The Jericho Deception: A Novel Read online

  Praise for

  THE JERICHO DECEPTION

  “The Jericho Deception spins out a brilliant premise into a ripping good novel, brimming with excitement, imagination, vivid settings, and personable characters”

  —Douglas Preston, #1 Bestselling Author of The Monster of Florence

  “This one pushes the envelope to the edge and beyond, captivating with plausibility and imagination. A gritty thriller.”

  —Steve Berry, NYT Bestselling Author of The King’s Deception

  “Chock full of fascinating insider detail, The Jericho Deception by Jeffrey Small is a thrilling roller-coaster ride into the beauty and darkness of the human mind. With muscular prose and a high quotient of believability, you’ll be riveted watching scientists, politicians, and spies vie for control of the Logos machine. Send out for food. You won’t want to stop reading.”

  —Gayle Lynds, NYT bestselling author of The Book of Spies

  “A blisteringly original, wondrously structured descent into a literal and figurative hell. Jeffrey Small’s stellar tale of murder, treachery and international daring-do breathes new life into the moribund religious thriller genre as it blends science seamlessly with superstition. A high-tech Da Vinci Code on steroids, only better written.”

  —Jon Land, bestselling author of Pandora’s Temple

  THE

  JERICHO

  DECEPTION

  Also by Jeffrey Small:

  The Breath of God, a Novel of Suspense

  THE

  JERICHO

  DECEPTION

  JEFFREY SMALL

  WEST HILLS PRESS

  ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO

  PUBLISHED BY WEST HILLS PRESS (www.WestHillsPress.com)

  A division of Hundreds of Heads Books, LLC

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced—mechanically, electronically, or by any other means, including photocopying—without written permission of the publisher. Trademarks: West Hills Press, and related trade dress are trademarks or registered trademarks of Hundreds of Heads Books, LLC, and may not be used without written permission. All other trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

  Image © Igor Kovalchuk/123rf.com

  Author Photograph is by Kelsey Edwards

  All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Jeffrey Small, Atlanta, Georgia

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN-13: 978-1-933512-45-7

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Alison and Ella,

  You Inspire Me.

  CONTENTS

  PART I

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  PART II

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  PART III

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO FROM JEFFREY SMALL

  PART I

  “I am a Hindu, I am a Moslem, I am a Jew, I am a Christian, I am a Buddhist!”

  Mahatma Gandhi

  “I am a deeply religious non-believer.”

  Albert Einstein

  PROLOGUE

  SYRIA

  2000 YEARS AGO

  The rider had no way of knowing that a simple fall from his horse would change the course of history.

  For now, all he could focus on was the mission ahead. He adjusted the leather bag hanging from his shoulder. The mass of the parchment letters inside was insignificant, but the importance of the contents weighed heavily on him. The letters, signed by the High Priest himself, contained the names of those he would arrest and bring back in a fortnight. The rider knew the fate that awaited these unsuspecting men and women; he had made similar treks before. The lucky ones would die quickly, their flesh torn from their limbs by the ravenous animals kept for this purpose. The others would languish in a dark, dank cellar awaiting more gruesome tortures.

  The rider shifted on the horse. He was sweating underneath his cloak, especially where the bag bumped against his body in time with the horse’s stride.

  The sun had nearly reached its zenith, and the flat beige desert provided only an occasional thorny bush or limestone rock outcropping for shade. He squinted against the glare, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and massaged his temples.

  At least summer is months away.

  He kicked his horse with the heel of his sandal. The animal the council had provided him ambled forward as if it knew of the terrible task ahead. Heat radiated from its damp brown coat, and the bony creature looked like it hadn’t eaten well in months—in contrast to the powerful steeds of the three Roman legionnaires in front of him. The legionnaires, two in their mid-twenties and the third barely a teen, joked with each other, passing a wine sack between them.

  Pagans, he thought, but necessary to carry out his mission. He glanced at the long swords sheathed to their saddles. Men like these had to be watched carefully. For them, killing was a sport. At least he was a Roman citizen, and he had rights. But out in the desert no one would know if I simply disappeared. He shook his head to clear it. They would arrive in Damascus soon.

  His first stop would be to eat. After two days of only bread and wine, his mouth watered in anticipation of the juicy leg of lamb he would buy. Then his mission would begin. The closer they got to their destination, the more jovial the legionnaires became. The rider, however, didn’t relish the job he was sent to do. He was in the right, of course. The High Priest had made it very clear that this cult must be stamped out.

