Chapter 15
Kolkata
They called them “Heaven’s Steps.”
Ria Kapoor plodded her way steadily upward along the mountainous trail in the same unbearable pain that had wracked her body for days. She wore her finest dress. She stopped to catch her breath and looked around her. The blood that pooled in her mouth from the open sores in her gums was now a familiar taste. She spat onto a mound of rocks beside her. Kapoor was only twenty yards from the crest of the barren hilltop, but she didn’t believe the summit ahead was possible to reach. Exhausted, her breathing severely labored, she tried once again to put one foot in front of the other. She reckoned it would be another ten minutes before the edge of the cliff was hers.
The spot she chose to leap from was carefully selected. Not far from the home where she was born, the hillside was steep and rose like a protective sentry above the neighborhoods and playgrounds she had known so well as a child. She wanted to ascend into heaven from ground that was familiar.
Her symptoms had worsened. Flulike headaches, fever, nausea, and aching joints a week before had quickly graduated to attacks on her lymph nodes. Massive sores and pustules in her armpits, neck, and groin had spread to her limbs. Her blackened hands and fingers showed the first signs of gangrene. She had seen the terrible disease take the life of many neighbors in Kolkata. She knew from the onset of her respiratory problems and the vomiting of blood that the end was near. The lucky ones had passed in two days. Her only consolation for lasting a few weeks was the chance it provided to make good-bye calls to friends and family and set her affairs in order.
She was sure God had shown his vengeance for what she’d done. It was anger from the heavens above so great the world was to suffer forever. Unlike the others, she knew she was partly to blame for the curse. She knew she deserved to die. Her only hope was that God would have mercy on her soul and lead her to another, everlasting life.
Many thousands of others across her homeland had ascended Heaven’s Steps of their own accord and leaped to their deaths in recent weeks to avoid the dreadful scourge. Some had chosen to leap from bridges that, in turn, created open mass graves below. Spans across the country were now guarded by police and forced to close. But alternatives abounded. Building rooftops, cliffsides, treetops, radio and water towers—even airplanes chartered for the sole purpose of suicidal jumps had become commonplace.
Others who had contracted the unforgiving illness and could not suffer the days of agony they had witnessed all around them chose to end their lives in less “romantic” ways. They stepped in front of fast-moving cars on the freeway or trains on their tracks to bring a quick end to their misery. In the process, they created havoc across the continent as those vital modes of transportation nearly ground to a halt, struggling to deal with the bloody calamity.
Entire families chose to die together. They held hands and chewed on morphine tablets until the end mercifully came. The government, helpless to aid the overwhelming number of afflicted, had no choice but to resort to dispensing cyanide pills to those who begged for relief.
Many believed they were seeing the “end of days” and participated in celebrations or acts of mass euphoria. Reports of robberies, murders, and rapes across the country had more than tripled in the span of several months. Police were called upon to quell spontaneous riots that broke out in a dozen major cities. Acts of violence, many involving religious rivalries in an effort to cast blame for the scourge, were commonplace.
Having finally reached the top of the hill, Kapoor stood motionless and out of breath at the cliff’s edge as she looked out over the idyllic village where she was born. Modest, pristine, and orderly homes with manicured gardens and verdant slopes dotted the familiar countryside. As the setting sun dipped below the horizon, she could see the house where she was raised far off in the distance. She wondered if a young woman lived there now and whether the world would ever hold promise for such a girl as it once did for her. She wondered where in the world the deep and meaningful thoughts she expected at this moment could have possibly gone. She considered her last few weeks of life and remembered only the common things. Walking her cherished dog. A favorite show on TV. A phone call with her mother, who had passed just days before. She wondered if she had remembered to lock her home. And there was laundry still to do.
Bowing her head at the cliff’s edge, Kapoor made the sign of the cross. Then she bent at the knees and, with the last bit of strength she had, leaped bravely from Heaven’s Steps.
