by R. A. Jones
“This just shows we’ve kept you too secluded here, boy,” the lama said, “that you would think a trip to England would be a form of punishment.”
His tone then grew slightly more serious.
“Besides, it wasn’t really me you opposed, was it? Merely my idea.”
“That’s the truth.”
“I know it is, Aman. I would be a fool to think otherwise, and I’m no fool. You and the Council merely pointed out that my heart was in the right place, but my head wasn’t.”
He stood, walked around to the front of his desk and sat down on the edge of it, facing his pupil.
“But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong to fear for the world. I still feel certain that dark days lie ahead of us. I just want to make sure you’re fully prepared for the challenges that will come with them.”
“So I’m not being exiled?” Aman asked, still unsure of his mentor’s motives.
“Far from it,” the Question assured him, reaching out and patting his leg. “This has always been your home and always will be. You’re free to return here whenever and as often as you like.
“Having said that, though, I hope that when you’re not attending school – ”
“School?”
“Yes, school. If you haven’t gathered, the purpose of this trip is to further your education. For that reason, I’ve already made arrangements for you to live and attend classes at Oxford.”
“Oxford,” Aman murmured in awe. “Do you really think I’m up to its standards?”
“Don’t be foolish,” the Question mildly scolded. “I just hope you’re not over qualified to go there! You’ve already learned all that we poor monks can teach you, and more.
“You have a brilliant mind, and an inquisitive nature that’s always made you thirst for more knowledge. You’ve already taught yourself – what – six different languages?”
“Ten.”
Even through the muffling folds of his master’s hood, Aman could again hear the Question chuckle.
“Ten, then. Just so. But there are even more opportunities for you to learn. And they’re all outside these walls. Out there,” the Question motioned with one hand, “out in the world.
“I want you to learn all you can, son. And experience all you can. That’s why, when you aren’t attending classes, I want you to travel. Explore as much of the world as you can.
“I expect we’ll all live to see great things from you, Aman. The world needs the gifts you’ve been given. What I said to the Council was true; harsh times lie ahead for mankind. You’ll need all the tools you can master if you’re to help them. If we’re to help them.”
Aman had been staring at the floor as his master spoke. Now he looked up into the Question’s eyes.
“But all that you’ve spoken of: living and studying in England, traveling the world. Won’t that cost a great deal of money?”
“I suppose,” the Question replied. “But no more than can be derived from selling the smallest fraction of the treasure that lies below us.”
“I don’t deserve that.”
“I think you do, Aman. As do the other brothers.” Aman’s right eyebrow arched upward.
“Yes,” the Question continued, “I had already discussed this with them before our meeting about that other matter.”
“What about my mother?”
“I spoke to Prahmasung just a little while ago. I even asked her if she would like to go with you.”
“What did she say?”
“She told me she thought it best to remain here, with us. To be honest, I think the wide world out there frightens the poor girl, though she’d never admit it and would bravely swallow that fear if you asked her to come with you. I also believe she wants you to find your own way, now that you’re a grown man.
“She’ll miss you terribly if you go, of course. But at the same time, she’s very proud of you, and thinks this is a great opportunity for you.”
“You said ‘if’ I go, master. Do I have a choice?”
“Of course you do. This isn’t an order, Aman; it’s an opportunity that’s being offered to you. Accept it or don’t. Whether you go or not, we’ll all continue to think of you as our son. We’ll all still love you.”
Aman closed his eyes. As he did so, his mind raced forward, considering all aspects of the offer, all the foreseeable consequences, good and bad, of either accepting or rejecting it. The Question, having seen this process at work many times, sat patiently waiting in silence.
“I’ll do it,” Aman said firmly, his eyes snapping open as he rose to his feet.
“Good,” the Question replied, also rising. “I hoped you would.” He placed a paternal hand on the youth’s left shoulder.
“The next semester at Oxford starts soon, so you’ll need to start out the day after tomorrow. Why don’t you go tell your mother the news, spend the time you have with her.”
“I will.”
“Excellent. We’ll talk again before you leave.”
Aman turned to go, but halted as he opened the door, looking down at the floor then up and back at the lama.
“Thank you, master,” he said. “For everything.”
The Great Question merely waved a hand at him dismissively before walking back around his desk and taking a seat. He continued to stare at the doorway long after Aman had left.
What he hadn’t told Aman was that he hoped the forthcoming expansion of his knowledge and experience in the world would eventually convince the boy to come around to the Question’s way of thinking about the desirability and need for a single hand to guide the path of mankind.
It wouldn’t.
CHAPTER XXII
August 24, 1939
As he exited the train in New York City’s Grand Central Station, Aman’s face lit up and a broad smile creased his lips. Zona Henderson smiled as well: In the days since they had left his home in Tibet, Aman’s resolve had not wavered an inch, but his mood had lightened considerably.
She knew he had already traveled extensively in his young life, even to the United States. But this was his first time in the Big Apple, and he was as excited as any tourist just arrived from the Midwest.
