Then he thought of Kristin: What’s going on with her? God, she was beautiful. He’d noticed that from the moment they’d met, and despite his initial impression of her as the flighty, artistic type, the more time they spent together, the more he admired her. She liked him too; she’d even just kissed him. But ever since that uncomfortable night at his apartment, he couldn’t help but wonder where they were heading. He’d been careful not to push things with her physically since then, not that he didn’t want to, but after the tragedy in Agra, the timing wasn’t right either. Once he had the Issa texts safely in hand, he would focus on figuring her out.
Grant rubbed his hands on his jeans, observing the sweaty imprints left behind on the laptop’s keyboard. He could feel the tension creep from his back to his neck. The uncertainty of the future ate at him.
He closed his eyes and inhaled the air-conditioned hotel room air. He recalled Kinley’s words from one of the days he lay trapped in the monastery and struggling with his predicament. “You have a strong intellect, Grant—too strong. You’ve become a slave to your mind, so much so you don’t even realize it. Your mind causes your unhappiness, leading you down multiple paths of uncertainty and fear.”
“Don’t our minds control all of us?” he’d asked.
“Only if we allow them to. The carpenter should be master over his tools; the tools should not rule the carpenter.”
Grant inhaled again, attempting to remember more of his friend’s advice, but Kinley’s voice faded into the distance of his memory. At one moment the path in front of him looked so clear, but then without warning the way became obscured. He returned his attention to his breathing. Exhaling, he felt the tension in his body subside marginally.
Opening his eyes, he typed “Druk Air,” the national airline of Bhutan, into the browser. While he waited for the flight schedules to load, he glanced at the series of icons at the bottom of his screen. He squinted.
Both his virus protection and spyware software programs were deactivated.
He sat up straighter. Had he deactivated them recently in order to install new software? He didn’t remember doing so. He closed the airline schedules, reactivated both programs, and downloaded updates for them. He didn’t like surfing the web in a foreign country unprotected. After the software finished scanning the hard drive, he scrolled down the list of its discoveries. In the middle of a list of advertising cookies were two programs, MailTrac.exe and GhostKeys.exe. He reopened his browser and ran a search of both names. His mouth went dry. The first file was an email spying program popular with hackers, while the second recorded whatever was typed into the computer and then covertly transmitted the data to the person who installed the program. Grant selected the entire list and clicked on the button that read “Clean.”
His computer had been hacked. Someone was reading his email.
The realization of the most likely culprit nauseated him. The assassin in Agra. That’s how he’d tracked them to the Taj Mahal. The questions Grant had been repeating to himself played again: Is this man trying to prevent the Issa texts from revealing the truth about Jesus? Is he a lone psychopath who believes he’s on a divine mission? Or is he part of a broader conspiracy? None of the possibilities appealed to Grant. He wondered how much the murderer knew about their quest for the texts. Then a single thought froze all the others swimming in his mind.
Kristin.
He snatched the hotel phone from the bedside table and punched in his cell phone number. After an interminable wait while the signal traveled in search of his phone, he heard his own voice telling him to leave a message. His cell phone was turned off. But he knew that it had been on when he gave it to her. Something was wrong. He dropped the receiver on the bed and ran from the room. He had to get to the university and Deepraj’s office.
CHAPTER 43
OLD VARANASI, INDIA
THE SHRILL SOUND OF HINDI music grew in the darkness like a movie soundtrack fading in at the beginning of a film. The world was dark, distant, and cold. Only the music provided evidence to Kristin that she was still alive. Gradually the fog in her mind began to clear. She blinked her eyes at the increasing light. She was shivering.
The space around her came into focus. She was sitting on a wooden chair in the center of a small living room in a run-down apartment. The chair creaked in protest as she shifted her weight and glanced up. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a harsh light on the gray plaster peeling from the walls. A simple wood-laminate coffee table sat beside the only other piece of furniture, a ragged sofa. The screeching music she heard came from a clock radio on the bedside table in the bedroom just ahead of her. She was alone.
