A flood of questions from the ballroom packed with reporters poured forth. Only the carefully crafted half-truths Bondurant had rehearsed would suffice to prevent further sensationalism or even panic as he tried to explain the unexplainable.
“How could such a fundamental deception occur?” a reporter asked.
“You would have to ask Dr. Sehgal about that, but obviously now that’s impossible,” Bondurant watched himself say.
“What do you know about the circumstances of his death?”
“He shot himself. I’m afraid there isn’t anything more I can add.”
“How did you come to learn of his efforts to compromise the study? Do you believe it’s connected to his suicide?”
“I received evidence from someone I presume worked as one of his assistants. I’ve never heard from him again. As for Sehgal, I presume his reasons for doing what he did died with him.”
“You were the lead scientist in the effort. You oversaw the development of the report. You made a lot of money selling your story. Do you feel the Church is owed an apology?”
On the screen, Bondurant opened his eyes wide and looked straight into the cameras stacked three rows deep. “Yes, I do,” he said. “I failed in my responsibility to deliver findings with true scientific integrity, and I deeply regret the pain this has brought upon the Catholic Church. It sowed confusion for people of faith worldwide. It was my fault we got this wrong, and I am truly sorry we did.”
Chapter 17
Interstate 95, Pennsylvania
Galerkin leaned uncomfortably far over the large steering wheel and craned his massive body as best he could to get a better view through the dirty windshield of his 1983 Winnebago. He cursed his luck.
Wedged between the horizontal slats of his RV’s imitation-chrome grille as he traveled eighty-five miles an hour on I-95 North was a bright-red Chuck Taylor high-top tennis shoe. It looked ridiculous stuck there, and Galerkin was embarrassed. He was in a hurry, but he vowed to pull over at the nearest truck stop to remove the sneaker before too many others passing in the southbound lanes had the chance to see it.
Galerkin’s now-shoeless victim was a man who lay crushed to death fifty feet beyond a culvert near a Motel 6 on the interstate ten miles behind him. He’d hitchhiked in the wrong place at the wrong time. On a good day, Galerkin would have let him be. But it had not been a good day—or a good week. Galerkin felt it was completely within his rights to clip the man who’d stuck out his thumb when he saw the Winnebago approach. After all, he wasn’t entirely off the shoulder of the road as he should have been, and Galerkin was certain hitchhiking was illegal on the interstate anyway. In Galerkin’s mind, the man’s profile presented an inviting target in the dusk, he was in a bad mood, and that was all there was to say about it.
On the road somewhere between Philadelphia and New York, Galerkin felt like his head was ready to explode. The day before had not started off well. He had received a call from Meyer in his hotel room, one that had lasted all of five seconds.
“Are you watching this?” Meyer had said through his hideous voice machine. “Turn on CNN.” Then he’d hung up the phone.
Galerkin had sat up, slid to the edge of his bed in his boxers, grabbed the remote, and turned on the TV. When he’d found the right channel, he turned up the volume. While he hadn’t recognized the voice, he knew the face. It was Dr. Jon Bondurant, speaking calmly in front of a nest of microphones on a brightly lit stage. The logo of the Waldorf Astoria hotel in New York City was emblazoned across the podium. This was not the image of the dead Dr. Jon Bondurant that Galerkin had happily stowed away in his memory. That Dr. Jon Bondurant could be found riddled with bullets, rotting somewhere on the banks of the Miles River. This was a living Dr. Jon Bondurant, who had now obviously succeeded in making a complete fool out of Vitaly Anatoly Galerkin.
Galerkin’s immediate reaction at the time was completely defensible in his own mind. He had gone for his Smith & Wesson Model 500 double-action revolver on the nightstand, clicked the safety off, and fired the gun point-blank at the visage of Bondurant on the TV screen. Hitting his target, a forty-six-inch Sony flat-screen, dead center was to be expected. He was, after all, only four feet away from the TV. But what Galerkin had not had the time to consider in his moment of rage between the instant he spotted Bondurant on TV and the moment he fired his weapon was that his revolver was rated the most powerful handgun on the planet.
