by Bob Frank
Next, Clay walked through carefully worded statements on what they believed would be found in the secret writings. He used extra caution with the energy and medical technology secrets. Over an hour later and to a still attentive audience, Clay wrapped up his oratory.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, I introduce you to the three Buddhist monks from Nepal who devoted nearly their entire lives to studying, preserving and protecting these documents. They are the last of probably five hundred custodians who have been taking care of these secrets over the past two thousand years. Even though I have worked closely with them for many months, I will not even attempt to pronounce their full names; I only know their nicknames — and they are not Moe, Larry and Curly.”
The crowd laughed at Clay’s comedic flavoring.
“First, please allow me the pleasure of introducing you to Dhamma.”
The first monk stepped out from back stage in his brilliant orange robe. The audience began a loud round of applause. He bowed in gratitude to Clay and then to the audience before he took a seat next to Shali.
“Amrit.” Clay raised his arm horizontally in a welcome gesture.
The second monk stepped out, bowed politely and took a seat next to the first monk. The applause increased in volume.
“And last but not least, Bikas.”
The applause reached a crescendo as the third monk bowed to Clay, Shali, and his fellow monks and then to the audience. The audience stood in ovation, and the applause continued for nearly a minute.
As soon as the audience was seated and the applause had subsided, Clay continued. “My distinguished guests, scholars and clergy, I now present to you the collection of the Secret Writings of the Ancients, which, as I have described, has been so carefully preserved for thousands of years, most recently in a cave outside of Kathmandu.”
The deep purple curtains quickly slid open to reveal the fifty large glass display cases. Four of the security guards were diligently posted offstage, just behind the curtains. There was a collective gasp from the audience, and they stood in ovation.
After the audience settled in and sat down, Clay said, “This concludes our presentation for tonight. We would now like to take your questions for the next thirty minutes. Then we will offer you the opportunity to file up to the stage, meet our three custodian friends and get a closer look at the secret treasures — the hidden truths — from the great Alexandrian Library. As we progress with our work and begin dissemination of the knowledge, we look forward to intense debates and discussions on the content of the writings.” He smiled. “And believe me, I am sure everyone will have their own interpretation of the truth when you all eventually have access to everything in digital form. And now, if you have questions, the microphones are coming down the aisles.”
The next thirty minutes was a non-stop barrage of every shape and flavor of question. Shali and the three custodians also gave many answers to add diversity of opinion to the Q&A.
Finally, Clay concluded, “We thank you for being patient these last two thousand years.”
Laughter broke out in the audience.
“Now I invite you to form a line on the right side of the stage and to come up to take a closer look at the ancient scrolls and books. This may take a while, so please be patient. We will stay as long as you like tonight. And please, no flashes. You may take photos, but turn your flashes off. Also, please come and meet our Nepalese friends, who played a huge part — along with their predecessors — to bring this to you tonight. As The X-Files television show says, ‘the truth is out there.’ We will try to find it and share it for a better world. We thank you.”
* * * ~~~ * * *
As the applause died down, many reporters quickly moved to the rear of the hall with netbooks to file their stories. Several lines quickly formed in each aisle. The lines went past Shali, Clay and their three custodian colleagues and then split down the two aisles between the glass cases. Large rope barriers kept the onlookers three feet away from the displays. In the front cases, some of the scrolls had been rolled open and several books had been opened to interesting pages with medical drawings, scientific formulas and technology diagrams. The drawings and sketches on some of the writings made the information enticing to the now gawking lines of people. Clay and Shali overheard comments such as “Exactly what are those?” and, “It looks like my college engineering book.”
It was nearly midnight when the last of the invited guests left the convention center. The six security guards took their positions for the night. The next shift of security guards was scheduled to replace them at seven a.m. in the morning.
Clay looked at Shali tiredly and said in a hoarse voice, “Our three friends said they want to stay longer to do last-minute checkups on the documents and ensure everything is locked down tight for the night. Their escort has already left for the parking garage to move the car to the front of the conference center. Are you ready to quit for tonight?”
Shali politely covered her yawn. “You bet. It’s been a couple of long days. Let’s get our escort and get back to Arlington. Stop by my apartment for a nightcap.”
The three of them walked down the back-stage stairs and into the long concrete tunnel leading to the parking garage. The escort talked non-stop with complimentary chatter about the evening’s event, expressing honor and pride to be part of their project team.
Just as they approached the center of the long concrete tunnel, a thunderous roar shook the ceiling and walls around them. Chips and chunks of concrete sprayed from the ceiling and from the side of the tunnel facing the ballroom. The hail of concrete fragments spattered the three unsuspecting victims and knocked them against the far wall. They were all knocked out cold. It was a blessing they were not conscious to feel the ensuing blast of near thermoplastic heated gas that rushed through the tunnel from the stairwell to the ballroom.