Where am I? She shook her head, trying to rid it of the sluggishness she felt. Her whole body was limp, and she had to fight the urge to close her eyes and return to sleep. She licked her lips. She was parched.
Then the memories flooded her mind. Sarnath. Deepraj’s office. The snake. The man from Agra. The final thought provided the jolt of energy she needed to wake up. She willed her body to rise from the chair but discovered she couldn’t move. Panic quickly replaced the lethargy she’d experienced moments before. She shook her limbs, scraping the rickety chair against the floor. She looked to her arms. They were duct-taped to the armrests.
The horror of her situation came to her: I’ve been drugged and kidnapped, like Jigme. Thrashing anew in the chair, she realized that her legs were free to move; they were unbound. She awkwardly stood, hunched over, and began to shuffle toward the door on the room’s left wall. She had to escape, before the man returned.
“Going somewhere?” the voice behind her asked.
She stumbled and fell forward, hitting the wood floor with the chair on top of her.
“I step in the bathroom for two minutes, and you wake up.”
“What are you doing with me?” Her words came out slurred.
Kristin’s breath quickened at his approaching footsteps. He lifted her off the ground. The old chair protested when he set her down hard, back where she’d started.
“Since our chat earlier, I’ve been debating what to do with you.” He spoke in a southern twang, but his words were short and clipped, in military style.
What chat? she wondered. She’d been unconscious. But before she could pursue the thought, he bent over, covering her taped-down arms with his rough hands. He leaned close enough that she felt his stale breath on her cheeks. As terrified as she felt to be helpless in front of this man, she refused to turn away from his leering face. Her captor appeared to be in his late thirties, with a forehead creased into a permanent frown between his steel gray eyes. His complexion was fiery red and flaky, and he looked as if he were peeling from a severe sunburn. His crew cut had sprinkles of premature salt through the dark pepper. His nose sat slightly askew and a hint of crusted blood poked from his nostrils.
He broke the stare-down first, dropping his eyes down the length of her body. Feeling his gaze linger on her breasts before moving to her stomach and legs, she shuddered. She recalled his giving her the same look in front of the Taj Mahal: a look not really of lust, but of study—like a butcher pondering a cut of prime beef to decide how best to carve it into the most succulent pieces. She felt exposed under his gaze, as if he could see through her clothes to the bare flesh beneath.
“What do you want?” She struggled to keep her voice from wavering. By engaging him, maybe she could buy herself more time to think of a way out.
He cocked his head. “Why do you think I’d reveal my mission to you?”
“I think that you feel threatened that Grant’s discovery will shake your faith.” She was surprised by her own brazenness.
His voice was controlled. “You’re slippery, aren’t you? Just like your boyfriend was with the reverend.” He stood and paced in front of her.
The mention of Brady surprised her. Is this man one of his fanatical followers?
He spoke as if lecturing to a group of military recruits. “That’s the way you
work, isn’t it? You redirect the debate from your wrongdoing to the other person. I’ve studied psychological warfare, and your tactics won’t work on me. The Angel of Darkness masquerading as an Angel of Light.” The man began to lightly scratch his forearms.
She had no idea what paranoid fantasy her captor entertained, but at least he was talking instead of mentally undressing her. She wondered how long she’d been unconscious. When will Grant realize I’m missing? She shifted her weight in the creaky chair and softened her tone. “All Grant wants is to bring out the facts about what made Jesus the man he was. His journey is truly uplifting, you see—”
“The facts! For too long you atheists and agnostics have dominated the media, turning our country away from the principles of Christianity—the same principles our forefathers fought for.” He began to scratch his arms more vigorously; flakes of dead skin fell like snow flurries to the floor. “But you’ve underestimated us true Christians.”
Kristin had the impression that this man wasn’t speaking to her at all but to someone else.
