The Breath of God

by Jeffrey Small

  Tim swallowed, aware that he’d been producing copious amounts of saliva. Who was she? A girlfriend? But why weren’t they in bed together doing it? A lover’s quarrel, perhaps?

  He urged his body to turn and leave, but instead he leaned forward, his face inches from hers. He held his breath to avoid any sound that might wake her. He could hear her steady breathing and see the slight flare of her delicate nostrils with each breath. Tim then inhaled deeply but slowly, drawing her fragrance into his lungs as if she were an exotic dish that he was savoring before tasting. He felt nothing.

  The itch began as a crackling sensation along both arms and radiated to the core of his body. He straightened and backed toward the bedroom door. He lifted the laptop from the armchair and placed it under his left arm, keeping his right hand free to maneuver his pistol.

  Less than two minutes later, Tim sat panting in the front seat of his car.

  “Idiot!” He banged the steering wheel.

  He’d been stupid, but lucky. His actions in the apartment could have compromised the entire mission. Only he had the smarts and skills to accomplish a task of this sensitivity and this importance, yet he’d just risked everything. For what? He would make them both pay for the trouble they were causing on so many levels.

  Tim glanced at the clock on the dash: 2:30. He began his work. Once again, the cyber ops training he’d received during his time with Army Intelligence at INSCOM would serve him well. God had been planting the seeds even then.

  CHAPTER 19

  CANDLER SCHOOL OF THEOLOGY EMORY UNIVERSITY, ATLANTA

  GRANT MARCHED UP THE stone stairs toward Bishops Hall, the main administrative and classroom building of the Candler School of Theology, located just off the central quadrangle on the Emory campus. Even though he was still in the cast, his pace forced Kristin to hurry to keep up. He tried unsuccessfully to erase the image in his mind of the hundreds of emails from the previous night. He was so discouraged, he hadn’t even bothered to turn his laptop on that morning. Kristin now carried it in her backpack along with the camera.

  “Impressive campus,” she said, wearing jeans that hung low on her hips and a faded Johns Hopkins sweatshirt. “The limestone walls and terra-cotta roofs remind me of a village in Tuscany.” The warm southern sun highlighting the fall hues on the campus oak trees added to the picture. “This where you take your classes?” she asked.

  “Just a couple.” He jerked open the heavy door. “Candler’s a Methodist seminary. My PhD program falls under Emory’s Graduate School of Arts and Sciences, but the Division of Religion shares some classes and faculty with Candler. Professor Billingsly’s office is here.”

  When they reached the door with the nameplate reading “Harold Billingsly,” Grant didn’t so much open the door as burst through it. Startled, the professor jumped in his seat before rising to greet them. With his thinning gray hair, half-moon reading glasses perched on his nose, blue oxford shirt with its sleeves rolled up, and striped tie, Billingsly appeared like the professor he was. But his usual jovial expression had been replaced by red, swollen eyes.

  “Welcome back,” Billingsly said.

  The sadness in his mentor’s voice halted the momentum of Grant’s anger. “Are you okay?”

  “You haven’t heard about the bombing?”

  “Bombing? We just returned late yesterday.”

  Billingsly described the attack on the campus the previous week that had cost Professor Martha Simpson her life. “We hadn’t been dating that long”—his voice cracked—“but I really felt a connection with her.” He shuddered. “When I close my eyes, I can still smell her perfume.”

  “I had no idea.” Grant approached his mentor. Lines of concern replaced those of anger on his face. “I’m so sorry. Do they have any leads?”

  “Not yet. All the FBI will say is that the van that contained the bomb was stolen from Birmingham Airport.”

  “I guess that explains the security,” Kristin said. Just a few minutes earlier, a guard at the parking lot had examined Grant’s student ID before allowing them to enter, and they’d passed numerous police patrolling the campus on the short walk to Bishops Hall.