Beyond the 350-gram bullet that exploded the TV in front of him, as it most spectacularly did, its 3,030 foot-pounds of force required a great distance to stop. Traveling at 1,975 feet per second, the bullet blew through an inch of drywall, two inches of plaster, yet another TV, three more inches of drywall and bathroom tile, the rear end of an unfortunate woman showering in the room next door, more tile and drywall, and the thigh of a housekeeper changing the sheets on a queen-sized bed two rooms farther down the hall. There his bullet finally had come to a bloody rest.
Galerkin, slightly concerned over the ruckus that ensued, had determined that rather than remain in the hotel one more night as planned, it was the better part of valor to leave as quietly as possible down the back stairs. And so he had. He’d climbed into his Winnebago and headed north. There Dr. Jon Bondurant would be found, and Dr. Jon Bondurant would die.
Galerkin had more paying customers beyond Meyer, more than he cared to count. And he had at least that many victims in waiting identified by those same clients. Their names were scrawled on a list that never left his wallet. Yes, there had been some distractions with other work. And yes, Galerkin had gotten a little older and a little slower. But Meyer’s target, Jon Bondurant, while only one of many on his list, had made this personal. He’d been smart—too smart. Galerkin had chased him, the woman, their tagalong priest, and his silly dog for more than a year now with no luck. Each time he thought he’d gotten close, he found he’d missed by inches. An empty hotel room, a changed address, a different car, and assumed names had all come into play. They’d kept moving and moving, staying a step ahead, as if to taunt him along the way.
Galerkin had not been humiliated in front of an important customer like this before. Never. It was no way to do business, and Bondurant and the girl were going to pay. He hadn’t yet figured out just how Bondurant in particular was going to be eliminated when he actually caught up with him, but the hit was sure to be of a nature the assassin would relish for years.
As he spied signs for a truck stop three miles ahead, Galerkin checked his watch. He wanted to make the city by nightfall. But there was still the shoe in the grille. It was embarrassing. It had to be removed. He knew no self-respecting assassin would leave it be.
Chapter 18
Over the Atlantic
There were only two things Domenika knew had the power to take her mind off the terrifying turbulence they were experiencing on their flight to Paris: one was prayer, and the other was her seat companion, Jon Bondurant. Domenika’s pleading to the heavens hadn’t calmed their jarring ride. Now it was Bondurant’s turn to distract her from the thought of dying. She thought it was also likely her only chance to discover what he had in mind for her nemesis, Dr. François Laurent.
“Jon, there’s something I want to ask you about,” Domenika said. She grabbed his forearm and clung to it once again as she felt the airplane’s giant aluminum wings shudder so hard that they vibrated the entire plane. She pictured the aircraft’s ailerons snapping off like wooden toothpicks in the storm that surrounded them.
“Our last will and testament?” Bondurant joked as he turned toward her and produced a smile.
Domenika envied him for how he seemed to rest at ease during the bumpy ride. He’d probably already calculated the odds of the plane disintegrating over the ocean at thirty-five thousand feet. She hoped they were infinitesimally small.
“Well, besides that,” Domenika said. “You said in the taxi you had an idea in mind for Laurent. That he might be good for something instead of turning him over to the poli
ce.”
“I did. It’s based on a theory I have,” Bondurant said. “It’s not scientific, by any means. If I’m wrong, well, we’ve got nothing to lose. But if I’m right, we may have a chance to use him to help a lot of people.”
“Use him how?” she asked. She wanted justice.
“You have to trust me on this one. I need you to go along.”
“You said it could help a lot of people,” Domenika said. “Is it about this plague that’s had you so worked up?”
“It is. But I think it’s also bigger than that.”
“I don’t know how we can possibly help, but if you think we can lend a hand to these poor people falling ill, then I’m in.”