Chapter 16
Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania
Bondurant grimaced slightly as he set his empty plastic cup on the table and poured his third shot of Macallan. He looked on as Father Parenti pulled the plastic floral-print curtains across the only window in the room, their temporary lodging on the second floor of the Motel 6, now allowing only a few slivers of dull light inside.
The gray afternoon haze had swept southwest along Interstate 78. Mechanicsburg was the picture of a nonpicturesque town in which to lie low on their way to meet Domenika at Dulles Airport. They had put François Laurent and Paris in their sights.
Four hours had passed since Bondurant’s media event in New York City that morning. His plan had worked. He’d been safe from all that had come, including a couple of Meyer’s helpless goons, able to hide in plain sight among the crush of reporters who had packed the room to catch his every word. A quick escape backstage from anyone who wanted a piece of him had worked well. A fast private elevator to the basement of the Waldorf Astoria hotel did the trick. Two sleek black Cadillac Escalades had waited there underground to whisk them away. That and some high-speed evasive driving in the Lincoln Tunnel had ensured they hadn’t been tailed.
For now, they were safe from the threat from Meyer. Outside, near the motel’s office, an art deco sign cut through the haze: “Color TV/Air Conditioning.” At the moment, of the motel’s premier offerings, Bondurant’s only interest was the color TV.
“That’s three, Doctor,” Parenti implored. “And it’s not even noon.”
Bondurant knew the priest’s goal was to slow his frenetic mind. Domenika had insisted he go along.
Parenti stole another look at the device Bondurant wore on his wrist. The dial read 18:06. He could tell by the look on the priest’s face that the blue digital numerals had confounded him once again. He still wore the “silly contraption,” as Domenika called it, the band on his wrist routinely mistaken for a watch. It was his “life meter.” Patented by Bondurant years before, it was the only one in the world. It summarized in actuarial fashion every conceivable genetic trait and risk factor he could input, as well as the present state of his physical health and lifestyle. It then estimated to the year and month the amount of time he had left on earth. That is, if it were natural causes that led to his demise.
Bondurant recalled that at least a year had been subtracted off his dial in just the past few weeks. No doubt they were under great stress. There’d been the need for the temporary security detail he’d hired for the day to protect himself and the priest when they were so out in the open and exposed. While Bondurant was proud of the genius that went into his invention, he also knew it was the paltry amount of time the device computed he had left that often worried Parenti and Domenika much more.
He knew that Parenti, like Domenika, was frustrated with his little vices. He pictured the priest, on this trip as a spy for his wife, sweeping his pack of cigarettes and the glass of Scotch in front of him off the table in a desperate gesture to buy him more time. It was what Domenika would have asked him to do. But he was also certain Parenti would hold his fire for the moment. It had been a tough morning, and today he could tell Parenti was resigned to looking the other way.
Bondurant sat alone at a small table as he channel-surfed for news programs that might cover the headlines of the day, one in particular that involved him. Parenti, relaxing across the bed, was delighted to find a cheap mint candy atop a pillow behind him. Aldo rested safely beside the
little priest in the crook of his arm and enjoyed his tiny share of the sweet surprise. Parenti rose from the bed and leaned in toward Bondurant as if to confide in him.
“What did you think of the pompous fool?” Parenti said in a low voice. “He arrives from out of nowhere at dinner last night, and now it’s like old home week around here.”
“Which pompous fool are you talking about?” Bondurant asked. Dozens of Church officials had flown in from Rome to attend his press conference. “The restaurant was full of them. I felt like the whole Catholic Church was there to celebrate my demise.”
“How could you miss him?” the priest said. The disgust in Parenti’s voice was clear. “I’m talking about Father De Santis, the one in love with Domenika.”
Bondurant was midway through a large gulp of Scotch and nearly choked getting it down. He turned his head toward Parenti in an instant. “In love with Domenika? You have to be kidding me.”
“Oh, I know the type,” Parenti said.
