“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.”
Kristin leaned forward. “What have the monks said?”
“Before I returned, Kinley was spotted meeting with the Je Khenpo, our spiritual leader, which of course infuriated Lama Dorji. I suppose you two have a better idea where he is than I do.” Jigme raised his eyebrows, not asking the question, while asking it at the same time.
Grant inclined his head in the direction of the d
river. Jigme said, “A friend of mine. Doesn’t speak English.”
The story spilled out of both Grant’s and Kristin’s mouths as they recounted the discussions they’d had in Varanasi and Sarnath and the mural they’d seen in the temple.
By the end of the story, Jigme nodded. “Always the teacher, Kinley is.”
“I have to admit I have a better understanding of Issa’s journey,” Grant said, but for him understanding alone was still not enough. He needed the actual texts.
“Yeah, me too,” Kristin added, but Grant noticed that her soft tone and unfocused expression suggested that she was speaking more to herself than to them. She leaned forward. “Kinley has brought us back to Bhutan, where we began our journey, to the place where Buddhism spread through this country. A poetic climax to our quest.”
“Ah yes, so like Kinley.”
“Are we heading to Tiger’s Nest now?” Grant asked.
“Too late to begin the hike,” Jigme said. “I’ll drop you off at your hotel in town. We’ll meet at the Paro Dzong at dawn.”
Staring out the car’s window at the cottages that dotted the green hills rising from the valley like Swiss chalets in the foothills of the Alps, Grant began to replay in his mind the scene of his reunion with Kinley: the questions he wanted to ask, the experiences from their journey he wanted to relate. But his questions were secondary. By tomorrow—
He closed his eyes. He was speculating about the future again, he realized. Playing movies in his head. But, he thought, we are so close.
CHAPTER 48
TIGER’S NEST MONASTERY PARO, BHUTAN
TWELVE HOURS AFTER HIS LAST hike up the same mountain, Tim once again crept along the narrow stone steps, hugging the cool granite wall to his left. On this trip, however, it was pitch black, and he didn’t have a guide to lead him. Tripping in the darkness would have tragic consequences; the edge of the steps dropped to the valley floor two thousand feet below him. He paused to catch his breath, which cast a light green fog through the viewfinder of the night vision monocular he held to his eye. Cocking his head to listen, he heard only the gurgling of the small waterfall he’d just passed.
One last flight of steps to go. Ahead of him, the monastery stood as dark and quiet as the night itself. He pulled back the sleeve of his black wool coat and the black sweater underneath it. It was two AM. The monks would be asleep and unsuspecting.
Before climbing the final steps, Tim reviewed his inventory. Tonight would be simple and efficient—no fancy drugs in EpiPens and no gimmicks like the snake, although holding the shaking basket over the professor’s face had given him quite a rush. Tonight the only weapons Tim carried were the knife strapped to his leg and the forty-caliber Glock he held in his gloved hand. Tonight he would tolerate no mistakes, no hesitations. Tonight no one would be left alive.
A few hours earlier, Tim had stolen a scooter, one of many parked at his hotel in town. He’d hidden it just off the road in the woods, at the trailhead for the shortcut he’d taken up the mountain. Once his mission was accomplished, he would race down the trail and drive the scooter onto the tarmac at the airport. His pilot had instructions to have the plane ready to depart at dawn. Tim would be airborne before anyone realized what had happened in the remote monastery. Then he would return to Birmingham and reap the glory of his success.
Grant stared at the sun yellow wall opposite his twin bed. Above a wood-laminate dresser, the painting of a three-foot-long red dragon chasing its tail stared at him. He should be sleeping, but the lights on the outside of the hotel, shining into the room with no curtains, kept him awake.
He used the time to organize the thoughts that rolled across his mind like waves hitting the beach. Although he was so close, he wrestled with a new concern. With the strict Bhutanese laws against removing historical artifacts from the country, and the obvious hostility of Lama Dorji, how would they get the texts out of Bhutan, if indeed they found them at Tiger’s Nest? They had Kristin’s camera and two backup memory cards, but Grant suspected that after the negative publicity, only the actual books themselves would convince the naysayers.
“Are you awake?” Kristin’s voice from the other twin bed startled him.
“You too?”
A breath of cool air touched him as the quilt covering his body lifted. He rolled over to face Kristin as she crawled onto the narrow mattress beside him.
“Hi,” he said, pleasantly surprised at the smooth skin of her legs next to his. He wore only boxers.
“Do you mind?”
His hand traced the bruise along her cheek. “Does it hurt?”
