Miss Buddha (69 page)

“Just because she threatens their bottom
line,” said Melissa, wiping her eyes with indignation. “Big
Pharma’s profits.”

“That’s about the size of it,” said Ananda,
Ruth nodding in agreement.

“That just isn’t
fair
,” said Melissa,
almost petulantly.

“No it is not,” agreed Ananda.

“At least we’re getting a lot of coverage,”
suggested Ruth—attempting to lighten the discussion with a silver
lining no matter how tenuous.

As a statement it could hardly be more true.
Recent U.S. and world-wide news had been about little else. Two
attempts on this young prodigy teacher’s life. Many outlets had
revived earlier coverage from her Cal Tech days, as well as her
Federico Alvarez episode. And her (outrageous) claim to be the
Buddha. Her youth. Her genius. Many papers and stations, however,
even though critical of Ruth herself, took serious issue with
anyone in Europe shooting at an American citizen, and in essence
took her side. Some even questioned the authorities’ capability to
keep her alive on American soil, to which a spokesman quickly
responded with glossy assurances.

“Are you saying this has been worth it?”
said Melissa, clearly not pleased. “Someone trying to kill you is
worth it?”

“Frankly, since they failed, yes.”

“You’re not helping,” offered Ananda.

“Damn right, she’s not,” confirmed
Melissa.

“I’m sorry,” said Ruth. “I don’t want to
appear flippant about this. But you know that I have a job to do,
and the job is getting done. I think—no, I know—that I’m touching
people, that I’m reaching people, when the powers that be feel
threatened to this extent.”

“Is that supposed to be the silver lining?”
said Melissa.

“It’s supposed to be the
truth,” answered her daughter. “It
is
the truth.”

Melissa looked over to Ananda for support,
surely he saw reason.

“What she said,” said Ananda, pointing at
Ruth with his fork.

“This is not funny,” said Melissa.

“It wasn’t meant to be,” said Ananda.
“Tathagata has a job to do. She is doing it. And she is doing it
well. That much is true. It is a frightening situation, yes, I
agree, but we have to make the best of it. We have help, we have
exposure. I am sure, as sure as I can be under these circumstances,
that Ruth, that her life, will be safe. But regardless, she has a
job to do, and we, she, cannot stop now. She cannot cower or hide.
And you, Melissa, in your heart know this.”

In her heart, Melissa does know, and there
is no need for a reply.

:

The following Tuesday, it’s now the 17th of
March, Ruth Marten returns to her lecture hall, and—as if nothing
out of the ordinary had taken place at all since she last saw
them—gives her class (and a curious faculty, almost outnumbering
the students) the first in a series of lectures on Anapanasati,
meditation on in- and out-breathing.

“Anapanasati is what the Buddha practiced
during his night of enlightenment,” she tells them. “And it is what
he mostly practiced for the rest of his life.”

She suggested two books on the subject, both
of which—within days—had set national and international download
records, much to the publishers’ delight. The few print copies that
remained were bought up within an hour of the first lecture (as
usual) going viral on the Internet.

It was as if Ruth Marten could not have
planned it better. Events, along with her earlier history and
recent lectures, had made her a national, and international,
celebrity, and an unusual celebrity at that: a believable
celebrity.

The media soon reports a true Anapanasati
meditation swell; the word tsunami is used, and a little too often
(it soon wears thin). Still, fact remains, more people than ever in
the history of the world were in fact setting out on a path of
meditation. Even some of the television news anchors admitted to
trying it—initially out of professional curiosity, but soon, as one
major network admission went, there was no denying the peace it
gathered. This, of course, did nothing to halt the swell.

The word
craze
was also used a
lot, especially among those who gleefully predicted the imminent
and worldwide abandonment of this collective insanity, an
abandonment that refused to materialize.

And refused to materialize.

And so, by the time the
April 15
^th
Faith Summit convened in New York, organized religion had a
problem on its hand, very much so.