“The last thing I’m worried about is her running away with a man who wears the collar.”
“Then you’re naive, my friend,” Parenti said. The priest placed a hand on his hip and imitated Domenika in a moment of sheer delight as she described her longtime friend. “ ‘Giancarlo is divine! Giancarlo was my mentor! Giancarlo! Giancarlo!’ I’ve never seen her so animated over someone. I tell you, I don’t like the smell of it.”
Bondurant laughed for the first time that day. Aldo joined in with a sudden bark.
“If I didn’t know you so well, Father, I’d say you were jealous. Is that it?”
Parenti turned as red as the burgundy bedspread beside him and sat back down on the bed. He focused on the TV as if to avoid Bondurant’s knowing stare.
“I’m just saying, of all the Vatican representatives who professed to know her, the way he described their relationship was a little too close for comfort to me,” the priest said. “And the Cary Grant looks? He’s trouble. I don’t trust him.”
Before their conversation could continue, news footage played across the screen that caught Bondurant’s eye. He used the remote control to turn up the volume of the TV.
The top news story of the hour, one that Bondurant had followed with an intense interest for months, was about the Devil’s Sweat pandemic, which had ravaged its way across southern Asia from India all the way to the Philippines. The virulence of the unknown microorganism that spread the disease and the lethality of its effects on the population were so powerful that they had earned the nickname from the top epidemiologists at WHO.
The news story entranced Bondurant for good reason. What was once a hunch in his mind about the origin of the plague had now become a well-formed theory: the source of the virus was otherworldly, and the world might be powerless to stop it.
In what was a foreboding sign, the CNN anchor interrupted his exchange with the network’s top health correspondent to cut to a press conference under way in New Delhi. Bondurant leaned in to listen to the story and remembered everything Harrington had told him at Yale only days before.
“Excuse me, could you state your name for the record one more time and for those viewers just joining us?” a correspondent off camera shouted toward the podium.
The striking woman at a lectern that strained under the weight of a mountain of microphones looked perturbed that she would have to repeat herself.
“My name is Dr. Shakira Khan. I am on special assignment with the World Health Organization. I have no formal statement for you at this time. I will take a few questions, and then you will have to let me get back to work.”
Bondurant had heard of Khan before, but this was the first time he had actually gotten a glimpse of her.
Parenti sat transfixed as well by the scene that unfolded before them.
Another reporter’s voice shouted from off camera. “Dr. Khan, is WHO continuing to insist on an indefinite ban on international travel of all kinds in the affected regions in southern Asia? There have been many complaints that these restrictions are harming the ability of families to reunite during this crisis.”
“I would warn anyone considering a defiance of the travel ban to and from the affected areas that they would not only be putting their own lives at risk,” Khan said, “but they would be risking the spread of this disease to their relatives on all seven continents. The path of the disease has widened by a thousand miles in recent weeks because of the wanton actions of many who have defied the ban. Twenty thousand are now dead in Bangkok because of a single air traveler who skirted the rules.”
“But the New York Times is reporting this morning that your travel ban is threatening to bring commerce in one of the world’s largest economies to a halt,” another reporter shouted. “What do you say to that?”
“I say screw the Times,” Khan said. Her penetrating eyes looked to be on fire. “Tomorrow they will be reporting that more than one of every fifty living persons on this planet is likely to succumb to this disease.”
“On what basis do you say that?” another quickly asked.
“On the basis that I just said it, sir,” Khan said. “Look. I’m making news here. N-E-W-S. Here’s your headline. I’ll wait while you jot it down. One in fifty will die. Or would you like me to write the story for you too?”
There was a distinct pause and a stunned silence before another question was cautiously thrown by a reporter in the first row. “How does WHO arrive at those calculations?”
“This presumes the development and rapid fielding of a vaccine in the affected regions within six months, worldwide in one year,” Khan said. “For every year’s delay in finding a cure, our projections are that an additional one percent of the world’s population will perish.”
