by Blake Banner
She stared at me a moment, then did a comic imitation of Guzman, “Fock you! You know what I’m saying? You onerstand me? Fock you!”
I laughed. “Come on, Dehan. You have an apartment and a life. I can’t expect you…”
“What?” She jerked her head at me. “You don’t like having me around? Fock you! I’m a pain in your ass? Tough shit! You think I don’t know what you’d do if you were alone? Eat take out and drink whiskey. You can do that when you’re healed. Meantime I’m making sure you eat. Like my great-grandmother used to say, ‘You’ll die, but first you’ll eat.’ Now get in the fockin’ car. We’re going home.”
She got in and slammed the door, and I climbed in after her.
“Every time you quote that story, it’s a different person.”
“Yeah, well…” She turned the key and the big engine growled. “They all said it. And now I say it.”
She pulled out of the bay in the parking lot on Fteley Avenue, switched on the headlamps, and we headed home.
TWENTY THREE
She stood in the kitchen, still in her coat, looking down at the screen of her phone, while I lowered myself carefully onto the sofa. She had an open bottle of beer in front of her on the breakfast counter, and I had a glass of Bushmills on a small table beside me. When I’d finished wincing and easing myself into position, I said, “Everything okay?”
She looked up. She looked like a person who has just been awed into silence. Finally, she said, “It’s an email, from the stupa at Jetavanaramaya. It says that Ananda is no longer there. He hasn’t been for a long time.”
I groaned. “Shit! Do they know where he is?”
She nodded. “Yeah, he’s on a mission.”
“A mission? What is he, some kind of Buddhist secret agent?”
“Don’t be stupid. A mission, like the Christians had missions.”
“Oh, yeah. Okay. So where is he?”
“At the Top of the World Stupa…”
“Where? What? The Top of the World…?”
“The Top of the World Stupa. Stone… it’s eighty miles outside Phoenix, Arizona.”
I smiled and closed my eyes. After a moment I reached in my pocket and pulled out my cell. I opened my eyes again and Dehan was staring at me.
“What does it mean?”
“It means you have to book us onto the first flight to Phoenix in the morning. Get a car, too.” I smiled. “I’m going to call Newman.”
She stood staring at me while I dialed. Then, she opened her laptop and started rattling at the keys.
Newman listened in silence while I explained about the Buddhist temple. He stayed silent for a while after I’d finished, too. Then, he said, “This is it, isn’t it, Stone?”
I nodded even though he couldn’t see me. “Yeah. This is it.”
“Good luck. You’re there unofficially, you understand.”
“Yes.”
“You think Philips is dead?”
“I think so. I’m not sure.”
“Okay, keep me posted.”
I hung up and Dehan said, “Seven fifty-five tomorrow morning. We get in thirty-five minutes after eleven. I booked a Mustang Cabrio convertible, too.”
“Good.” I closed my eyes again. I felt suddenly drained. I spoke as though I was half asleep. “You better get us a room, too. We don’t know how long this is going to take.”
“A room?”
I opened my eyes and looked at her. She was smiling with hooded eyes.
“Yeah, in case we have to stay over a couple of nights.”
“I’ll get us a couple of rooms, shall I?”
“Yeah—that’s what I meant, Dehan!”
“Dirty old man.”
“Shut up. I’m wounded.”
“Dirty old man.”
“You wish.”
* * *
It was sunny and warm in Arizona.
We picked up the Hohokam Expressway just outside Phoenix International Airport, under a brilliant, clear blue sky, and headed south till we came to Highway 60 and then turned east through the heart of town. Highway 60 through Phoenix is kind of weird, because it is bounded most of the way by high walls, so you can’t see the acres of low houses with their swimming pools and desert gardens. All you can see is the long, straight highway, and the high, concrete walls with tall, thin palm trees towering over them against the perfect, azure sky.