::
120 :: (New York City)

Though effectively kept from both press and
public, it was common knowledge within the agency—and Roth, through
hints (and some direct comments) from his former colleagues, soon
pieced things together: the New York Faith Summit was in fact
suggested, financed, and in large part arranged by Big Pharma under
the auspices of the United Nations. In fact, it was the UN that
facilitated the two-day conference.

And: the FBI also had a say in the
proceedings—off-stage, of course.

The purpose was clear enough, and readily
agreed to by those concerned and therefore invited: to eliminate
the disruptive influence of one Ruth Marten.

Otto Jones, the as-a-rule jovial (and always
bow-tied) attorney with strong ties—all at a carefully constructed
arm’s length, mind you—to the pharmaceutical lobby in general and
the Biotechnical Industry Association in particular did not have to
engage in arm-twisting to recruit his delegates.

On paper, Jones was representing The Church
of Chrystal Faith, the fastest growing New Protestant movement in
the country, and was also the chair of the conference.

Jones’ office saw a flurry of activity
during the last week in March and the first week in April in order
to select, contact, and recruit (as he put it) viable delegates for
the summit—viable in the sense of sanctioning official action: the
already established, though hidden, agenda.

The selection (based both
on influence with their respective organizations and publicly
voiced calls for action regarding Ruth Marten) had been finalized
by the 2
^nd
of April, and by the 6
^th
all invitees had
accepted.

The conference was set for
Monday the 15
^th
of April, beginning at 10 a.m. and was to run for
as long (or as short) as needed.

The room, which was to hold
eight delegates, Jones included, was rather small—Jones thought of
it as
homely
when
he first saw it—considering the stature of the gathering, and
dominated by the large teak conference table seating the eight who
would eventually sign the now famous (or infamous, depending on
view) resolution:

Otto Jones, the chair at the head of the
table, and farthest from the door leading to the much larger hall
filled with assistants and members of the press.

John Keeler, the newly appointed Boston
Archbishop facing Jones from the other short end of the table, and
representing the interests of the Catholic Church.

Along one side of the table, the one to
Jones’ right, sat, first, the Reverend Blackburn Moses, the head of
the Southern Baptist Convention. His response to Otto Jones’ phone
call had been that if Jones had not called this summit meeting, he
would have called it himself in order to stop the Devil in his (or
her, with a vocal sneer) tracks.

Next, and in the center, sat the
unquestionably beautiful Aisha Amiri, the well-known secretary of
the American Muslim Federation.

Rabbi Doron Hefter occupied the third seat
at that side of the table. Rabbi Hefter had been the first Rabbi to
denounce Ruth Marten and her subversive tactics to befuddle the
youth of today—this, apparently, after attendance at his New York
synagogue had dropped by well over fifty percent due to all this
“Anapasti Mumbo Jumbo” as he put it.

Down the other side of the table sat, first,
and nearest to Jones, a somewhat uncomfortable Laron Miller,
representing the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints.
He had the feeling (and perhaps correctly so) that he had only been
invited to meet some preordained quota of delegates, and—while he
did have serious reservations about Ruth Marten—wasn’t quite sure
what he had to contribute. Still, the elders had agreed it was a
good idea that he participated—for PR reasons if nothing else—so
here he was, participating.

To his left sat the flush-faced Reverend
John Fielding, the long-time head of the United Methodist Church,
and apparently in need of drink. He checked his watch once, twice,
and then again, to get this thing started so we can move onto
lunch.

The final delegate was Margaret Gurney, the
woman elected by the Quaker community to attend the meeting. She,
too, saw Ruth Marten as something quite sinister placed here on
earth in order to confuse and mislead the young people of today.
She, too, felt that the oddly talented young woman must have been
sent here by dark forces, perhaps even by the darkest one
himself.

At ten o’clock sharp, Jones rose, walked
over to, closed, and locked the door. Then returned to his
seat.

