Prologue
Ladakh- India, 53 AD
A strong wind charged across the rocky slopes surrounding the trail and funneled through the mountain pass. The traveler cinched a dark blue scarf up over his mouth and nose to protect against the chill and the dust.
It was nearly summer in the mountains of North India, but the weather there never seemed to get the message. The pack mules didn't seem to mind, though they rarely expressed anything. The animals could have been just as miserable as the people.
The traveler narrowed his eyes against the onslaught of the wind and kept pushing forward. He was over sixty now, but he moved with the deftness and speed of a man in his twenties. His fitness level impressed his guides, who struggled to keep up as they held on to the reins and continued ushering the mules up the mountain.
The man had arrived on a boat two months before in the port town of Muziris, far to the south. With minimal funding, getting passage to the northern mountains had been tricky, but God had provided him a way, taking care of both fare and food for him to make the long journey.
That was how he'd lived his life for more than twenty years. He sighed through the scarf as he considered how fast the time had passed. Over two decades since…
He pushed the thought aside and leaned headlong into the wind as it gusted for the hundredth time. His thick, graying beard kept his face warm from the cheeks down, but his eyes stung from the harsh air and the frozen sand. Blown by the mountain wind gusts, it felt like being jabbed by tiny razors. He occasionally dipped his head low to keep the minuscule projectiles from his eyes. The frigid gales streaked tears across his cheeks.
This place certainly didn't offer the same climate as his homeland.
He found himself lingering on that thought, the thought of home, a place where the sun warmed the rocky hills surrounding the City of David. He pictured the olive trees swaying in a much calmer, far warmer wind than the one he was pitted against. That place might as well have been on the other side of the world.
It was a wonder people survived in places like this. He'd heard his friend speak of this area, where men from another religion came to dedicate their lives to prayer. Initially, the traveler had been concerned about coming here. He wondered if he would be welcome, if his friend had been correct in surmising that they would treat him as one of their own. His friend had never been wrong before, not once, which was one reason the traveler had been such a devout follower.
He pushed aside his doubts and kept going, trudging ahead through a thin dusting of snow that covered the ground. Nearly summer and there was still snow. He hated to think of how cold it must be here in the dead of winter.
Why anyone had built a monastery in such a remote location remained a mystery, however the traveler understood solitude as being a necessary part of truly deep meditation. His master once taught the same thing. Indeed, the traveler's own studies revealed similar practices among some of the greatest miracle workers and prophets of the past. The one thing they all had in common was that they preferred—even required—solitude, a fortress of quiet where they could calm their minds and separate from the distractions of the secular world. Up here, high in the mountains, they were far from temptations and distractions and could devote their entire focus to the obligations of meditation and prayer.
The traveler allowed himself a tight grin at the thought and caught himself looking up into the bright sky as he rounded a bend in the path.
That is when he saw it.
The monastery rose from the rocky, dusty earth ahead and to the left of the trail. The buildings were impressive only in that it must have taken an incredible amount of work to complete them. With few natural resources or materials in the area, everything had to be brought in.
A yak stood next to the white-painted structure of the monastery and eyed the visitors with casual disregard before it went back to eating hay out of a trough that looked as old as the mountain.
Few visitors dared the cold of the late spring, but in the summer, this place would be crawling with pilgrims. The traveler noted one such person, a young man bundled up in layers of fabric standing by a row of prayer wheels.
The traveler had heard of these objects before. In the past, he'd have scoffed at such a notion. His friend had explained to him the theory behind the strange metal wheels, though, and after hearing that explanation the traveler could see how it made sense to devout worshippers.
The idea was that these bell-shaped objects imprinted reality with their intricately carved prayers and reliefs. The traveler recalled wondering at the notion, asking his teacher how carvings could imprint the air.
"Not the air," the teacher had corrected with a calm smile. It was a look perpetually worn by the man, save one instance in the temple in Jerusalem. That was the lone moment he'd seen his friend overcome with fury. For some reason, that vision of the teacher's torrential anger always caused the traveler to smile. It was one of his favorite memories of his long-gone friend. He took the traveler's hand and pressed his own against it. "The air contains nothing. The ground at your feet, the trees, the rocks, they all contain nothing. It is they that are contained by something else."
"What?" the traveler had asked. "What contains these things?"
"The conduit."