After about half an hour, we finally emerged into the desert, the road veered south and east and we began to rise steadily through Gold Canyon, toward the Superstition Mountains. After ten minutes, we turned east again and began to climb through wide desert scrubland populated with small, gnarled bushes and tall saguaro cacti. After another half hour, the desert landscape began to be replaced by pine woods, steep mountain sides, and deep gorges. Finally, we came to the small town of Top of the World. There we turned onto a dirt track that claimed to be North Pinal Ranch Road and led us through pine forests on a steady climb toward a weird, fantastical, gleaming white temple at the top of a high ridge overlooking the town.
We wound our way up the dirt track for another five minutes and finally came to a large, modern complex of concrete and glass buildings, surrounded by lush gardens. Palms, cacti, and abundant exotic flowers had been arranged around a network of fountains, ponds, and streams with small wooden bridges. A series of signposts directed us to a near-empty parking lot. Dehan killed the engine and we climbed out.
We stood looking at the surreal arrangement of structures and gardens. The track went right through it and continued, up a smaller hill to the vast, domed, gleaming white stupa. It was crowned with a golden spire that shone in the winter sun, and pointed up to the vast, clear dome of heaven.
Dehan took hold of her long, black hair and tied it in a loose knot at the back of her neck. “What is this place? It’s like something out of one of those weird 1960s science fiction movies.”
“I think it’s a monastery.”
“So you think they have a reception desk or something?”
“Let’s go and find out.” We followed a footpath through gardens and over a bridge that spanned a narrow stream to a large building with broad, glass doors into a cavernous room with no windows. The floor was tiled in marble and the walls were painted in elaborate frescos that seemed to depict scenes from Buddha’s life. Stacked in a corner was a pile of mats and small cushions. Dehan removed her aviators and muttered, “It reminds me of a dojo.”
“I think you’re not far off. I think this is where they meditate.”
We stepped out again and crossed a paved area, past a large pond, and headed toward another building which was almost as long, but was on two floors and had plenty of windows. It had ‘administration’ written all over it. As we approached, the door opened and a young man with very short hair, jeans, and a sweatshirt came toward us, smiling.
“You look lost,” he said with all the subtlety of a man in his twenties who has just discovered a spiritual path. I ignored him with all the subtlety of a man in his forties who has met a lot of men in their twenties who have discovered a spiritual path.
Dehan asked him, “Do you work here?”
“I have some duties here,” he answered as though he was gently correcting an error in her perception of truth.
I said, “Good. We are looking for somebody. Maybe you can help us find him.”
“Who are you looking for?” He clasped his hands together, like he was going to pray for us to find what we were seeking.
Dehan said, “His name is Ananda Sri Pannasiha. He’s from Sri Lanka.”
He smiled beatifically and nodded several times with his eyes closed. “Sangha Nayaka Ananda Sri Pannasiha is the senior monk here. He is up at the stupa at present, tending the gardens. Please…” He bowed slightly and gestured with his hand for us to follow the path up to the temple. “He will be pleased to see you and answer your questions.”
I frowned at him. “How did you know we had questions for him?”
“
Everybody who comes here has questions for Nayaka Ananda.”
“Thanks.”
He bowed and withdrew like someone auditioning for one of the sillier parts on Star Trek, and Dehan and I started our own trek up the path toward the temple. It was slightly more than three hundred yards, but it was up hill and it took us about ten minutes to reach the steep, white steps that led to the temple doors. The structure was magnificent. It inspired both awe and peace at the same time. Broad gardens surrounded it with palms, cacti, bright flowers, and sand and stones of remarkable colors, arranged in patterns that were startling and evocative.
At the back, we found a stream with a red, wooden bridge over it. Beyond the bridge, there was a man in a saffron robe, down on his knees tending to a bed of flowering shrubs. As we approached, I began to see him more clearly. He looked as though he was in his early sixties. His skin was dark and weathered from the desert. His hair was cut very short and seemed to be turning to gray. From what I could see he was slim and lithe, and strong.
We crossed the bridge and stood at the edge of the garden looking down at him. He turned to face us and shielded his eyes from the sun, which was low in the southern sky. I smiled at him and said, “Adrian Simon Philips?”