  “Ah, you must be Ms. Misaki, the lovely journalist Grant spoke so highly of in his voicemails to me.” Grant felt the back of his neck flush. The professor extended his hand. “Harold Billingsly.”

  “Please, call me Kristin.” She held the professor’s hand in both of hers.

  Billingsly motioned to two black wooden chairs with the Harvard crest on the backrests in front of his desk. Kristin hopped into one with her legs folded underneath her, while Billingsly pushed aside a stack of journals and sat on the edge of his desk. Grant remained standing.

  “How could you, Harold?” he asked. “I trusted you.”

  “Whoa. Slow down a minute. I was shocked to see the story published too.”

  “But you were the only one I sent the email to!” Grant spat out the words.

  Billingsly shifted his weight on the desk, suddenly seeming very uncomfortable. “After Martha’s death, I was a little out of it. I forwarded your email to a couple of people in the department. Thought I’d line up resources for the work you had ahead.” He cast his eyes to the floor. “After Martha’s funeral, I drove to my cabin in the mountains for a few days alone. I returned yesterday to a deluge of voicemails from people wanting to speak to you.” He looked back up at Grant. “Someone in the department must have inadvertently let the email out.”

  Grant massaged his temples with his fingers.

  “Grant.” Billingsly leaned forward and placed a hand on his student’s shoulder. “We don’t have the luxury of time. For all we know, your monk friend has shared these texts with other tourists too.”

  “Not Kinley.”

  “Maybe, but realize that you have a career-making opportunity here—greater than anything you could have dreamed up.”

  Grant lifted his head. On the flight back he’d indulged in the daydream of talk shows, book deals, and lecture circuits. He settled into the hard chair, extending his leg with the cast to the side. He felt his leg begin to throb. He couldn’t wait to get the damn cast removed.

  “So what do we do next?”

  “Professor Singh has agreed to review your pictures of the texts. He can give us a quick read on the accuracy of the translation.”

  Grant glanced at his mentor. As supportive as Billingsly had been over the years, he’d always been cautious about Grant’s research. Grant reached into the backpack Kristin had set down at his feet and removed his laptop. He noticed Billingsly studying his unshaven face.

  “You need some cleaning up,” the professor added. “The press will want to speak with you.”

  “The press?” Grant pressed the power button on the laptop. “Harold, you know I don’t like public speaking.”

  “You mentioned that in Bhutan,” Kristin said. “I still can’t picture you tongue-tied.”

  “Groups.” He shook his head. “I get nervous with everyone staring at me.”

  Billingsly threw back his head and released a guffaw. “I remember the look you used to get on your face in class whenever I approached your seat. Here’s this man, Kristin, who over a cup of coffee is never shy about telling me, a tenured professor, when I’m clearly wrong on an issue, but in a class of fifty of his peers he would shrink into his chair, hoping I wouldn’t notice him.”

  “I know it’s not logical.” Grant shrugged, feeling his neck grow hot. “But this feeling of dread would come over me, and then suddenly I’d forget whatever I knew about the topic.”

  “I’ve seen you mature into a first-rate student, and I’m confident you can handle the press.” Billingsly’s tone took on a more serious note. “But they’re not the ones I’d worry about.”

  “So now you’re saying I should be worried?”

  “The existence of these texts won’t be received positively by everyone.” The professor stood from his desk and began to pace in front of them.

 
; “But don’t you think these texts could have a unifying effect?” Kristin asked. “Bring people of different religions together, rather than push them apart? These texts show a much closer connection between the Eastern and Western religions than was ever before considered.”

  The professor shook his head. “Many people will feel threatened by your discovery. Consider how disturbing it will be for people to change the image of Jesus they’ve held for their entire lives. It will rock their very concept of who he was—maybe lead to an ideological war.”

  Grant flicked his hand, then booted up his laptop. “I can handle the theological objections from those people. I’m looking forward to writing a response to them in the journal.” The memory of the heated debates he’d had as a teenager with his fundamentalist father again flashed through his mind. “But what about you, Harold? You’re a traditionalist scholar.”

