia. The room fell silent.

  “I wanted to thank you for your cooperation,” said Greer stiffly, clipboard in hand, addressing the group. “You have my card. If there’s anything you need or if you think of anything useful, please call me.”

  “When will you know something?” Hazelius asked.

  “Two, three days.”

  There was a silence. Then Hazelius said, “May I ask a question or two?”

  Greer waited.

  “Was the gun found in the car?”

  Greer hesitated, then said, “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “On the floor on the driver’s side.”

  “As I understand it, Dr. Volkonsky was shot in the right temple at point-blank range, while he was sitting behind the wheel. Correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Were any of the car’s windows open?”

  “They were all closed.”

  “And the AC was on?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doors locked?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Keys in the ignition?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Dr. Volkonsky’s right hand test positive for powder residue?”

  A silence. “The results aren’t in yet,” Greer said.

  “Thank you.”

  Ford recognized the significance of the questions, and it was clear Greer did, too. As the agents filed out of the room, the meal resumed in tense silence. The unvoiced word “suicide” seemed to hang in the air.

  As the meal concluded, Hazelius rose. “A few words.” His tired eyes traveled around the room. “I know all of you are deeply shaken, as am I.”

  People shifted positions uncomfortably. Ford glanced at Kate. She looked more than shaken—she was devastated.

  “The problems with Isabella fell hardest on Peter—for reasons we all know. He made a superhuman effort to fix the software problems with Isabella. I guess he must have given up. I’d like to share a few lines to his memory, from a poem by Keats about that transcendent moment of discovery.”

  He recited from memory:

  Then felt I like some watcher of the skies

  When a new planet swims into his ken;

  Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes

  He star’d at the Pacific—and all his men

  Look’d at each other with a wild surmise—

  Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

  Hazelius paused, then looked up. “I’ve said it before: no discovery worth a damn in this world comes easy. Any great exploration into the unknown is dangerous—physically and psychologically. Look at Magellan’s voyage around the world, or Captain Cook’s discovery of Antarctica. Look at the Apollo program or the space shuttle. We lost a man yesterday to the rigors of exploration. Regardless of how the investigation turns out—and I think most of us can guess which way it will go—I’ll always consider Peter a hero.”

  He paused, choking up with emotion. After a moment he cleared his throat. “The next run of Isabella begins at noon tomorrow. You all know what you have to do. Those of us not already in the mountain will gather here, in the rec room, at eleven thirty and head over as a group. The Bunker doors will close and lock at eleven forty-five. This time, ladies and gentlemen, I swear, we will gaze like stout Cortez on the Pacific.”

  There was a fervor in his voice that struck Ford—the fervor of the true believer.

  19

  THAT SAME MORNING, THE REVEREND D. T. SPATES eased himself into his office chair, pressing a lever to adjust his lumbar support and fiddling with other levers to get it to his liking. He was feeling good. The Isabella project had proved to be a red-hot subject. He owned it. It was his. The money was pouring in and the phone banks were jammed. The question was how to advance the subject on his Friday night Christian talk show, Roundtable America. In a sermon, you could play on emotion, you could roll out the blood and thunder. But Roundtable America worked on a more cerebral level. It was a respected show. And for that he needed firm facts—which he had precious few of, beyond what he could glean from the Isabella project Web site. He had already canceled the guests he had booked weeks ago and had found a new one, a physicist who could talk about the Isabella project. But he needed more: he needed a surprise.

  His assistant, Charles, entered with the morning folders. “The e-mails you requested, Reverend. Messages. Schedule.” He laid them down, side by side, with quiet efficiency.

  “Where’s my coffee?”

  His secretary entered. “Good morning, Reverend!” she said brightly. Her frosted bouffant hair bobbed and glittered in the morning sun. She set a tray in front of him: silver coffeepot, cup, sugar, creamer, a Mrs. Fields macadamia-nut cookie, and a freshly ironed copy of the Virginia Beach Daily Press.

  “Shut the door when you leave.”

  In the restful quiet that followed, Spates poured a cup of coffee, leaned back in his chair, raised the cup to his lips, and took that first bitter, delectable sip. He rolled the brew around in his mouth, swallowed, exhaled, and placed the cup down. Then he picked up the e-mail folder. Every day Charles and three helpers culled through the thousands of e-mails that arrived, selecting those from people who had given or seemed prepared to give at the “1,000 Blessings” level, and those from politicians and business leaders who needed cultivation. This was the result, and they required a personal response, usually a thank-you for money or a request for money.

  Spates plucked the first e-mail off the pile, scanned it, scribbled a response, laid it aside, picked up the second one, and in this way worked through the pile.

  Fifteen minutes into the pile, he hit one Charles had flagged with a Post-it: Looks intriguing.

  He took a nibble of the cookie and read.

  Dear Rev. Spates,

  Greetings in Christ. This is Pastor Russ Eddy, writing you from the Gathered in Thy Name Mission, Blue Gap, Arizona. I’ve been bringing the Good News to Navajoland since 1999, when I founded the mission. We’re a small operation—in fact, it’s just me.

  Your sermon on the Isabella project really hit home, Reverend. I’ll tell you why. Isabella is our next-door neighbor—it’s right up there on Red Mesa above me, I can see it out my window as I type this. I’ve been getting quite an earful about it from my flock. There are a lot of ugly rumors. And I mean ugly. People are scared; they’re frightened about what’s going on up there.

  I won’t take up any more of your time, Reverend—just a word of thanks for fighting the Good Fight and alerting Christians everywhere aboust this godless machine out here in the desert. You keep it up.

  Yours in Christ,

  Pastor Russ Eddy

  Gathered in Thy Name Mission

  Blue Gap, Arizona

  Spates read the e-mail, then read it again. He drained his coffee cup, laid
it on the tray, mashed his thumb on the last moist cookie crumb and licked it off. He leaned back, thinking. Seven fifteen in Arizona. Country pastors got up early, right?

  He picked up the receiver and tapped in a phone number from the end of the e-mail. It rang several times before a high-pitched voice answered.

  “This is Pastor Russ.”

  “Ah, Pastor Russ! This is Reverend Don T. Spates from God’s Prime Time Ministry, Virginia Beach. How are you today, Pastor?”

  “I’m just fine, thank you.” The voice seemed doubtful, even suspicious.

  “Now who did you say you were?‘

  “Reverend Don T. Spates! God’s Prime Time!”

  “Oh! Reverend Spates! This is quite a surprise. You must’ve gotten my e-mail.”

  “I certainly did. It was very interesting.”

  “Thank you, Reverend.”

  “Please call me Don. I can see that your proximity to this machine, your access to this scientific experiment, could be a Gift from God.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I need an inside source of information on what’s going on out there, someone on the scene. Maybe God means you to be that source. He didn’t move you to write that e-mail for nothing, Russ. Am I right?”

  “Yes sir. I mean, no, He didn’t. I listen to your sermon every Sunday. We don’t get any television reception out here, but I do have a high-speed satellite Internet connection and I listen to the Webcast, without fail.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Russ. It’s good to know our new Webcast’s reaching out. Now, Russ, you mentioned rumors in your e-mail. What kind of rumors you been hearing?”

  “All kinds. Radiation experiments, explosions, child abuse. They say they’re creating freaks up there, monsters. That the government is testing a new weapon to destroy the world.”

  A slug of disappointment congealed in Spates’s gut. This so-called pastor sounded like a nutcase. No wonder, living out there in the desert with a bunch of Indians.