Chapter 27
Georgetown Medical Center
Clay only remembered regaining consciousness in the hospital bed at Georgetown University’s Medical Center. Fortunately, the medical center was located in the building next to the conference center, and there had been only minor damage from the massive explosion that had shelled out the core of the conference center.
Shali wasn’t as lucky because she remembered almost everything after the initial blast and shock wave. She remembered the ebony darkness of the tunnel and the silence, almost complete except for the loud ringing in her ears. She remembered the smell of crushed concrete and dust, and the strange chemical fumes that saturated the air.
The experience had seemed surreal to Shali as she lay in indistinguishable rubble, not knowing whether she was dead or alive and with little recollection of where she was, when it was, or who she was with. All she was aware of was the stabbing, cutting pain she felt all over her battered body. She knew she was hurt, but she had no idea how badly. The ringing in her ears vibrated her skull.
She slowly recalled that she had walked into the tunnel with Clay and the escort, and she ascertained there must have been an explosion. What else could it possibly be? She had no idea of Clay’s whereabouts or his condition. Shali had faded in and out of consciousness until she was finally sedated at the hospital later that night.
Shali and Clay woke late the next morning in hospital rooms that were just two doors apart. Neither was in a life-threatening condition at that point, but both were bruised and battered. Georgetown police detectives and FBI agents were standing by to question them about the explosion, but hospital security and the Georgetown police kept the press far away from both of them. The previous night’s incident was being considered an act of terrorism, and so the FBI took the lead on the investigation.
Clay woke to find a tall stranger standing over him. “Mr. Barton, I’m a special agent with the FBI. We need to ask you some questions about last night. Can you speak to me now?”
Clay hesitated, stretched his head side to side to try to clear the stabbing pain in his neck. “Yeah. I think so.”
After a few seconds, he finally responded: “We were in the tunnel. It went dark, and here I am.” His mind flashed pulses of denial in between the pangs of pain. Clay suddenly became the interrogator. “Wait. What about Shali? Shali Faisal? Is she okay? And the kid? What about the three monks upstairs? Oh, God, the writings. What happened? Are the writings —? Were they damaged? Was this intentional or some kind of freak accident? I can’t believe anybody would do this intentionally.”
That agent held up his hands. “Hold on, hold on. Not so fast. I’ll answer your questions, but I need you to answer mine. First, Ms. Faisal is fine. Like you, she is pretty banged up, but nothing really serious. Her room is down the hall. We’ll get you over to see her a little later. The young man in the tunnel with you has some broken bones, but he will heal. He’s young and strong so he will be fine. As for the people upstairs in the main room, they did not fare so well. By writings, if you mean books in the glass cases — or what used to be cases — they were completely destroyed.”
The agent paused allowing Clay to absorb the news and to assess his reaction. He continued, We don’t know exactly how this explosion took place yet, but it was complete and thorough destruction. There was no particular focal point of the detonation. It’s as if the cases themselves blew up. In a typical bomb, there would be larger pieces of material blown around, and maybe one giant hole in the floor. But this was widespread and complete destruction; there was no big hole.”
Clay looked over toward the window. “I get it; I get it. It’s all gone.” He leaned back in the bed, tipped his head back and looked at the ceiling. “What about the people? The monks? The guards?”
“Well, that’s what we need to ask you. We’re not finding much. Some pieces — well, parts — ”
Clay closed his eyes as tears formed.
The agent continued in hopes of pushing past the sensitivity of the loss. “Do you remember how many people were upstairs in the conference hall, where the stage was?”
Clay opened his eyes and continued looking at the ceiling. “You can’t tell how many bodies there are?” Tears streamed down his cheeks.
The agent stood quietly beside the bed. After a long silence, Clay regained his composure, although his eyes remained focused on the ceiling.
“There were three Buddhist monks from Nepal, all wearing bright orange robes. When we left to walk down the tunnel, they were working around the cases: fifty glass cases filled with old scrolls and books, all thousands of years old. There were two security guards with the monks on stage, and two more in the lobby or in the front of the conference center. Two other guards were somewhere backstage — maybe by the side or rear doors. I don’t think anyone else was around. There might have been some janitors in other parts of the conference center, but I did not see them. Oh, there may have been a grad student waiting in a car out front. We had just left the stage and were walking down the tunnel to the garage when it blew. We couldn’t have been but a minute away. Maybe two minutes at most.”
Clay paused and then dropped his head and eyes to meet the agent’s eyes. “What’s the real story? Just how bad is it really?”
“There is nothing left of your books or cases, period. We have not been able to identify how many bodies were in the main area of the stage. That whole area was completely destroyed. Fortunately, the ensuing fire was not large and was quickly put out by the fire department. The two guards out front are going to be fine, but they got banged up pretty good. The two guards in the back area didn’t make it. The Bureau’s best explosive specialists are in the center working on forensics now. This bombing is being classed as an international act of terrorism. It is on the top of our list; on everyone’s list.”