“Good, because, knowing you, you’re going to believe there’s some risk involved,” Bondurant said. “No risk in my view, mind you, but I’m sure there are a whole lot of people, your friends in the Vatican included, who would want to stop something I think we need to try.”
Domenika dug her nails into Bondurant’s arm and left several marks. Her concern came half from fright over another lurch in the plane and half from fear of what Bondurant might have up his sleeve.
“Exactly what is it you want to do?” she asked.
“First, tell me what you know about rapture in the Bible,” Bondurant said.
“That’s a trick question,” Domenika said.
“What do you mean?”
“The word rapture never appears in the Bible.”
“All right, then,” Bondurant said, “let me put it another way. What do you know about the prophecies in the book of Revelation?”
“I know them by heart.” Domenika said. Bondurant had a genius IQ, and she delighted in reminding him that she was often his peer.
“Okay, then, tell me about the part when Jesus Christ comes riding like a superhero through the clouds on a white horse with a giant army behind him. He has an iron staff clenched between his teeth or something like that.”
“You’re talking about a description of the Second Coming, Jon,” Domenika said. “It’s been misunderstood by many. So while I know you’re making sport of biblical prophecy, you’re playing with fire.”
“I know, I know. I figured you’d say that.”
Domenika closed her eyes to concentrate. She was a classically educated theologian who knew countless biblical passages by heart. “Revelation, nineteen,” she said. “ ‘I saw heaven standing open and there before me was a white horse, whose rider is called Faithful and True. With justice he judges and wages war. His eyes are like blazing fire, and on his head are many crowns. He has a name written on him that no one knows but he himself. He is dressed in a robe dipped in blood, and his name is the Word of God.’ ”
“Very good,” Bondurant said. “And then? Get to the part about the sword.”
Domenika closed her eyes again. “ ‘The armies of heaven are following him, riding on white horses and dressed in fine linen, white and clean. Coming out of his mouth is a sharp sword with which to strike down the nations. He will rule them with an iron scepter. He treads the winepress of the fury of the wrath of God Almighty. On his robe and on his thigh he has this name written: KING OF KINGS AND LORD OF LORDS.’ ”
“That’s it!” Bondurant said. “Exactly. When Jesus Christ returns, he will strike down nations with his sharp sword. Millions, maybe billions, will die. That’s the risk I’m talking about.”
“Forgive me, Jon,” Domenika said, “but I’m not following you at all.”
“What if, Domenika,” Bondurant said, “just what if it were possible to use Laurent, only this time for good? Use him to resurrect DNA we have from the Shroud, only now from blood we know to be that of Jesus Christ?”
Domenika sat stunned. Meanwhile, the turbulence that had engulfed all four hundred passengers aboard Air France Flight 23 came to a complete halt as she considered Bondurant’s absurd idea. She wondered if the sudden stillness that surrounded them, like the eye of a storm, presaged a disaster.
“To do what?” Domenika asked. Bondurant had suggested outlandish ideas before, but this was too much. She couldn’t believe her ears.
“Domenika, I know, I know. You’re going to tell me two wrongs don’t make a right.”
“Two wrongs don’t make a right, Jon. This is Demanian logic. It’s what got us into this mess in the first place.”
“Fine. But I have a notion this plague that started in India and now threatens the whole world is somehow connected to the child we had to leave behind there.”
Domenika stiffened. Even though she knew just what he was likely to finally reveal about the child, for some reason, she wanted to hear him say it.
“I don’t think the child’s of this world, Domenika.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“I do. Go on.”
“And I’m betting this plague isn’t either.”
“So then what?”
“I have a hunch the only way to stop the carnage and maybe even to stop the child from doing worse is to, like you said, play with fire. Biblical fire.”
“Fight fire with fire? Is that it?”
“Well, yes. Sort of.”