He hadn't elaborated further since their discussion was cut short by a dozen children who showed up to meet the teacher. He'd always had a soft spot for the young ones. The traveler appreciated that about him. Ever patient, the teacher always made time for children. They brought a sense of joy to an otherwise dismal world.
These memories resurrected the tears he'd cried a thousand times since the teacher disappeared. While their journeys and ministry had been difficult, the traveler wouldn't trade those times for anything. The camaraderie he and his eleven companions experienced with the teacher, the wonders they'd seen, and the responsibility they'd been granted, was worth it all.
The traveler continued forward. The wind here weakened, blocked partially by the tall peaks of the hills around them and the four-story structure of the monastery to his left.
The sparse collection of people on the plateau eyed him and his guides suspiciously as they made their way toward the entrance of the great monastery of Himis. A woman clutched a child in her arms under a canvas tarp. She was selling yak butter, as well as candles made from the same material. Her offerings were slim, and the traveler wondered how she made any money during this time of year with so little foot traffic.
The child coughed and started to cry. The toddler's face was barely visible, the head wrapped tightly in dark scarlet fabric to keep away the cold. The traveler paused and cocked his head, eyeing the child curiously. Then he turned to one of his guides, a short man with light brown skin and a face worn by countless trips up this very mountain. Guide life, the traveler thought, took a similar toll to the ministry.
"What is wrong with the child?" the traveler asked, pointing at the young one.
The guide looked confused but stepped away from the mule for a moment and asked the woman the same question.
She replied, and the guide translated. "She said he has the fever. Very sick."
"How long?"
The guide once more relayed the question, and again, the woman replied.
While the traveler couldn't speak the language, he understood the woman's tone. It brimmed with a desperate sadness that only a mother's heart could feel.
"A week," the guide said. "She says they've tried everything, but no one can make him better."
The woman cut in, continuing her explanation. She sobbed and moaned, clearly afraid that the boy's time on earth was coming to an untimely end.
"She said he may not make it through the night," the guide finished.
The traveler inclined his head, acknowledging the problem. He took a deep breath and allowed his eyelids to fall shut for a moment. He envisioned the child, not as he was at that moment, but as a virile young man, full of energy, healthy. Then the traveler opened his eyes and shuffled close to the woman and her little market table.
She eyed him with suspicion but didn't withdraw as he neared. The traveler stopped a foot away from the woman and leaned over the modest table. He stretched out his hand and touched the boy's forehead with his index finger.
"Your son is healed," he said and retreated to the thoroughfare.
The mother stared at him with wide eyes. She didn't understand the words he'd spoken, but there was something about him, about the way he'd said it. She smiled at him with eyes that both thanked him and pleaded with him.
The boy's coughing spasms ceased and he appeared to relax in her arms, nuzzling closer to her breast. She looked down at the child and then back up at the traveler, as if she could find an explanation for what he'd done, but he was already twenty feet away and walking toward the entrance to the monastery, his overclothes flapping in the breeze.
"What did you do?" the translator asked as they neared the gate into the monastery's courtyard.
"Me?" the traveler asked, glancing back at the man with a curious glint in his eyes. "Nothing. I have no power of my own. I simply believed the boy was healed. I still do."
The conversation was done. The traveler chose not to elaborate, instead allowing his companion to reach his own conclusions.
A monk stood just within the gate of the monastery. He was far enough inside to avoid the brunt of the wind but close enough to the opening to be seen from the street. The monk's head was shaved, as was customary. He wore red and orange robes that folded across his body, tied off by a simple ribbon around his waist. The monk looked to be in his forties, but the traveler knew the man to be much older.
"He knows you're coming?" the second guide asked.
The traveler regarded the man with a simple nod. "Yes. He knows. Stay out here," he ordered in a kind tone, easing the abrupt command with a demure smile. "Get yourselves some food and drink; the mules may be hungry as well." He noted one donkey hungrily eyeing a trough of straw.
The guides didn't have to be told twice. They turned and ambled toward one of the small market stalls where an old man with loose skin hanging off his face sat like a statue behind a table of dried fruit.
When they were happily preoccupied, the traveler walked through the entrance and into the monastery. The monk greeted him with a weary but welcoming smile. He put his hands out wide and bowed his head.
"We have been waiting a long time for you," the monk said. "Your friend told us you would come."
The comment caused a thread of pain to snake through the traveler's chest. He missed his friend, and there was nothing that could take that pain away except the promise that one day they would be reunited.
