The Breath of God (44 page)

“I hit him so hard, and lying there ... he looked ... so dead.”

“He's probably holed up somewhere nursing his wounds.”

“I don't know. He isn't really the nursing type. He was like one of those pit bulls bred for fighting. You know, those animals don't give up until they're killed.”

Grant squeezed her hand. “If you want to stay at the hotel tomorrow while Jigme and I hike up to the Tiger's Nest Monastery, no one would blame you.”

Without hesitation, she shook her head. “I won't give in to fear. I won't grant him that victory.”

“I didn't expect you would.” Although the bruise ran from her jawline to under her eye and her bottom lip was still puffy, the injuries obscured neither the determination in Kristin's face nor her beauty.

She had changed during the few hours she'd been kidnapped, but he couldn't put his finger on exactly what the change was. At first, he'd thought she'd merely gained a new strength from facing and then overcoming death, but then he reminded himself that her confidence was one of her traits that had attracted him from the beginning.

Observing her—traumatized but at the same time peaceful, apprehensive yet determined, bruised but beautiful—he discovered something that was as clear as the snow-capped mountain peaks reflecting the sun outside his window. He slowly exhaled, hoping to relieve the pressure deep within his chest.

He was in love with Kristin.

Tim's legs burned.

To make matters worse, every time he sucked in a lungful of the thin mountain air, the cold made his raw gums ache. Although he tried to stop himself, his tongue darted in and out of the smooth gap in the center of his lower jaw, feeling for his missing three teeth. At least her aim had been a couple of inches low. The blow to his jaw had knocked him unconscious, but he'd survived. Had that bitch hit him as hard as she had in the eyes or forehead, he'd be blind or dead.

The Versed worked exactly as he'd hoped, especially after he'd adjusted the dose following the lesson he'd learned in Agra. While she was in a twilight state of consciousness, he'd questioned her about the location of the texts.
Although deciphering the incoherent rambling that came with the drug took almost an hour, his next destination became clear soon enough.

As Tim continued his hike up the mountain trail, the pain in his jaw made him wish he could breathe through his nose. With a broken nose, bruised face, and missing teeth, Tim knew he looked like crap. But the cover story he'd given on his arrival in Bhutan yesterday—a rickshaw accident in India—had resulted in sympathetic nods from both the customs officials and hotel staff, who knew how hectic Indian streets were. Anyway, they wouldn't be suspicious of an important businessman like him. The Paro airport didn't often receive privately owned aircraft. In this small, poor country, an individual owning a plane was the stuff of movies.

The phone call Tim made after he regained consciousness had been more painful than the blows to his face. “There's been a complication,” he'd said, struggling to speak into his cell phone through the tissues he'd stuffed in the holes where his teeth had been.

“We can't afford any complications!” The voice from across the globe came through all too clearly as Tim limped down the dark alley away from the flat.

“I know, but the girl escaped and is heading to the authorities now.” Tim knew better than to sugarcoat his predicament. He was running out of time.

“I thought you were a trained professional! How are you letting a grad student and a journalist outwit you?”

The stinging rebuke pained Tim as much as the blow he'd received to his face had. But he felt in his gut that he would ultimately prevail. God was on his side. These texts were the work of Satan. His discharge from the army, his job troubles, his personal demons—none of that would matter once he had his hands on the texts.
I am part of a divine plan bigger than my sufferings
, he thought,
even bigger than the reverend
. Anyway, he had the upper hand now. He knew where the texts were.

“I'm going to need a plane,” Tim said. “I can beat them there.” He then explained that only a few commercial flights a week left India for Bhutan, and the authorities would certainly be looking for him. Flying a chartered jet was the only way to accomplish his mission.

Tim had to hold the phone away from his ear as the voice screamed at him for getting into this situation and then detailed the costs and risks of chartering a plane.

“Do you want the texts or not?”

After a full minute of silence, the man said, “If you don't get to the texts first, my future is over.” He added quickly, “And the faith of millions will be shattered because of your incompetence.”

He agreed to Tim's extravagant request. Fortunately, Tim's foresight in applying for a visa early paid off. It was waiting for him at the consulate in New Delhi. He would be a step ahead of Grant Matthews. This time he would be successful.

Tim trudged up the steep mountain trail, following the Bhutanese guide he'd hired from the hotel. Although the elevation was just under nine thousand feet, not high for the Himalayas, he still felt the effects of the altitude. He paused for a moment, resting a hand on the charcoal jacket tied around his waist and taking a swig from his bottled water. What had begun as a cold hike underneath the tree cover that morning had turned considerably warmer as they emerged into the sun halfway up the mountain. He was used to hiking for a day at a time in the woods in Alabama, but he'd been on this path for just two hours and he was practically wheezing.

“Just up here is cafeteria,” his Bhutanese guide said, pointing through the tall blue pine trees. “We rest and eat there. Get good picture of Taktshang Goemba too.”

Tim nodded at the guide, who was dressed in what Tim thought to be a ridiculous mix of a Scottish kilt and a bathrobe—something they called a
gho
. Then Tim noticed a rough narrow trail which broke off to his right and descended through the scrub brush. “Where does that go?” He cringed when he heard the words whistle through the gap in his teeth.
That bitch
, he thought for the hundredth time.