He smiled and stood, stepping out of the garden so that the sun was no longer in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I am blinded by the light.” He laughed. “I’m afraid Adrian Philips is dead. I am Ananda. Can I help you?”
He spoke what the Brits call cut glass English. The English of the upper classes, Oxford Dons and High Court Judges.
“I hope so,” I said. “You sound and look more English than Sri Lankan.”
He chuckled. “Karmapa once said, ‘Anyone who thinks that reality is an illusion is an idiot. And anyone who thinks it isn’t, is an even bigger idiot.’”
“That’s cute. It also doesn’t mean anything and neatly avoids answering my question.”
“I am sorry, I wasn’t aware you had asked a question. I thought you had simply made an observation. Who are you?”
“My name is John Stone, and this is Carmen Dehan. We are detectives with the New York Police Department. We have no jurisdiction in Arizona, so we are not here in an official capacity.”
“Oh, yes, I understand. And you are looking for Adrian Philips because you are reopening the investigation into David Thorndike’s murder, and his investigation into Carol Hennessy.”
“You’re well informed.”
He laughed. “Oh, yes! Yes, I am very well informed.” He pointed at an oxblood pagoda where there was a round table with some chairs. “If you’ll join me in some tea, I will try to answer as many of your questions as I can.”
We followed him along the short, graveled path and climbed the steps into the pagoda. There he produced from somewhere, it may have been in his robes, a brass bell which he rang vigorously just before he sat. We sat, too, and a few moments later a young girl in her early twenties appeared. She had a stud in her nose, faded jeans, and a gray sweater. She ignored us and bowed to Ananda.
“Nayaka Ananda.”
“Bring us some tea, would you, Betty? Thank you.”
She left and he looked at Dehan and then at me. “What would you like to know?”
“Was Adrian Philips employed by Senator Carol Hennessy to murder these people?”
I reached in my pocket and handed him the list that we had been sent. He took it and examined it carefully, name by name. Then he nodded and handed it back.
“Yes, these and a few more. I would be happy to provide you with a complete list.”
Dehan shook her head. “If you are not Adrian Philips, why have you got that kind of detailed knowledge?”
His look was direct and unwavering. He seemed to hold her face in the invisible grip of his mind as he answered, “Don’t ask why, Carmen. It’s an impossible question to answer. How do I have this detailed knowledge about Adrian? Because I know Adrian very intimately. We were very close. When he died, I…” He took a deep breath and paused, like he was scanning a list of possible verbs. Finally, he said, “I inherited his files and documents, and a great deal of information.”
“Did Adrian die in Pakistan, in 2007?”
“That was one of the places where he died.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“We die and re-become at every instant, Carmen, in a million tiny ways. But some people die in major ways, at major points in their lives. They experience catastrophic change, which annihilate their identity, such as it was, and they become something, or someone new. That happened to Adrian several times. The last was in a very appropriate bomb blast in Pakistan.” He smiled at her. “But your pursuit of Adrian will not move you along in your hunt for David Thorndike’s killer. It will only tantalize your curiosity, lead you astray and fail to satisfy you.”
Betty appeared with a tray, a teapot, and three cups. She set it down on the table and poured for us. The tea was pale green and smelled slightly of rosemary and fennel. She bowed to Ananda and left.
I said, “Did you supply David with documentary, video, and audio proof of Adrian’s work for Hennessy?”
He nodded. “Yes, I did. I gave him copies of the originals, which I have here.” He paused for a moment, as though thinking. Then he said, “Adrian Simon Philips, had he ever had the good sense to go to a psychologist, would probably have been diagnosed as a sociopath. He was completely devoid, at least as far as he was aware, of any capacity for compassion or empathy. He could look on the suffering of others without any feeling at all. In that sense he was the mirror image of the Buddha, whose entire motivation in life was to help people to stop suffering. That is what is at the heart of Buddhism.