"He was funny like that," the traveler said. "Of all the things he taught me, prophecy was the one I couldn't grasp as firmly as some of the others. He, however, could see it all with remarkable clarity."
The monk merely nodded and motioned toward a set of stairs leading into one of the buildings. "Please, let us get out of the cold. You must be hungry."
"How long have you been standing out here?" the traveler asked. He expected to hear something fantastic.
"About twenty minutes," the monk said with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "One of our ranks saw you coming around the bend from the south corner."
The traveler chuckled. The answer was anything but fantastic.
"Did you think I'd been standing in this place for twenty years?" The monk laughed and slapped the traveler on the back. "Come. Hot food. Tea. Then we talk."
The monk led the way up the stairs and through a set of huge wooden doors. Once inside, the traveler finally realized how cold it really was beyond the walls. The foyer within the monastery confines hugged him and he didn't want it to let go.
His eyes surveyed the interior with a single pass. Wooden beams ran horizontally overhead, supported by thicker posts and buttresses. Yak-butter lamps lined the walls on shelves and in sconces. The scent put out by the lamps was rumored to help focus the mind, a paramount objective in a place like this. He took in the myriad colors, or tried to. There were so many all around him in images, curtains, and wreaths hanging from the walls, as well as scarves that featured most of the hues of the rainbow. Even the wooden pillars had been painted, though a more subtle maroon instead of the wild array displayed by the rest of the little room.
Two inner doors blocked the way into the room ahead, with more doors on either side of the foyer. The traveler heard chanting echoing from beyond them.
"The prayer room is there?" he asked, pointing toward the doors with a bony finger.
"Yes," the monk replied. "Would you like to see?"
The traveler didn't know how to respond at first. His inclination was to refuse out of respect for those who were in deep meditation and prayer, but his curiosity begged to see.
"If it won't disturb the others, I would be honored."
"Of course. And you need not worry." The monk stepped over to the doors and pulled on one of the iron handles. It swung open silently, save for the slight whoosh of thick, warm air that poured through the portal. The traveler thought the foyer was warm, but the inner confines of the monastery seemed untouched by the frigid cold of the bitter winter outside.
Beyond the doors, monks sat in rows facing toward the center of the room where a path divided the space. The floor was elevated halfway to each of the side walls so that the monks on those raised platforms sat slightly higher than those in front of them. The air was filled with an assault on the senses.
Incense burned in censers in each corner. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of burnished silver lamps lined the floor along the walls. In the center of the room, at the far end, a statue of the Buddha sat on a raised platform overlooking the space. Vibrant tapestries dangled from the platform at the statue’s feet. The colors seemed to spill across the room, ordaining ribbons, paintings, and even the wooden pillars in a cornucopia of shades. Buddhists, it seemed, appreciated variety in their temple adornments.
"Your friend," the monk whispered, "would not pray in this room with us because of the idol." The gentle man twisted his head another inch to catch the traveler's reaction. "He was not disrespectful. Quite the opposite. He even tried to get us to remove it." The monk chuckled softly.
"He studied here with you, prayed with you?"
"Of course," the monk said, as if the answer should have been obvious. "He traveled all over the world to learn as much as he could from other religions and belief systems. He was Jewish, though, the same as you, and believed that to be his path. I feel like he always knew. Too many people blindly choose their faith. Your friend did not." His eyes roamed up and down, searching the traveler for the answer to an unasked question. "Yes, I can see him in you, the same curiosity, the same questions."
"I am not a tenth of the man he was," the traveler confessed. He briefly considered saying more, but decided against it. Instead, he got to the point of his visit. "I apologize for being curt, but I fear time is not our ally."
The monk nodded his understanding and closed the doors to the prayer room. "He said that someday one of his followers would come with something, something important."
The traveler acknowledged with a nod and slid a satchel off his shoulder. He clutched it by the straps and held it aloft so the monk could see it better.
"Not here," the monk warned and looked around. "I trust my brothers, but I do not trust the world. If anything were to happen and our monastery sacked, my brothers could be tortured for information. While they are resolute, there may be a few weak ones in the herd."
The traveler questioned him with a twist of his brow.
The monk smiled and shrugged. "That's every herd, isn't it?" Then he turned and motioned toward another hall. "This way."