“To bottom of mountain.”

“Why the hell didn't we come up that way?” This other trail looked to be a more direct route than the circuitous traversing of the mountainside they'd hiked.

“Too dangerous for tourists. Very steep. You not last ten minutes without slipping and sliding down mountain.”

“Bullshit,” Tim said, wondering why they couldn't hire guides who spoke proper English. “Someone's been using it.” Tim had followed enough deer trails while hunting to recognize a currently used path.

“Some of the younger monks use it, when they are in a hurry.”

“How much faster?”

“About half time, if you don't fall.”

Tim eyed the trail again before continuing around another bend. The dirt path in front of them then opened to a small clearing, revealing the cafeteria. Tim soon discovered that the Bhutanese used the term “cafeteria” to describe all restaurants, although even “restaurant” was an ambitious description for this one-room wooden structure with a flimsy tin roof. Tim's attention, however, was immediately drawn from the nondescript building to the mountainside now visible to the left of the cafeteria. The dirt path transitioned to stone steps. The steep and narrow steps hugged the face of the mountain, weaving upward along the sheer granite cliff, which dropped to the valley two thousand feet below. The sight at the top of the steps left Tim in awe.

“Ah, Taktshang Goemba.” The guide gestured toward the Tiger's Nest Monastery, a satisfied look on his face. He must have been accustomed to seeing the amazed expressions of tourists, but Tim didn't believe one could ever become accustomed to such a view. He wondered how the simple monks ever built such a thing.

The monastery balanced on an impossibly narrow ledge on the sheer side of the black granite cliff. The painted white stone blocks of the monastery walls ascended the rising ledge in a steplike fashion, as if the walls had organically sprouted from the mountain itself. While no section of the monastery appeared to be more than two stories in height, the total structure climbed five levels. Multiple red metal roofs covered the various articulated sections of the monastery, the highest of which were topped with golden pagoda-styled structures.

As physically impressive as the sight was, Tim was most impressed by the military advantages of the location. The monks would have a commanding
view of the entire Paro valley from the red- and gold-painted wood windows. Furthermore, since the structure was built two-thirds of the way up the cliff, the only way to access it would be along the narrow stone steps that snaked up to the gatehouse at the base of the monastery. An army of invaders could never lay siege to the monastery from either above or below.
No
, Tim thought,
the only workable approach was a covert one at night
. He realized he had an advantage too; there would be no army of invaders when he returned later that night, but rather an army of one.

The Bible clearly declared Tim's God-fearing way of life as sacred, and Tim remembered the punishment for those who would deny Jesus—fire, suffering, and death. Once he had the texts in hand, he would take care of Grant Matthews and Kristin Misaki. This time there would be no playing around with that half-breed bitch. She and her boyfriend would not be given an opportunity to escape.

Grant and Kristin descended the metal stairs of the plane onto the tarmac of Paro International Airport. The terminal ahead of them, with its whitewashed stone walls and intricately carved wood trim, looked more like a dzong than an airport building. While zipping up his fleece against the air, which had grown considerably cooler in the time since he'd left Bhutan, Grant noticed the sleek white lines of a corporate jet parked at the edge of the tarmac, unusual in such an out-of-the-way country. Probably some celebrity or corporate tycoon hoping to escape his hectic life in the last Shangri-La of the Himalayas.

After clearing customs, Grant and Kristin emerged from the opposite side of the terminal. They found Jigme waiting for them on the sidewalk amid a handful of tour guides and drivers. Kristin dropped her backpack and embraced Jigme first, holding him for a full minute. He'd exchanged the civilian clothes Grant had last seen his friend wearing in Agra for his crimson robes.

“How are you feeling?” Jigme asked. He held Kristin at arm's length and studied her bruised face. Grant had relayed the details of her kidnapping in his last email.

“Just some bumps and bruises. At least I wasn't shot.” She touched his shoulder. Jigme's arm was in a sling made of the same fabric as his robes.

“Oh, my wound is healing fine.” After Jigme embraced Grant, he led them across the parking lot to a waiting taxi. “On the way to your hotel, you can tell me about Sarnath,” Jigme said with curiosity in his eyes. Although Grant believed his laptop to be secure since he cleansed it of the spyware, he didn't want to take any unnecessary risks. He hadn't yet revealed to Jigme the location of their next, and he hoped final, stop.

After loading the bags in the back of a beige Land Rover and starting down the bumpy road, Grant tapped Jigme, who sat in the front passenger seat. He asked the question that had been on his mind since they'd left Sarnath. “Any word from Kinley?”

Jigme shook his head. “Rumor among my fellow monks is that he's in Bhutan.”

“Rumor,” Grant chided him. “I thought one of the steps of the Buddha's Fourth Noble Truth is Right Speech.”

“I'm happy to see you were listening on those grumpy days of yours here.” Jigme smiled. “Although gossip is frowned upon in my religion, rumors spread through the monasteries faster than fire through a candle factory.”