“Adrian was physically very strong and very healthy. He realized in his teens that he could make a lucrative career out of killing, because it was something that commanded a very high price and which very few people had the skill and the emotional capacity to do. So he joined the SAS, became highly skilled, and also well connected. When he was ready to move on, into the private sector, he set about torturing a prisoner. The British Army frowns on that kind of thing, so he was dishonorably discharged. This, of course, in the market that he was looking to open up, was like having a PhD. It demonstrated exactly what he wanted his clients to know—he had no compassion. He would go well beyond where most other people would pull back.
“He did a number of jobs for the Russian Mafia and a few Middle Eastern and African governments. His speciality was the untraceable kill, and that soon got him noticed by the Hennessys. They employed him, and set about systematically eliminating all of their enemies, both in industry and in politics. His instructions were not only to kill them, but to strike fear deep into the hearts of all of those with whom the Hennessys had dealings. This he did, very successfully.
“Unlike most killers, Adrian had a very good intellect. His IQ was up in the hundred and fifties. He was a genius, and he was blessed with a total lack of respect for authority, as well as a total absence of fear where other men were concerned. It was not difficult for him to manipulate the Hennessys. His supreme arrogance and his ruthlessness fascinated them. He arranged several meetings with them in which they discussed in depth the jobs he had done, and the jobs he was in the process of doing for them, in the context of their long-term plans. He filmed and recorded all of those meetings. His intention was to blackmail them and become immeasurably rich and powerful by controlling these preeminent figures in world politics.
“But, after about six or seven years, it is hard to be precise, he began to die. He began to realize something very important about himself. It was not that he was incapable of compassion and empathy, but that he had simply buried those processes, those mechanisms of the psyche, those emotions in his unconscious mind. In much the same way that we are usually unaware of the backs of our knees because we never think of them. We are only ever conscious of what we focus our mind on. What we don’t focus on, we are not aware of. And
gradually Adrian began to focus his mind, his imagination, on other people’s pain. And in so doing, he started to become aware of it.
“The full extent of this horror is something that very few people could ever comprehend. Because the fear, pain, and emotional agony of every one of his victims, and their loved ones, began to haunt him. And his imagination made him more vividly aware of them every single day. Until he believed he was going insane. Not losing his mind, because losing his mind would have been a blessing, but sinking into his mind, as though his mind were hell itself.
“He had studied Zen Buddhism for many years as part of his training in the martial arts. And now, much like the samurai of old Japan, he turned to Buddhism, and in particular, Theravada Buddhism. Because this branch of Buddhism is most concerned with the doctrine of kama, or, as you probably know it in Sanskrit, karma. Action and intention, and the consequences thereof.
“He found a degree of peace and set about trying to improve his very dark kama, by meditation and by helping as many people as he could to move out of suffering and into joy.
“Then, in October of 2007, he was destroyed in a bomb blast. But, as I say, he left me all his knowledge and all his documents, electronic and otherwise. To which, you are most welcome.”
For a moment, looking into his extraordinarily direct, honest eyes, I felt a cold chill run down my back, as though I was in the presence of something that was not entirely of this world. It was as though I knew that he and Adrian Philips were both the same person, and yet also two entirely different people.
I dismissed the notion and said, “Thank you, Ananda, that would be really very helpful.”
“Not just for you,” he said and smiled. “But for this poor, beleaguered nation.”
I frowned. “Yes, I guess so.”
He turned and gazed at Dehan’s face for a long moment, then he turned and gazed at me. He smiled and said, “May I suggest that you take the afternoon to rest and relax? You are welcome to walk in our gardens if you like. I have some chores I need to finish. This evening, I will gather together all Adrian’s belongings, and, if you will drive up here tomorrow morning, I will hand them over to you. If you need me to come to New York at any time, to give a statement or testify at trial, I will be happy to do so.” His smile broadened. “But for now, John, I think you really need to rest that shoulder. And your heart. The heart is not an organ we should neglect. Look what happened to Adrian when he neglected his.” He stood and moved toward the steps. “Enjoy your tea. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