  Billingsly removed his glasses and cleaned them with his striped tie. “But I am skeptical. Until we study the texts themselves, I’ll hold off any commentary on their legitimacy. Frankly, I doubt the manuscripts are first-century as your monk friend claims, but even so, they’ll provide useful background for your dissertation on the legend.”

  “But doesn’t it make sense that Jesus gained his spiritual wisdom from somewhere?” Kristin asked.

  “Not necessarily,” the professor replied. “The New Testament describes Jesus’ baptism around the age of thirty by John as the turning point in his life that led him to begin his ministry. Jesus gained his unique insight through the power of the Holy Spirit that was latent in him from birth, not from some Indian guru teaching him to meditate.”

  “What about the specifics of his teachings?” Kristin pressed.

  “Must Jesus have traveled to India to discover certain truths about the world?”

  “Oh my God,” Grant interrupted. Staring at the computer balanced on his thigh, he felt the blood drain from his head so quickly he feared he might lose consciousness. “The pictures—they’re gone.”

  Kristin craned her head over his shoulder. After a glance at the blank folder on his desktop, she snatched her camera from the floor by her chair.

  Fighting the nausea creeping into his throat, Grant began a search of all his files. The response came back too quickly. Other than a few logos and some stock photography, his hard drive contained no pictures, not even ones he’d had for years. But they were there last night! his mind screamed. He was planning to upload them online when his discovery of the publication of the Issa texts distracted him.

  “Grant.” Kristin’s voice trembled.

  He looked from his computer screen. Her eyes were welling up. She held a tiny plastic case in one hand and her camera in the other.

  “My camera. The memory card. It’s empty.”

  Grant’s mind raced. The leaked email. The computer. The camera. Somehow his discovery had been compromised. But how?

  CHAPTER 20

  EMORY UNIVERSITY ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  THE MERCEDES PULLED to the curb in front of a white stone building whose rows of Doric columns gave it the appearance of a Greek temple: Emory University’s Glenn Memorial Auditorium. The driver cut off the ignition, opened his door, and walked around to the rear passenger side.

  Sitting in the back seat, William Jennings turned to his boss and said, “This is the moment you’ve been praying for, Brian.”

  Brady stared out the window. The fading light from the setting sun cast a fiery glow over the majestic oak trees rising from the lawn in front of the building. Two dozen people carrying signs marched along the sidewalk. A white truck with red lettering on the side and satellite antennas on the roof was parked directly in front of the Mercedes.

  “CNN.” Brady grinned broadly. “And protestors!”

  “From the congregation. A bus arrived from Birmingham two hours ago. Unfortunately, the university won’t let them into the hall itself, which is open only to those with Emory IDs after that bombing two weeks ago, but they’ll make good news coverage.”

  Brady nodded. He could always depend on Jennings. In the two days since his number two had explained his strategy for boosting Brady’s public profile and book sales, Jennings had worked tirelessly to pull off the event that would take place this evening. The voice of the believers. That would be Brady’s role. Eyeing the news truck and the protestors, Brady was anxious to greet his fans.

  “Now, did you review the dossier on Grant Matthews I prepared?”

  “I flipped through the stuff, but come on. Regurgitating a prepared statement will make me seem stiff. I do this every Sunday in front of thousands. I can handle a discussion with a student.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be brilliant as always, but don’t underestimate him. These PhD candidates are well versed in their biblical history, and giving a sermon in front of an adoring audience isn’t the same as debating an academic in a university setting.”

  “Who do you know who can quote scripture like I can? So he may have more fancy degrees than I do, but he lacks the most important factor.”

  “What?”

  “Faith. Faith, my friend.”

  “Then I’m sure you won’t need these notes.” Jennings patted the leather satchel in his lap. “But I’ll leave them by your seat, just in case.”

  Brady glanced out the car window at the auditorium. “Let’s get on with this.”

  “Hold just a minute. I’ve planned an entrance.”