The robed figure led the way through a darkened corridor where the sunlight never touched a surface. Only the dim glow of butter lamps offered any semblance of illumination to the passage. The smell of wood and yak butter and resin filled the air, stronger now in the more confined space. The hall ran the length of the building, offering a few right turns at intersections. Quick looks down the branched passages revealed dorm cells where the monks spent their evenings. The traveler could see into the nearest one as he passed and noted the sparse decor, the minimal bed on the floor, and the little shrine for personal prayer and worship. Whether or not he agreed entirely with their beliefs, the man could appreciate their devotion.
The hall seemed to go on forever. In truth, it was probably only a minute's walk, maybe two. At the end of the vast corridor, the monk turned right and then left into an alcove where a stone statue of the Buddha sat with arms and legs crossed, a broad smile on his face.
The monk slipped in behind the sculpture, twisting his body sideways to get between the object and the wall.
"What are you doing?" the traveler asked, craning his neck to get a better view into the back of the shadowy alcove.
"You speak our language well," the monk said, avoiding the question. "I wonder how you learned it. Your friend knew it as well. Not many from your part of the world speak our words, as far as I know."
The traveler briefly considered telling the man the entire truth, but he didn't want to take the revelation to that level. "We are… quick learners," he said instead. He wouldn't lie. If the monk pressed, he would reveal everything about how he'd acquired the ability to speak multiple languages. Fortunately, the monk decided his answer had been good enough.
"I can tell," the man said. Then something like the sound of two stones grinding on each other resonated from the alcove. A heavy click came next.
The traveler took a cautious step back as the statue, previously inanimate, began to move. The base slid forward on the wooden floor, revealing the monk standing in the recess, a three-foot-wide opening at his feet.
The monk motioned to the dark cavity and then took a lamp off the wall. "Will this suffice as a hiding place?"
The traveler gave a solemn nod. "That will do nicely."
"Take one of those lamps—" he paused, realizing they didn't know each other's name. "I'm sorry, what are you called?"
The traveler's eyes narrowed slightly, the only sign of his mind's toil on an otherwise emotionless façade. "Thomas," the traveler said. "My name is Thomas of Galilee."
Chapter 1
Hyannis, Massachusetts
The piercing sound of sirens tore Sean Wyatt kicking and screaming from his evening slumber. He would have thought that aboard the yacht he would be impervious to such interruptions. He rose and twisted, planting his feet on the floor. There he waited for a moment for the fog of sleep to wear off, aided by rubbing his eyes and forehead.
"Why are we hearing sirens?" Adriana asked. She stood at the foot of the bed, as if she'd been awake for hours. "And why do you always wear a T-shirt to bed?"
"I told you before. I get itchy at night if I don't have a shirt on."
"You know, they make nice sheets that prevent that." She stared at him with a seductive curiosity and rounded the corner of the bed, sliding closer to him.
"I'll look into that," he said and turned around to plant a kiss on her forehead. "For now, I want to see what all the hullabaloo is."
"Wow. You have turned into your father," she joked. "Never heard you use that word before."
"Funny. I'll be right back. Keep your mind exactly where it is."
"Okay," she relented, letting go of the fabric. She rolled over onto her other side, turning her back to him. "I'll be here."
He knew she'd be asleep before he reached the deck. One thing a few years of marriage had taught him about his wife; she loved her sleep like a lion loves its steak. He glanced back at her from halfway up the stairs. Her sleek form was outlined by the white wall next to the bed. How was I so lucky to land such an incredible woman?
Her backstory was a bizarre one, and read like a tragedy in some ways, a comedy in others. Her father owned the family vineyards and winery, but brokered information to the United States and its allies. He'd worked as a consultant with several agencies and departments to help bring down terrorists, stop coups, and keep the peace in various countries around the world. All the while making time to press grapes and sample the fruits of his labors.
She'd gone through the process of schooling, though hers differed from most. Her passion, though, had been art, and with the training she'd received since childhood, she became adept at an art form all its own: thievery.
Adriana didn't steal from innocent people, though, and not for personal gain. Money would never be a problem for her. Instead, she tracked down and stole art that had itself been pillaged or looted during World War II. Much like the Monuments Men in the 1940s, she made her life locating and recovering art that was lost during the war and returning it to either the governments or the families who were the rightful owners.
Sean drew a deep breath and continued up the stairs. The whining sirens drew nearer with every second. He knew they couldn't come much farther. The road came to a dead end with the only option being to turn into a parking lot or turn around.
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