The Breath of God (8 page)

Tim glanced in the rearview mirror at the tank in the back of the van. He had practiced for the past two weeks getting the mixture of ammonium nitrate and fuel oil, or ANFO, correct. The recipes Tim had downloaded from the Internet each differed on the proper ratio of fertilizer to fuel. He knew that fertilizer alone, which he'd been accumulating and storing in a mini-warehouse for the past three months, could be detonated with a blasting cap, creating a powerful explosion. But pure fertilizer tended to absorb moisture, making detonation unpredictable. His mission wouldn't tolerate unpredictability. Adding the fuel oil in a precise amount solved that issue. He wished that he'd had access to C-4 like he did in his Army days, but he was confident that the ANFO would be just as effective.

Reaching to the dashboard for his smartphone, which also doubled as a GPS receiver, Tim noted that the blinking dot of his destination was just a few blocks away. The campus streets were quiet, as he'd expected them to be at four AM on a weeknight. When he slowed to turn onto Clifton Road, he again caught the headlights in his rearview mirror. The vehicle tailing him followed his turn into the heart of the Emory campus.

He clicked the radio off. He needed to concentrate. Passing the sign for the Rollins School of Public Health, he took the immediate left onto Michael Street and then parked the van on the right curb in front of the complex of beige buildings that made up the main campus of the Centers for Disease Control. He immediately cut the ignition and the lights. Tim glanced into the rearview mirror and smiled. Johnny was no longer behind him. He'd turned his Ford truck onto Houston Mill Road where he would wait, just as Tim had instructed him to do. If they were being watched, no one would've guessed that they worked together.

Tim clicked off the phone and stuffed it into his pocket. From the backpack, he then removed the electronic timer. He'd preset the timer for one hour. Tim then searched the floor of the front seat for anything that might have fallen out of his pack.

“No evidence left behind,” he mumbled. The heat from the explosion should incinerate everything, but those FBI forensic guys were crafty.

Next Tim leaned between the two front seats and attached the electronic timer to the two wires coming from the large tank. Building the timer had
been child's play. When the red LED lights on the timer reached zero, an electrical pulse would travel from the battery across the wires to the detonation charges duct-taped to the container of ANFO. The results would be spectacular.

He reached a gloved finger for the green button on the timer. Then the itching started. At first Tim felt a slight tingle on his left forearm. Quickly it spread to his right. His fucking eczema. He'd applied his lotion when he'd suited up earlier, but it didn't matter. The tingle morphed into a full-fledged burn. Tim imagined the scaly surface of his skin cracking like clay mud drying in the summer sun. The desire to scratch became overpowering, but he didn't have time for that. The streets were clear and the buildings dark. Clenching his jaw, he stabbed at the timer.

1:00:00.

59:59.

Before opening the van door, Tim confirmed that the van's interior dome light was off.

57:48.

57:47.

Stepping into the night, he blended into the shadows in his black cargo pants and black wool sweater. He was well-concealed, but what was he thinking wearing wool? He pulled off his gloves, stuffed them in his pockets, and raked his fingernails across his forearms as he hurried by the buildings that housed the CDC.

Atlanta was such a target-rich environment of sinfulness—strip clubs, adult bookstores, CNN, Hindu temples and Islamic mosques, the multiple liberal universities—that deciding which of these to hit first had been difficult. He'd ultimately picked the CDC because of the agency's global research on women's health and reproductive issues, which Tim understood was a code for abortion. Then there were the various genetic experiments and the research into Ebola and smallpox as potential biological weapons that he was sure also occurred there.
This quasi-governmental organization is an abomination,
he thought. These arrogant scientists were playing God, even though they didn't believe in him. That its main campus was embedded in the heart
of Emory University, one of the most liberal schools in the Southeast, was an added bonus. He would show them. His mission's purpose was not loss of life but something more powerful:
fear
.

Tim picked up his pace, continuing to block out the itching with sheer force of will. Tonight would start a new and more purposeful chapter in his life. He found Johnny's pickup around the corner, just where he'd told his childhood friend to park. Johnny might be a doofus, Tim thought, but he was reliable.

English Literature Professor Martha Simpson woke up and reached for the cell phone on the bedside table. She squinted against the glare of the blue light to read the time: 4:45 AM. The man sleeping next to her lifted a corner of the flannel sheets and rolled it tightly to his chest. Using her phone to light her way, she found the armchair in the corner of the room where her midnight blue suit lay folded. As she quietly dressed, she studied the figure snoring under the bunched-up blanket.

Harold Billingsly, holder of the distinguished Winchester Professorship of Religion, was the first man she had dated since her husband had died suddenly of a heart attack last year. She'd been determined to take things slowly and was surprised to find herself here in his town house in the center of the Emory campus on the night of their fourth date. She knew that Harold had been divorced for three years, and his distinguished looks and engaging demeanor had intrigued her for years. He'd been sweet to her after Arthur's death, and their relationship developed naturally. Still, she felt uncomfortable having slept with him so soon. Martha was unsure what relationships in your late forties were supposed to look like.

After she kissed Harold on the forehead, she tiptoed down the hardwood steps to his front door. The cool autumn air woke her fully. She wrapped her red pashmina around her neck and headed down the sidewalk toward the Michael Street parking deck, where she had parked the night before. She was anxious to make it back to her apartment to tend to her cat, who surely would be wondering where she was. She'd have plenty of time to prepare herself for the day's classes.