Bondurant grimaced. Parenti lowered his head.
Another reporter shouted a question. “How does the outbreak of Devil’s Sweat compare to the spread of viruses you’ve seen in the past?”
“If we aren’t able to locate the source of the virus and from it derive a compound to test and then treat the disease,” Khan said, “this one has the potential to easily outdo similar events of historic proportions.”
“Can you be more definitive?” another asked.
Bondurant watched as Khan leaned forward and stared directly into the cameras, as if for effect. He was fascinated by her detached demeanor regarding the numbers and the terrible news.
“We have a runner here. It’s a very fast runner. Meanwhile, we have no way to stop it. No cure. This monster may only run its course once it’s begun to kill off its hosts at a faster rate than they can transmit it.”
Bondurant watched as the room packed with journalists became dead silent.
“Without a vaccine, it’s like a fire that must burn itself out, you see?” Khan said.
Bondurant shook his head. He turned to talk to Parenti, but as he did, the CNN anchor interrupted Khan’s press conference with the story Bondurant had waited the last few hours to hear.
“Sasha, I’m sorry to interrupt, but we have some other breaking news coming out of New York this afternoon. It’s the story we’ve been anticipating for a week. We’ll return to you in just a moment.”
“Okay, here it comes,” Bondurant said as he prepared to take his public beating.
“Apparently, the chief scientist responsible for the famous investigation of the Shroud of Turin that took place two years ago has produced a startling revelation likely to turn both the religious and scientific communities on their heads. Let’s go to Sam Weist in New York, who has that story for us. Sam?”
Bondurant stared grimly at the TV screen. He knew what came next.
“That’s right, Craig. This one’s a head turner, and the Catholic Church and millions of Christians throughout the world have greeted it as welcome news. More than two years ago, we were led to believe that irrefutable scientific evidence existed disproving the authenticity of one of Christianity’s most sacred relics, the burial cloth of Jesus Christ, popularly known as the Shroud
of Turin. We all recall the extraordinary news events at the time stemming from the unprecedented scientific investigation sponsored by the Catholic Church meant to validate the relic after so many years of controversy. That investigation backfired terribly when new evidence uncovered by the group of scientists hired by the Church proved the Shroud to be a hoax.”
The anchor commented, “I know the Church vehemently disputed the results of the investigation, but my understanding is that they have never come forward with any evidence to contradict it. The whole affair was a real embarrassment for the Church and a disappointment to Christians worldwide.”
“That’s right,” the correspondent said. “Well, in an extraordinary turnabout, the chief scientist of that investigation, an atheist and the author of a bestselling book on the subject, Dr. Jon Bondurant, has come forward today to disclaim the results of the investigation he led. He even went so far as to claim foul play by one of the scientists on his team, remarkably pointing a finger at Nobel Prize winner Ravi Sehgal, who you’ll remember was found shot dead in his native India more than a year ago.”
“What exactly is this Dr. Bondurant saying?” the anchor asked. “That there’s now a chance the Shroud is real?”
“Here’s Bondurant from his news conference this morning.”
Bondurant suddenly appeared on the TV screen. He looked confident but contrite as he said, “What I’m saying is that our findings disputing the authenticity of the Shroud of Turin should be discounted. It’s as plain as that. Unfortunately, our evidence was compromised by one of our scientists intent on biasing the investigation. The burial cloth we examined is not the work of some artist experimenting with animal blood, as we first reported. The relic is actually A.D. first century, and all aspects of its nature—including the blood samples gathered from its surface—are not of animal origin. Our findings now are consistent with the alleged story of the crucifixion of one who went by the name of Jesus Christ.”
As he watched himself on the screen, Bondurant flinched at the incompleteness of his statement, but he had no interest in being held up to further ridicule or, worse yet, branded a lunatic as he tried to explain the entire story involving Hans Meyer and the Demanian plot to clone a child from the Shroud.
The Second Coming Page 10