“Not anymore.” Her body was warm, and it seemed to him that the two of them fit on the narrow bed like two puzzle pieces joined together.
He moved a few strands of hair that had fallen in front of her face, and then, as if drawn magnetically, he brushed his lips against her upturned face. He kissed the bruise, then her jaw, and then her neck just below her ear. Her body arched subtly. He dropped his hand from the soft curls of her hair to the soft curve of her waist.
“Look, Kris,” he whispered. “I mean Kristin ...”
“You called me that in Varanasi too.”
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay now.” Her voice was breathy. “I find it comforting. Reminds me of my sister.”
She raised herself onto her elbow and then pushed him back into the firm mattress. She rolled on top of him. The only fabric separating their bodies was her thin T-shirt and the cotton shorts each wore. The sensation of her body pressed into his sent a current of electricity through his core.
Her eyes locked on to his. “I’m ready,” she said.
CHAPTER 49
TIGER’S NEST MONASTERY PARO, BHUTAN
UMMON SAT ON HIS REED MAT, rubbing his eyes. He closed his crimson robes around his small body. The winter cold was moving in quickly. Soon the mountain would be covered in snow. Ummon glanced at the three empty sleeping mats in the room. He looked forward to the older monks, who should have been there beside him, returning from town in the morning. They had left earlier in the day to restock the monastery’s supplies. One would bring dry wood for the stove. He glanced at the profiles of the only two other occupants in the dormitory room. One belonged to an elder monk, whose advanced age relieved him from the duty of the long hike into town. The other was Ummon’s snoring teacher. Kinley was more like a father to the eleven-year-old than his own father. Since the day four years ago when his parents brought him to the monastery, Ummon had only seen his family twice a year. The youngest of three brothers, he wasn’t needed on their small farm.
Although studying to be a monk was boring at times, he generally enjoyed the goemba. Kinley’s other students had become his new family, and they didn’t pick on him the way his older brothers had. Jigme was Ummon’s favorite. He wondered why Kinley hadn’t brought his senior student to Taktshang with them, but he knew not to question Kinley about such things. While Ummon was happy that his teacher was finally back from the travels that had taken him away several times these past few weeks, he looked forward to returning to the warmer Punakha valley and to his friend Jigme. After all, the older monks who lived at Taktshang preferred to spend long hours playing dice games instead of kicking around a ball with him.
Ummon tiptoed to a small door at the rear of their dorm room. He opened it slowly so that no noise would wake the sleeping men. One advantage of being little was that he could take the shortcut to the latrine; the door was just one meter square and meant to be an emergency fire escape. Once outside, he shuffled along the narrow ledge at the back of the building. Then he climbed the ladder to the next higher level, where the single toilet was located.
Ummon opened the red swinging door of the closet-sized latrine and flicked the light switch. Nothing. He shook his head. The bulb had been out for three days now. He would have volunteered to change it, but he was too short to reach it. He left the door open to let in the dim starlight from the clear sky. Squinting his eyes, he co
uld barely make out the footrests in the ground. He had to be careful not to step into the hole itself. The old monks would get a laugh out of that.
The explosions that pierced the silence of the night startled Ummon so badly that he misdirected his stream of pee down the side of his robes. Terrified, he placed a hand on the wall to steady his shaking body. The noises sounded like fireworks going off inside the goemba. Was the monastery exploding? Ummon knew that Taktshang had been severely damaged by fire before; in fact, it had only reopened recently after decades of rebuilding.
The image of being trapped inside the goemba as it tumbled down the mountainside in a burning heap snapped Ummon out of his paralyzed state. Closing his robes, he raced out of the bathroom and slid down the ladder. I have to warn them!
As he reached the ledge at the rear of the dorm building, Ummon opened his mouth to shout for the two elders to wake up when he realized two things. First, he didn’t detect any evidence of a fire. No smell of smoke, no glowing flames, nothing. Second, in place of the sounds of the explosions, which had disappeared as quickly as they had startled him, Ummon heard screaming voices through the dorm walls. Something was wrong inside the building. Ummon knelt silently outside the small door.
He heard voices in English, a language he recognized but didn’t yet speak. He’d last heard it when Grant, the friendly American with the broken leg, was recovering in Punakha. Although students in Bhutan studied English in school, for a monk living in a monastery, English was not a regular subject. Kinley had promised to teach him as he grew older.
Pressing his ear to the cracked wood, Ummon heard that one of the voices belonged to Kinley, but it contained a tone Ummon had never heard before, a deep sorrow. He didn’t recognize the other voice, but it sounded angry. He knew immediately that his teacher needed help.
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