“If we get the chance, Zona,” he said, “you have to take me to see a Broadway play!”
“Of course,” she replied, quickly and earnestly. The long journey here had given her plenty of time to get to know this magical man better, and if anything, she was even more fascinated by him than she had been upon their initial meeting. And she thought the feeling was mutual.
“I was reading the newspaper on the train,” he continued, “and saw ads for two plays I think I’d like to see. Katherine Hepburn is – what’s the term? – slaying them in “The Philadelphia Story”, and the critics say “Arsenic and Old Lace” is one of the funniest plays ever.
“I’m just not sure which one I want to see the most.”
“Well, you know, John,” Zona reminded him, “if you’re here long enough, there’s no reason we can’t see both of them.”
“You’re right!” he exclaimed. “So, it’s a date?”
“It’s a date.”
Aman had known women all over the world, many of them extremely remarkable. But none had so utterly captivated him as had this vivacious American. Her intelligence, her strength, her independence, all were very appealing to him.
Plus, he thought, not for the first time, she was quite the looker!
“First, though,” she now said, “I’ve got to find the powder room. Then we’ll make arrangements for your baggage – and pay a call on the Clock.”
After she left, Aman stood in the middle of the station, slowly turning as he took in every side of it. He felt certain he was going to like this vibrant city just fine.
“Excuse me, sir?” a voice said, catching his attention.
A small man dressed in a porter’s uniform had approached him and was standing respectfully a short distance away. He was bent slightly at the waist and kept his eyes averted.
> “Are you John Aman, sir?” The porter had a slight accent, Aman noted. Italian, perhaps? A new addition to the American melting pot.
“Yes.”
“You have a phone call, sir.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yessir.”
“Who is it?”
“He didn’t say, sir. Should I ask?”
“No, that’s all right. Where can I take it?”
“Right there, sir,” the porter replied, pointing to a telephone booth set against a nearby wall.
Aman pressed a dollar bill into the porter’s hand, and the man bowed even lower.
“Thank you, sir.”
Aman shook his head in puzzlement as he headed toward the phone booth. Who besides Zona and her mysterious employer, the Clock, even knew he would be in New York?
Unfortunately, he was otherwise naively unsuspicious. As he entered the booth, he failed to notice that the “porter” had turned and was running as fast as possible away from the area.
“Hello?” Aman said, lifting the receiver to his ear.
That’s when the bomb planted inside the phone booth detonated.
At the rumbling sound of the explosion, Zona Henderson spun and ran back the way she had come. This brought her against the flow of traffic, as commuters fled in the opposite direction.
Zona plowed straight ahead into a billowing and spreading cloud of smoke, slowing only slightly.
As she neared the point of the explosion, the sounds of its aftermath began to wash over her. There were screams of pain and fear and sorrow, almost muffling the lower groans of other victims.
Her left foot nearly slipped out from under her, and as she fought to regain her balance she noted that the cause of her mishap was a dark puddle of blood into which she had stepped.
Waving her hands madly to dispel the smoke, she squinted and had to slow down even more, picking her way through pieces of shattered wood and blasted concrete.
Her heart skipped a beat and for an instant it was as if she was back in the Himalayas, as she again saw Aman slowly, painfully crawling away from the epicenter of the explosion.
“John!” she shouted, ignoring the torn clothing and the many streams of blood lacing his exposed flesh. She threw her arms around his waist as he struggled to his feet.
“Are you all right?”
“What?!” he shouted loudly, then slapped his hands over his ears. As he did, Zona was dismayed to see blood oozing from them, sliding between his fingers.
He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and vigorously shook his head several times. The grimace on his face began to fade at that, and his breathing quickly returned to normal.
“What did you say?” he repeated, now speaking in a normal tone.
“Never mind,” Zona murmured, smiling and shaking her head. She ran the palm of her right hand across his chest, wiping away a thin sheen of blood.
Incredibly, the wounds from which the blood sprang were already closing before her very eyes, and within seconds had almost totally disappeared.
Zona’s face twisted in sorrow, for she saw the same was not true for the other innocent victims of this cowardly attempt on Aman’s life.
Bodies – and worse, parts of bodies – were spread about in a bloody carpet on all sides of where the phone booth had stood. The wails of the dying and the loved ones of the dead were indistinguishable one from the other.
Zona felt Aman stiffen, straighten and pull away from her. She looked up to see his expression had grown hard. He was gazing intently across the station and she turned her eyes to follow his.
She saw people still screaming and fleeing for their lives, wary that more explosions might be yet to come. She saw the first uniformed police officers racing into the station in response to the sound of the detonation.
What she also saw but did not realize the import of, was a man in the uniform of a porter, scrambling for the nearest exit.
“Stay here,” Aman ordered.
Before she could object or voice any concern, he was gone, racing across the station with the speed of a cheetah on the hunt.
Aman burst through the exit literally – plowing through the metal and glass portal as if it was cardboard – and halted at the side of the curb.