“Please, you have to find out who did this. You have no idea what they have destroyed here. Our world will never get to use the wisdom hidden in those documents.”
“We’ll do our best. Do you have any idea who may have done this? Is there some group or organization that could have wanted to do this?”
“Somebody has been following us for months trying to find out what we were doing. We have found electronic bugs in our rooms and thieves stealing our material.” He began to drift off but suddenly snapped back and re-engaged. But the expression on his face made it clear that the pain from his injuries was distracting him. “No, I don’t know who it could have been, but I know some people who may know. That is, of course, if I can get them to talk about it.”
“Can you give me their names? How can I contact them?”
“They went back to Asia recently. They are very private; it may be difficult to find them. I wouldn’t doubt that they are also on the hit list of whoever did this.” Clay paused for a moment and looked across the room as if looking out to sea. “But I’m not even sure they would know. They told us the writings were in danger and have always been in danger. They told us there were people who have wanted to destroy these treasures for thousands of years.” He took a deep breath, but he grimaced in pain. Then his eyes focused, as if he had just seen a ship across that distant sea. “She knew it was going to happen,” he said in a slower more definitive tone.
“She didn’t know when or how or who, but she knew. The prophecy. Pema knew this was going to happen.”
“Who are you talking about?”
Clay put his hands up to his face and rubbed his palms up across his eyes to his forehead. He jerked his head to the side, feeling the burning in his face from the bruises and cuts. He jerked in pain. “She couldn’t tell us that she knew.”
“Who is she? What is her name? And why do you think she knew?”
“Whenever she talked about the prophecy, she got a sour face; she would turn away.”
Clay snapped his head back to the agent. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m not thinking clearly. Pema is her name. Pema Lingpa. She’s in Nepal. I’ll give you her contact information if my phone still works.” Clay fished around his clothes that were folded on the table stand next to the bed. He found his phone and gave the agent the contact information for both Pema and Yongten. Then his expression changed again as he focused, trying to concentrate despite the pain and anguish, a skill that was the product of his years of military training. “That’s why she was so adamant that we digitize the writings at Copper Canyon. She wanted to get the words and drawings captured before anything happened. How could I be so stupid and selfish?”
The FBI agent looked confused. “What are these prophecies?”
“They are ancient predictions made by these oracles several thousand years ago. Oh God, the books are at the apartment, in a case at the apartment. We were in a hurry and forgot to bring them tonight, thank God. Seven books. Only seven books remain from all of those writings. One contained the prophecies, but she said the prophecies end soon. Maybe last night was the end of them.”
“Can we get these books?”
“Yes, but it won’t do you much good. They’re written in ancient Sanskrit, an old, almost extinct language. We haven’t spent much time on them.”
The agent challenged, “Is there anyone else who might know about these prophecies and might want to play them out?”
“Not that I am aware of.” Clay responded.
The agent stopped and looked intently at Clay. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
“Let’s go back to who might have done this instead of concentrating on old fortune tellers,” the agent said impatiently. “Have you got any ideas at all? Any starting points for us?”
“Well, from what Pema told us, any religious group could want to do it. The writings potentially threatened all the established religions.”
“How could they be threatened?”
“By undermining their power and authority. Maybe it was the church — the Christians or Catholics — or maybe Muslims or Jews?”
“Are you saying this could be an organized religious group and not just fringe religious fanatics?”
“The
group Pema and Yongten belonged to had been hiding these writings from somebody for thousands of years. Fringe fanatics don’t last for thousands of years. Plus, I don’t think it was some little rogue group. I can’t see it threatening them. For Christ’s sake, it could have been the Chinese.”
The agent’s frustration with the interview and Clay’s inability to closely focus was starting to show. “Now, why would it be the Chinese? Do you mean the government, or some Chinese organization, like a mafia?”
“Oh, no. Not just the Chinese.” Clay suddenly reflected on the adverse consequences of making a connection back to Tibet and realized he had to shift any focus away from China. “I meant it could have been any government that wanted the secrets hidden in the writings. But now that I think about it, if someone had wanted the information, they wouldn’t have destroyed it, at least not until after we had made copies of everything. They would have stolen the writings, not destroyed them.”
“Let’s go back to these people in Nepal. Do you think they could help us with who did this?”
“Well, maybe. I don’t think they would know who it was, but maybe they could get you some leads.”
The FBI agent knew he wouldn’t get much more right then. “That’s enough for now. I know your mind and body are still in shock from last night. Let’s give it a rest and try again tomorrow. We’ve got a lot of work to do at the conference center. But one last question: do you recognize this writing?” He pulled out a photograph and showed it to Clay. It was a picture of some graffiti on a wall:
“It’s Arabic. Allahu Akbar, or God is Great,” Clay said. He looked up at the agent. “Why do you ask?”
“We found this written on the wall in the front lobby of the center. It was written shortly after the blast.”
Clay paused in thought for a few moments. “It’s too obvious. It’s got to be a diversion.”