  They don’t have to die, he thought. It’s their choice. They were stubborn. Not one had renounced his or her ways.

  A sudden glint of sunlight off the armor chest plate attached to the rear of the saddle in front of him flashed into his eyes. A shot of pain pierced through to the base of his skull. He snapped his eyes closed and massaged his neck.

  Not again. Not
now, please, he prayed.

  The headaches had pestered him for the past year at the most inconvenient times. Usually he retired to his room, lying in the darkness for hours until they passed. For the past two months, this thorn in his flesh had occurred more frequently, especially since the council had charged him with ridding the land of the cult.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw that the steeds ahead of him had distanced themselves. He kicked his horse, bringing him to a trot. When he caught up, the youngest of the three Romans turned and stared.

  “You don’t look well,” Marcus said in an educated Greek. He held up the depleted wine sack. “A drink, maybe?”

  The rider shook his head, which was a mistake because the pain spread from the base of his skull to his temples. He brought the sleeve of his tunic to his face and wiped his eyes. He sensed this one would be worse than the others. When he dropped his arm, he noticed that Marcus was still staring at him, a curious expression on his stubble-covered face. That’s when he noticed the taste. Copper—as if he’d placed a coin on his tongue to clean it, which was an unusual thought, he realized, because he’d never done such a thing. But he could think of no other description for the metallic flavor.

  He almost said something to Marcus when he noticed the light again. As the legionnaire’s horse walked along the compacted sand, the sun reflecting off the armor danced in his vision. But this time it didn’t exacerbate his headache. To his surprise, the pain, which moments earlier had thundered through his skull, dissipated. He watched with interest as the light radiated outward from the armor, eclipsing the legionnaire and the desert around him. A moment later he could see nothing but the light.

  He wasn’t sure what caused him to fall from his horse. The light seemed to lift him from his saddle and deposit him on the coarse earth. He felt no pain.

  “Paulos!” Marcus called to him. The words came from a great distance. “Paulos, are you hurt?”

  The rider knew he should respond, but another voice eclipsed the legionnaire’s. This voice, however, didn’t come from the other Romans. It spoke to him from a different place. He had never heard this voice before, but at the same time it was familiar, as if it had been with him all along.

  He listened. Then he understood.

  His mission, his life, his very identity—none of it mattered anymore. The wonder of the revelation spread through his body like a drink of hot cider on a winter day. The answer had been within him from the beginning. He had just never listened. He had misunderstood the cult—they had been right all along.

  CHAPTER 1

  YALE-NEW HAVEN HOSPITAL

  PRESENT DAY

  “Do you smell something, Doctor? Like honey?”

  Dr. Ethan Lightman placed a hand on his patient’s shoulder. Bedside manner wasn’t one of his strengths, but he made an effort. “Liz, just relax. You’re in the early phase of the seizure.”

  He suspected that she was experiencing the first stages of an SPS, a simple partial seizure, which could affect a patient’s senses—smell, touch, sight, hearing, taste—but not their consciousness. Good, he thought. It’s beginning.

  “I’m scared.” Her eyes were wide and her pupils dilated. “I haven’t been off my Phenytoin for over two years.” She tugged at the handmade quilt that covered her on the narrow hospital bed. The IV line attached to her arm swung above her body. “And I told you what happened then.”

  He nodded. He knew his patient well: Elizabeth Clarkson, a thirty-six-year-old woman whose curly black hair and freckled face gave away her Irish descent. She looked like a younger version of Ethan’s mother, who had passed on her dark hair and fair complexion to him. During their initial interview, he’d learned that Liz had been on epileptic management drugs since she was seventeen. The unpredictability of her seizures made holding down a job difficult. She now worked at a flower shop part-time. But her misfortune, he hoped, might solve the mystery that had consumed the past five years of his life. Her seizures were special.

  “That’s why we have you in the hospital.” He gestured to the nurse with the silver hair tied in a bun on top of her head who was arranging instruments on the stainless steel table on the opposite side of the bed. “Judith has some nice drugs for you if the experience becomes too intense.”

  “That’s right, Sweetie”—Judith touched her arm—“I’ll take good care of you.”

  The fifteen-by-twenty-foot space was larger than the standard private hospital room because it was set up for longitudinal studies. Liz had lived there for two weeks, undergoing LTVM—long-term video monitoring, a protocol used on patients with difficult cases of epilepsy. She was continuously monitored by video and by EEG, electroencephalography. Although the room had the sterile smell of antiseptic, and the clean but scuffed white linoleum tiles left no doubt as to the hospital setting, they’d let her hang a swath of multicolored silk in an Indian design over one wall, which, along with the pictures of her three cats on the bedside table, helped to soften the room.