G
RANT TAPPED HIS FINGERS on his cast while he pulsed his healthy left foot to the same imaginary beat. He felt as jacked up as he used to feel when he chased NoDoz with Red Bull while studying for exams. But today he'd only consumed a single cup of tea with his ten o'clock breakfast an hour earlier.

He lay on a granite knee wall, which surrounded the single tree in the center of the dzong's flagstone courtyard. The journey down the tall, narrow steps from the second floor of the monastery had taken every bit of his energy, but he was pleased that he'd been able to make it down three days in a row. The October sun cast a golden glow behind his closed eyes. Grant tried to pay attention to the path his breath took as it entered his nostrils and filled his lungs, like Kinley had taught him, but his mind wasn't cooperating today. Not only did the chatter of a British tour group taking pictures inside the dzong distract him, he had too much to think through.

After a week of not-too-subtle requests, he'd finally convinced Kinley to show him the Issa manuscripts, and Grant thought that surely today would be the day. Grant knew that his new friend was risking a lot by taking him to the library, which was off limits to foreigners. Unfortunately, Kinley had insisted that the texts remain there. Bhutan had stringent laws against removing cultural artifacts from the country, with the penalty being a long prison term in a primitive jail cell. In an attempt to preserve its bucolic Buddhist culture and to avoid the pitfalls Nepal had experienced, the government even strictly limited the number of tourist visas granted each year. Grant was confident he
could work around this problem. Maybe he would lead a group of distinguished scholars back to study the texts.

Even through his closed eyes, Grant could picture the nearby utse tower, rising from the courtyard like a watchtower overlooking a fortress. Similar to the rest of the dzong's architecture, the tower's stone walls were stark white, accented with hand-painted wood molding in vibrant reds and yellows, but unlike the other buildings, this tallest one was capped with a gold dome. And the library on its top floor possibly held the treasure Grant was banking his career on. If authentic, the texts would answer one of the great puzzles of the New Testament, and that answer would alter people's understanding of Christianity. A small voice in his head told him that such a revelation would be disturbing, even threatening to many people, but that wasn't his concern. His job was to uncover the historical truth.

The anticipation began to build within him. Soon it ran hot through his veins. The possibilities spun in his head:
These must be the texts related to the book that Nicholas Notovitch uncovered more than a century ago
. He imagined the shock that Professor Billingsly would display when he called to explain the discovery. Early on, Billingsly had encouraged Grant to pursue other topics for his dissertation, but once Grant had made a decision, no one could shake him from his course. Now he would finally show his mentor that his pursuit hadn't been in vain.

Waiting for Kinley to finish teaching his morning class to the younger monks was difficult for Grant, but lying out in the sun was far better than being confined to the small cell of a room he'd been living in all these weeks.

“That doesn't look very comfortable,” said a female voice with an American accent.

Grant opened his eyes and blinked from the midday sun. When his vision adjusted, he noticed first the mass of curly black-as-night hair draped around a Nikon camera lens.

“Often sleep in monastery courtyards?” she asked from behind the camera.

Propping himself on his elbow, he knocked on his cast. “Not too mobile right now.”

Now that he was upright, she was no longer backlit by the sun. He immediately noticed her unusual sense of style: hiking boots, black sweatpants with
an expensive-looking violet silk scarf twisted around her waist, faded tie-dyed T-shirt under a lime green fleece, and various multicolored beaded bracelets on both wrists. No watch.

“Make the cast yourself?” She laughed as she continued to photograph him.

“I might as well have.” He smiled and pulled off a dangling chunk of plaster that had peeled from his picking it out of boredom. “My medical options were somewhat limited. Broke it kayaking on the Mo Chhu.”

“Impressive.”

“Not really.” He cast his eyes to the stone pavers on the ground. “My guide died.” The pain of his failed rescue attempt still weighed on him most nights as he struggled to sleep.

“I'm sorry.” She lowered the camera, reached out with her free hand, and touched his cast. A smile spread across her face. “Bet it's hard to go to the bathroom.”

Grant paused, unsure how to respond.

She extended her hand. “Kristin Misaki, by the way.”

Grant shook it for a moment longer than he should have, reveling in his first touch of the opposite sex in many weeks. Her grip was stronger than the delicate bones in her hand suggested, and he noted that she didn't release his hand until he did.

“Grant. Grant Matthews.”

“Well, Grant Matthews, what brings you to the other side of the world, other than the superb medical care?”

Grant gave a vague description of his research in India, delighted to have a young, attractive woman for company. As he spoke, she hopped onto the knee wall and sat cross-legged next to him. He noticed a two-inch-wide strand of burgundy hair nestled in among her natural jet black locks. Like her hands, her face suggested a delicate bone structure, but she held his gaze as confidently as she'd held her grip. Her eyes shone with an intense blue that one might find in a person of Scandinavian descent but were shaped like the Asian heritage her last name implied. While the hair and the clothes said “artsy” to him, not his type—too much unpredictability and drama—she was stunning. He tried not to stare.

When he finished describing his journey, she asked, “So, religious studies PhD—planning on becoming a priest?”

“Me, a minister?” He laughed. The image of his father immediately popped into his head: the flushed face berating his parishioners about the consequences of their sins and frightening them with his mythology of the End Times with the same sanctimonious tone he used to hound Grant at the dinner table. He forced the memory out of his mind.

“No, I'm strictly an academic. Research and writing. Maybe teach some, if I can get around my whole public speaking problem.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. Something in the directness of her gaze made him forget about his internal censor. Admitting a weakness like that was not the way to impress a woman.