Domenika released Bondurant’s forearm and folded her own arms as if to dismiss him. She was upset that he hadn’t confided in her before about the origin of the clone-child. Now she could tell he didn’t have a clue to the drastic consequences that might come with the kind of “artificial” Second Coming he’d proposed. Either that, or his complete lack of belief in biblical prophecy and the true Second Coming meant that he was denigrating the beliefs of Christians the world over. Prophecy of the Second Coming came not just from the book of Revelation. It came from the mouth of Jesus, himself. To doubt the Second Coming was to doubt the words of Jesus, and therefore the word of God. Either way, she felt Bondurant had to be set straight.
“Jon,” Domenika said. “First, like many others, you’re confusing the Rapture with the Second Coming. They’re two separate events.”
“I’ve read that Christians like you see them tied together as one.”
“Well, there’s the Catholic faith’s view of ‘end times,’ Jon, one that has stood for thousands of years. And then there’s everybody else’s version, that of many modern-day Christians. They have a very different vision for the Second Coming. It comes from the nineteenth century. They believe something else altogether will happen before the world’s end.”
Domenika knew the dispute between Catholics like herself and the many “born-again” Christians who believed much of biblical prophecy in the literal sense was a sensitive one. It was fraught with differences of opinion and interpretation over many years. She knew she needed to tread carefully, as Bondurant had proved adept at exploiting cracks and contradictions in religious dogma his entire life. If he could dismiss the consequences of the Second Coming as foretold in the Bible and Christ’s certain return to earth, she felt his half-baked experiment to bring about a scientific resurrection of Jesus Christ through DNA might look harmless, even reasonable.
“So you’ll admit that—”
Domenika wouldn’t let him finish. “All right,” she said. “Make light of prophecy if you will. There are honest disagreements over more biblical passages than you can count. There’s a real divide among those of faith when it comes to what happens at the end the world. You may not believe this, but I’m just as skeptical of the premillennial dispensationalists as you.”
“The premillennial who?”
“The Left Behinders, Jon,” Domenika said. “My gosh, don’t you read anyone’s books but your own?”
The bumpy ride resumed as the plane encountered more turbulence, although not nearly as violent as before.
“Your Christian ‘cousins.’ The ones who believe in the Rapture that occurs before the Second Coming. Jesus comes, and there’s real hell to pay. All the righteous who believe or have believed rise up to heaven, and all those with sin, the nonbelievers—”
“Like you,”
Domenika said.
“Yes, like me. Well, it’s hell on earth for us for a thousand years of tribulation until he comes again.”
“What I believe—what we of faith believe—presages the end of the world and the Second Coming—the literal return of Jesus Christ to earth—is something that ought to bother you, because some of it might have already happened.”
“What do you mean?”
“Catholic doctrine states that terrible things—just like the plague you want to stop—will be part of the great tribulation just before he returns. And then, like you’ve said, there’s the child I bore . . .”
Domenika had to stop for a moment as horrendous thoughts tied to her captivity in India the year before raced through her mind.
“You should know I’ve had premonitions of my own,” she continued. “The child in the hands of Meyer, the one Laurent brought to life through me? Like you, I’ve asked myself, who might he be?”
She paused again. The “Fasten Seat Belt” light illuminated as the chaos of their flight returned. She was prepared to shock Bondurant into a possibility not even he might have considered. Her hope was that he might take the prophecy of the Second Coming in the serious light it deserved.
“Go on,” Bondurant said.
“I don’t know for sure. But I do know we’ve been warned of a day like this, Jon.” Domenika said. “Jesus himself foretold that ‘false messiahs and false prophets will appear and perform great signs and wonders to deceive.’ ”
Bondurant sat up in his seat and gripped the armrests to steady himself in the chop. His eyes were now more intense. “Domenika, what do you believe would happen if we successfully cloned a being from the DNA of your Christ?” he asked. “Do you really mean to tell me you think it would lead to the end of the world? Really? Truly?”
The Second Coming Page 11