  She smiled at him. “Are you sure you’re old enough to be a doctor?” Her blue eyes dropped down the length of his body. He felt his face and neck flush.

  Ethan knew he looked younger than his thirty-two years. Although he was nearly six-four, he was lanky. At times, usually inopportune ones, he tripped over his own size thirteen shoes. He had a runner’s build—though he didn’t run. His high school track coach had begged him to try out for the team, but after a few practices, both knew he wasn’t meant to be an athlete.

  “Old enough,” he said, returning her smile. He suspected it looked awkward. He pulled his penlight from the breast pocket of his lab coat to keep himself focused.

  “At least you don’t think I’m crazy. I mean, the things I used to see during my spells.”

  He didn’t think she was crazy. On the contrary, he was determined to understand the etiology, the causation, of her visions. During her early twenties, Liz had been active in her church. In addition to working as the minister’s administrative assistant, she’d led an adult Sunday school class, a Tuesday morning Bible study, and a prayer group. However, after she’d revealed the details about her special experiences to the minister, he had asked her to leave. The things she saw were not natural, he’d explained, and he feared that the devil might be at work in her mind.

  Ethan checked the connections of the nineteen wires attached to her scalp; they joined in a single bundle below the bed and then ran along the floor until they terminated at a computer monitoring station. The computer recorded the electrical signals originating from Liz’s brain—her EEG—and had sent a text message to his cell phone fifteen minutes earlier, as soon as it detected unusual sharp-slow waves.

  He hoped this time he would get the data he needed. He felt the tension in his shoulders as he bent to examine the dilation of her pupils with his penlight. He and his mentor, Professor Elijah Schiff, needed a breakthrough. They weren’t there to cure Liz of her epilepsy. Her condition was under control with the medication that he’d stopped when she entered the study.

  If I could just capture an EEG of one of her episodes, then maybe . . . He let the thought trail off.

  Ethan and Elijah had hit a dead end, and they were running out of time. They had exhausted their grant several months earlier. While Elijah was out canvassing the nonprofit community for more money, Ethan was working harder than he had in his life, trying to demonstrate progress—trying to prove that their idea wasn’t just a pipe dream. In his gut, he felt they were close to making one of the greatest breakthroughs in modern psychology. But not everyone believed that their theory was plausible. In fact, most of their colleagues ridiculed the idea.

  “Dr. Lightman!” an urgent voice from the back of the room interrupted his thoughts.

  He’d almost forgotten about Christian Sligh, the second-year grad student sitting at the small wooden desk overflowing with computer equipment. The bundle of electrodes attached to Liz’s scalp terminated into ten differential amplifiers, which boosted the slig
ht electrical signal coming from her brain activity. These signals were picked up and analyzed by the computer workstation, which filtered out extraneous signals, such as any electrodermal response—spontaneous electrical impulses across the skin caused by a fluctuation in emotion—or the EMG signals produced when muscles contract. Ethan only cared about capturing the electrical signals produced by her brain.

  Chris stared at three twenty-inch LCD monitors. With his shaggy blond hair, he appeared more like a surfer from Malibu than a psych graduate from Notre Dame. The flip-flops and shorts enhanced the surfer image, but his wool sweater was a concession to the cold New Haven rain they’d experienced that fall. Ethan didn’t know what he would do without his grad student. Chris had a knack for wading through the bureaucracy of the various university approvals their study required. Ethan didn’t have the patience for paperwork; he was too busy spending late nights working on the project itself.

  The faint beeping of equipment echoed in the background. “I’m getting some interictal activity in the temporal lobes,” Chris said.

  Ethan turned to Liz. She stared at the ceiling without blinking. Judith reached for her arm to place a blood pressure cuff on it. He touched the nurse’s shoulder, shaking his head. He didn’t want any external stimuli to influence the patient’s experience or disrupt the EEG. Judith withdrew the BP cuff with an annoyed look.

  Liz gazed at the ceiling with an expression that exuded relaxed concentration. He guessed that the seizure was spreading: probably evolving from an SPS to a CPS, a complex partial seizure. He wondered if it was still primarily located in the left temporal lobe. He was torn between observing at her side and joining Chris at the computer screens. But the EEG was being recorded, and he would spend the night studying it.

  “Doctor,” Judith said in a voice just above a whisper, “hasn’t it been long enough?” She held a syringe in her hand. Her brow was furrowed.