He was oblivious to the sight he presented: nearly naked, clothed only in tatters, his god-like physique streaked with powder stains and dried blood; and of the startled reaction he was causing among even the most jaded of the many bystanders.
He looked to the right, then the left. Half a block away, he saw the fleeing porter sprinting toward a parked vehicle that had the appearance of an armored car.
As the porter drew near, twin doors in the rear of the truck flew open. A pair of fellow conspirators reached down to pull him up into the truck.
As they did, he hazarded a look back over his shoulder. When he did so, his eyes briefly met those of Aman. A smug smile flitted across the assassin’s thin lips, and then the steel doors slammed closed. Seconds later, engine revving, the truck sped away from the curb.
Had the killer not smiled … Aman might have let him go.
Instead, he leaped from the curb into the street and began to run after the retreating armored car. Horns blared at him as, being afoot, he was able to weave in and out of traffic at a speed greater than most of the cars could attain in the heavy rush of vehicles.
Eyes locked on the fleeing truck, Aman failed to take notice of the traffic lights, plunging into the intersection and nearly into the path of an oncoming taxi.
Barely slowing a jot, he pushed off with his legs and leaped over the front end of the cab. As he did so, he smiled and made a mental note to ask Zona later to explain to him the meaning of some of the colorful language that spewed out at him from the mouth of the cabbie.
Arms pumping, legs churning, he quickly began to gain ground on the armored car. As he drew closer, he saw slots set in each of its rear doors, and from each slot a menacing metal barrel now protruded.
Those who thought themselves safe behind the steel doors nonetheless sought added insurance as they began to blaze away at their pursuer with twin Tommy guns.
Aman winced as the heavy slugs spanged into him, but wasn’t slowed an iota. The bullets stung – but not nearly so much as did an explosion! – and simply bounced away.
With a fresh burst of speed, he drew ever closer to the truck; too close for the thugs within to be able to lower their sights sufficiently to fire at him effectively.
Latching on to the vehicle’s rear bumper with both his steel hard hands, he stopped running and dug in his heels. Pieces of asphalt flew up and the tires of the armored car began to smoke.
Aman pressed his feet harder against the street. His teeth were clenched, the tendons in his neck popped out, the muscles racing up and down his arms rippled and strained from the effort.
He was jerked sideways and thrown off his feet as the truck suddenly fishtailed. A front tire dropped into a pothole and the vehicle flipped, doing somersaults in the air. Aman spun with it before being thrown clear and skidding painfully along the pavement.
The armored car slammed down atop the rear end of another auto before sliding off and coming to rest on its side.
Aman picked himself up and, limping slightly for the first few steps, hobbled to the disabled getaway vehicle. Grabbing the latch of one of the rear doors, he twisted and pulled. Metal screeched in protest as the lock was broken off. The door itself cracked free from its hinges and Aman casually tossed it aside.
When the expected hail of gunfire did not come from within, Aman cautiously peered inside. His eyes narrowed and one corner of his mouth curled up in grim surprise.
The three men in the rear compartment of the vehicle were flopping about like fish in the bottom of a boat. One of them was the fake porter who had set him up to be killed; the other two were not familiar to him. Bubbles of white foam geysered up from their throats, spilling over their chins.
Within seconds, the flopping became me
re twitching. That too stopped as they breathed their last, victims of self-inflicted poisoning. Aman felt certain the driver of the armored car had met a similar gruesome end.
A fresh set of tires squealed and Aman turned to see Zona leaping from the back seat of a taxi. Running to his side, she grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the smoking steel coffin.
“Come on,” she said with urgency. “We need to be long gone before the police show up.” The sound of sirens signaled that this would not be long.
Zona pushed the puzzled strongman into the cab, sliding in alongside him. She shouted an address to the driver, who took off without hesitation. You’d think he encountered this sort of mayhem every day, Aman thought, the way he so nonchalantly reacted to the situation.
Of course, this was New York: such craziness may have indeed been business as usual for him.
“We’re already scheduled to meet with the Clock later,” Zona told him. “Meanwhile, I know a place where we can lay low and you can get cleaned up and into a new set of clothes.”
“Sounds good for now,” Aman replied. He had already put the attempt on his life out of his mind and was gawking right and left out the windows as they sped through the city.
“But I’ll need something more permanent,” he continued, “if I’m going to make this my base of operations for awhile.”
“Did you have something specific in mind?” Zona asked curiously.
“Not really,” he said. “But remember: Thanks to the Council and the treasure they stockpiled, I’ve got lots of money. More than enough to pay for a suitable dwelling.”
They rode in silence for a short time before he pointed out the window to their left.
“What about that?” he said.
Zona leaned forward to gaze out the window. As she did, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
“You mean the Empire State Building?”
“Why not?” he replied innocently. “It appears to be the tallest structure in the city. What better place to set up headquarters?”
“I believe most of its offices are already rented,” Zona said by way of letting him down gently. “And I’ve heard that some rich doctor owns the upper floors outright.”