“But the time has come to take preemptive action,” he said, no longer scratching but instead gesticulating with his arms to an imagined audience. “A David to take on Goliath.” In a quieter voice he concluded, “Then our sins will be forgiven.”
The lunatic propped his right foot on the coffee table and hiked up his pants leg. Kristin’s eyes widened when he withdrew an eight-inch serrated military knife from the sheath attached to his calf.
“Please, don’t hurt me.” The words escaped her lips before she could stop them. Her attempt at bravery evaporated upon seeing the glint of the blade. This man had tortured Deepraj and now appeared ready to do the same to her. “What do you want to know?” she asked, following the knife with her eyes as it approached her.
“I have what I need to know.” The man lightly traced the sharp point of the commando knife down the center of her shirt. His leering expression had returned. Reaching buttons, he hooked the knife under the bottom one. With a flick of his wrist, the button flew off. One by one, each of the next four buttons sailed across the room, making soft clinking noises when they scattered on the wood floor.
A deep nausea rose within her. He opened her shirt with the knife’s edge, revealing a black sports bra now damp with perspiration. Her breathing came in quick and shallow gasps. She was unprepared for the tears that involuntarily fell from her eyes. His free hand reached toward her. Her stomach turned at the vision of the red scaly skin on his forearm. He pushed the shirt off her shoulders.
“Please, don’t.”
He didn’t respond. He seemed transfixed by the honey complexion of her torso and shoulders.
Kristin knew that begging wouldn’t stop this man; he might even enjoy it. His calloused fingers traced the flesh of her bare arm to her collarbone, raising chill bumps of revulsion on her skin. When the fingers moved down her chest, she snapped her eyes closed, wincing. His hand paused at her left breast, cupping it through the fabric of her bra with enough force to bring discomfort, but not enough to cause true pain. Kristin thought of her sister. The memory of the night her sister described her own rape seemed to reach up to strangle her.
She forced her eyes open. The man released her breast and let his fingers trail down her stomach to the waistline of her capris. She no longer felt his touch. She seemed to look at herself from a distance. His fingers quivered, fumbling with the top button.
Kristin moved without warning. She kicked her right foot out as hard as she could from her seated position. Her powerful leg muscles were magnified by the pent-up rage at her helplessness. Her foot connected with the man’s groin. She felt the soft, squishy flesh give way to the pubic bone beneath.
The effect was instantaneous. Her captor dropped to his knees. A low moan escaped his lips. The knife clattered to the floor beside him as he grabbed his crotch with both hands. Her second kick was as effective as the first, but this time her foot connected with the crooked nose she’d broken earlier in the day. He howled as blood sprayed across the floor.
Kristin jumped to her feet and hobbled to the apartment’s door with the chair attached to her back. She desperately tried to work her hands free, but they were secured too tightly. She reached the door. Turning her body sideways, she grasped the knob with her fingertips. She turned the knob and pulled.
“You bitch!” the hoarse scream came from the floor behind her.
Hunched over and still pulling on the door, she glanced at the man crawling toward her. He left a trail of blood and curses behind as he moved closer.
The door was locked. Releasing the knob, her fingers searched the metal plate.
There! A deadbolt. Just above the handle. She turned the lock and heard the click. She cut her eyes to the floor. He was almost to her. She grasped the knob again and turned it. The door opened.
“You’re not leaving!” he wailed.
The door stopped after only a few inches. She jerked it harder, but it wouldn’t budge. The chair. It was still attached to her back, and it was blocking the door. Frantically Kristin stepped away, giving the door room to swing out. It didn’t. The man rose to his knees, just out of range from her legs. She looked back to the door, and then her heart sank.
The chain lock was attached two feet higher than her bound arms could reach.
“Help! Help me!” she screamed through the small opening.
She angled herself to grasp the handle again and tried to jerk the chain out of the wall.