  “Well, I’m ready, and ...” Brady’s voice trailed off when the protestors congregated in front of his driver, exactly as Jennings must have instructed.

  The chanting of the voices in unison was music to Brady’s ears: “Reverend Brady, save our Jesus!” An intense light washed over his parishioners; a camera crew had emerged from the CNN truck. As soon as the crowd noticed the presence of the camera, their chanting grew to a roar.

  “You never cease to amaze me, William.”

  “That’s my job.”

  The driver opened the car door. Reverend Brady paused just long enough for the camera lights to swing in his direction. He then rose from the car to the cheers of his people. He wore a smile on his face as comfortable as his perfectly draped Armani suit. The rush of the crowd’s adulation flooded his body, much as it did each Sunday when he stepped into the spotlights on the church stage. But tonight would be different.

  Tonight he would be seen by millions.

  CHAPTER 21

  GLENN MEMORIAL AUDITORIUM ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE I agreed to do this.” Sweating in the cool evening air, Grant unbuttoned his Banana Republic blazer.

  Although he wasn’t yet used to his new cane, he kept a brisk pace along Fishburne Drive heading toward Glenn Memorial Auditorium. When the orthopedist removed his cast that morning, he’d pronounced that Karma had done a first-rate job setting the bones, but Grant was shocked to see how much his leg had atrophied since the accident six weeks earlier.

  With the chaos of the past two days, Grant had almost forgotten about his leg. After overcoming the shock of finding that Kristin’s photos had ceased to exist, he’d thrown himself into the task of figuring out what happened. He was off to a slow start. The Atlanta police were unimpressed with Grant’s theory that someone had somehow stolen their electronics, erased the pictures, and then returned the computer and camera. Even as Grant articulated the idea, he heard how ridiculous it sounded: his apartment evidenced no signs of forced entry, nothing was missing, and the computer and camera hadn’t been out of their sight. Maybe the annoyed officers were right. Could he have made a mistake downloading the pictures? He ground his teeth as he realized he had no leads to go on.

  A few hours following his discovery of the missing photos, he called Karma to arrange a delivery to Kinley. He planned to purchase an inexpensive digital camera and FedEx it to his Bhutanese doctor to take to Kinley. But will Kinley agree to take a new set of pictures? The question played over and over in his head until Karma came on the line. The doctor’s w
ords opened the chasm in Grant’s stomach even wider: Kinley had departed “on a trip” earlier that same day. To where, the doctor had no answer.

  Grant picked up his pace and tugged at his collar button, which was suddenly restricting his airflow. Kinley must have heard what was happening. Why hadn’t the monk contacted him? What if the lama had reacted negatively to the publicity about the Issa texts? He could have sent Kinley away. And the texts themselves? He tried not to think of what happened to Notovitch’s reputation a hundred years earlier after the manuscript from the Himis monastery in India was never found. At least in all the publicity about the texts Grant had discovered, the monastery in Punakha had never been mentioned. But how long until that was uncovered too? Most disturbing, still, were the missing pictures. What had happened to them?

  “Grant—” Kristin’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “You’ve rehearsed your talking points for I don’t know how many hours. You’ll be great.”

  Kristin’s high heels clicked down the sidewalk beside him. Grant turned his head to her but kept his nervous pace. He’d never seen her without a bohemian skirt or faded jeans and hiking boots, but she carried the professional look equally well. The beige tailored suit she’d purchased at the mall for this occasion complemented her figure—conservative without hiding her athletic frame. Following their discovery that the pictures of the texts were missing, she insisted on staying longer. After emailing her delinquent article to her editor, she’d helped Grant prepare for this night. Even Billingsly had underestimated the degree to which the press would be interested in Grant’s discovery. As his mentor also predicted, the backlash from evangelical circles was already taking form. The loudest voice came from a church in the neighboring state of Alabama, a megachurch called New Hope. Why had he agreed to this event with the head pastor of the church denouncing his discovery?