“No record—by that I mean, no sound
recording—will be made of this meeting, this conference,” he lied.
“I am saying this to put each of you at ease, and to assure you
that you can freely speak your mind.”

Murmurs of agreement, and some shifting in
chairs.

A sip of water here, a sip of coffee there.
Fielding was checking his watch again.

Margaret Gurney could not
take her eyes off of Aisha Amiri, such a beautiful woman. They had
no right to. And by
they
she meant the Muslims who only kept growing in
numbers, not only here in New York and in other big cities, but
back home in Pennsylvania as well. She considered her own plain
appearance and compared it to this, well,
affront
was the word, this assault on
decency. Weren’t they supposed to hide their faces?

Then she joined the other seven in looking
over at the now silent Otto Jones who apparently planned to stay
silent until he had everyone’s undivided attention. Okay, he had
hers now, too.

And that apparently meant he now had
everybody’s.

“Everyone all set?” said Jones. “Coffee?
Donuts? Water? Juice anyone? All fine?” To an assortment of head
nods and shakes. “Well, good.”

His voice, for some reason, at least to
Margaret Gurney, seemed to match his bow tie. Small and proper, but
quite prominent nonetheless. Odd sensation that. She wondered
briefly how her husband would look with a bow tie one, especially
one this color, was it phosphorescent? It sure looked that way,
pinkish. No, not a good fit on her husband at all. But on this
little man, or not so little, really—thin, though—it really suited
him to a tee, him and that voice. That continued:

“You all know why we are here.”

Jones looked around the table to ensure they
all did. Then, finding no evidence to the contrary, he said, “In a
word—or four words, actually—as expressed by my client, Ruth Marten
must be stopped.”

That was five words, actually, thought
Margaret Gurney, who liked people to mean precisely what they say,
not approximately, like this.

“She almost was, twice,”
said Fielding. “Stopped, I mean. Permanently.” The room turned dead
quiet, and he looked up, then at the faces around the table, in
various states of alarm. “He
said
we’re not being recorded,” he protested. Then he
checked his watch again.

“She hasn’t really done anything wrong,”
said Laron Miller. And that was precisely how he felt. The Marten
girl was preaching nothing but peace and love, even if it was not a
peace and a love grounded in Our Savior.

Otto Jones could have
reached out to touch him, even slapped his wrist—something Margaret
Gurney almost expected him to do, at least judging by his
expression. “She
has
done something wrong, Reverend Miller,” said Jones. “She
has.”

“What, precisely?” said Miller, who was
rapidly taking a dislike to this Otto Jones, and added, “In the
opinion of the Church of Crystal Faith, that is.”

Otto Jones straightened in
his chair, rose a couple of inches and took on a shade of menace:
“Ruth Marten is seducing the youth of this world away from the true
path, a path that each of us might view from a slightly different
perspective, but a path that we all agree was created by God, or by
Allah,” looking at Aisha Amiri as he added her God. “And we can all
agree that she is, in effect, distracting the young of the world
from what leads them to God. She is in effect—
in effect
,” he stressed. Then took a
deep breath, “She is, in effect, denying God. She is denying his
word. And his son.” And then, again looking directly at Aisha
Amiri, he added, “And his prophet.”

Aisha Amiri met Jones’ pale blue eyes with
her deep brown. She did not like this man. He was presumptuous and
condescending, though he hid his arrogance rather well. And she
could tell that he wouldn’t mind at all to spend some time alone
with her. A despicable man; no matter how correct he might be—and
he was, there was no denying that.

Jones smiled at her, and said, “N’est-ce
pas?”

Oh, thought Amiri, who was born in Algeria
and had spent most of her childhood in France, he’s good. He’s done
his homework. She nodded in his direction, both conceding the point
and acknowledging his savoir-faire.

Jones then turned to Miller again, “Do you
not agree Reverend Miller? Is Ruth Marten not denying God?”