The door slammed shut. Her captor pushed in front of her, blood and rage dripping from his face.
“Nice try.”
He punched her hard in the jaw, snapping her head sideways. Her skull thudded against the door. She crumpled to the floor, and the lights around her again faded to darkness.
CHAPTER 44
NORTHERN ALABAMA AIRSPACE
THE WHINE OF THE TURBINE engines on the Hawker 800 series aircraft subsided as the plane leveled off at cruising altitude. William Jennings loosened his lap belt and relaxed into the plush leather seat. He’d never enjoyed flying, especially takeoffs and landings. He knew his fear was irrational, originating from a lack of control over the giant tube of metal’s capacity to stay up in the air, but he still avoided planes as much as possible. Although the aircraft was technically considered a luxurious midsized private jet, it felt small to him. He would have preferred sitting crammed into the coach section of a 767 rather than being surrounded by the creamy leather and walnut trim in this cabin where he had to duck to avoid bumping his head on the Alcantara-upholstered ceiling.
“I need a Coke!” Reverend Brady bellowed from the sofa where he slouched. A notepad rested in his lap, and he chewed on the end of his ballpoint pen while he worked on the speech he was to give the next morning at the annual meeting of the National Association of Evangelicals.
Jennings knew that Brady was anxious because his breakfast address would be his first step in taking the reins of the organization. In the keynote that evening Reverend Jimmy Jeffries would be announcing his retirement and his support of Brady in the upcoming election. Word of the announcement had already leaked on the blogs, and many were already crowning Brady the heir apparent after the trifecta of his bold announcement of the New Hope Community, his best seller, and his public leadership in the recent charge against the Issa texts. Jennings better than anyone understood how each of these public relations gold mines worked to reinforce each other. After all, he thought, I planned them all.
Jennings knew that Brady’s more confrontational style and substance suited these uncertain times better than Jeffries’s feel-good message of redemption through Christ’s sacrifice. While Jeffries had grown his Texas-based church into one of the largest congregations in the country over the past two decades—he claimed a membership of an astounding fifty thousand believers—the NAE had lost its power and influence in American politics while under his control. The media loved to portray evangelicals as uneducated buffoons, often choosing the dum
best ones among them to interview. Jeffries’s strategy had been to coddle the media, to show a softer and gentler side of their movement focused on outreach programs to the less fortunate, humanitarian trips to Africa, and even a recent move toward environmentalism in the name of protecting God’s creation.
Jennings, however, had anticipated the folly of this strategy from the beginning. Just as one didn’t negotiate with terrorists, playing into the mainstream media’s hands had only weakened them. No longer were they feared as an organization that could deliver millions of Christian votes on election day. But he and Brady were close to changing the rules. Brady’s recent media exposure had now propelled him to prominence in an organization restless for a new vision. Jennings had carefully crafted Brady’s message so that it didn’t shy away from blaming the country’s problems on its sinful direction. Just as children craved firm rules and discipline, the country needed to be taught the Bible’s message clearly, without reservation. Jennings had shaped the content of this message through his influence over the reverend’s sermons and the hours he’d spent with the ghostwriter of Brady’s book. Maybe even more hours than Brady himself has spent, Jennings mused.
They were so close to achieving their dreams. Now he needed to get his boss under control for the final stretch. The stakes were too high for any missteps. Or, he thought, any bad publicity.
“Here you go, Reverend.” The perky blond assistant secretary from Brady’s office placed a glass filled half with Diet Coke and half with Regular Coke, cold but no ice, on the polished table beside the sofa.
Jennings pulled an overflowing file folder from the worn leather briefcase at his feet. He flipped through the first few pages, spreadsheets containing the church’s current financial statements. As positive as Brady’s media attention had been recently, the reality of New Hope’s finances was another matter. He knew that this moment was not a good time to bring up a financial discussion with his boss, but Brady had avoided the topic for the past week, and now Jennings had him alone.
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