Depth Charge by Jason Heaton (carter reed .txt) 📗

of Gnanaatissa, rising through the ranks of his newly formed Bodu Bala Hamuda, the Buddhist Power Army. After the civil war ended, a new government swept into power and vowed to bring those who incited violence to justice. Gnanaatissa was jailed and Dhammasara took his place as the spiritual leader of the BBH. By this time, the BBH had a new target: the rising Muslim population in the east of Sri Lanka.

“How are you finding Batticaloa?” Dhammasara asked as they padded barefoot through the temple.

“It’s hot,” Rausing replied flatly. “And definitely different from Kandy or Colombo.” He shot a knowing glance at the monk, who grunted in agreement. They walked together, passing a large chamber where a group of monks were sitting on the floor facing an elderly teacher.

At the end of a corridor, Dhammasara ushered Rausing into a small room. It was an office, with a dark wood desk, a few chairs and a framed portrait on the wall. The big monk took his chair behind the desk. He caught Rausing’s gaze at the framed portrait. It was a sepia-tone photograph of a seated monk in a robe. The man wore a serious expression and, unlike the monks at this temple, had a full head of curly black hair.

“Anagarika Dharmapala,” he said, answering the question he knew Rausing was about to ask. “He is the father of the Buddhist Protestant movement here in Sri Lanka and the spiritual ancestor of the Bodu Bala Hamuda.”

Rausing studied the old photo. The subject’s eyes blazed white. Then he turned back to Dhammasara. He looked nothing like this historical forebear but his eyes were equally on fire.

“Power and militancy do not seem compatible with most people’s notion of Buddhism,” Rausing said.

Dhammasara laughed. “You in the west have this image of Buddhists as lotus-eating, meditating pacifists, but there is a long tradition of our religion standing up for what is just and right, and of strong Buddhist warriors.”

The monk rubbed his head thoughtfully. “It’s not only the Muslims who can have their holy wars.”

“You feel that Islam is not right and just?” Rausing countered. “I have no love for the Muslims, but then again, I’m not terribly fond of any religion.”

Venerable Dhammasara shifted in his chair, which creaked ominously under his weight. “Buddhism is not a religion as you think of Islam or Christianity. It is more a way of life, a perspective on the world and a connection of one’s spirit with nature. We just happen to follow the teachings of one particularly wise, or as we say, enlightened, man—the Buddha.”

Rausing didn’t react. In truth, he didn’t care about the reasons Dhammasara had hired him and he regretted even being contrary.

Dhammasara continued. “Sri Lanka was historically a Buddhist land until the Europeans came and brought slaves from India with their own religions. Anagarika himself was the first to really stand up to this intrusion.” He gestured to the scowling portrait. “The BBH is not against Muslims per se. But Islam has its holy lands in the Middle East. We Buddhists have ours here. The country is over seventy percent Buddhist as it is. It used to be higher.” An enigmatic smile. “I’d like to return to that.”

Rausing studied the monk’s smooth face and dark eyes. “So, after you get rid of the Muslims, are the Christians next?”

“As Lord Buddha said, ‘There is nothing mightier than patience’,” Dhammasara replied.

“And no error greater than hatred,” Rausing shot back.

The monk smiled. “You know your teachings, Mr. Rausing.”

“Your motivation is of no concern to me. By the time you put your plan in place, I will be gone from this country.”

“Well then, enough of the philosophical discussion,” Dhammasara said. “Are you confident you can retrieve the weapon?”

“Certain.” Rausing said. “We located it earlier this week but had a slight setback.” He shifted uncomfortably, thinking of McElroy’s failure and the Taprobane’s interference. Both problems had been eliminated; there was no need for this monk to know the details. “We’ll be diving on the wreck later this week as soon as this weather system passes.”

There was a flash and a loud crack of thunder. The monsoon rain was drumming on the roof above their heads.

“I’m glad to hear it,” the monk rubbed his head and smiled. “Ramadan is in two weeks. We would like to be ready by then, for maximum effect.”

“We’ll make the exchange at our agreed-upon location. From there, you can do with it what you wish.”

“As you like,” Dhammasara said, “I will remain here and send some friends to collect it. The sea air doesn’t agree with me.”

Rausing hesitated, then asked, “What exactly are your plans with the weapon? It surely can’t be used in its current state.”

“That is none of your concern, Mr. Rausing,” Dhammasara’s tone grew colder. “We have friends with more experience who can help us with our needs.” Then, he softened and said with a smile, “Just as you are helping us.”

Dhammasara stood and gestured towards the door. The meeting was over. Rausing didn’t rise. “We agreed on half of the money up front.” He looked coldly up at the fat monk.

“Of course. It’s already taken care of. I’ve had it loaded into your vehicle.” Dhammasara gave a thin smile and pulled the door open. Rausing stood and followed him out.

“And the government will continue to not give us trouble?” Rausing stopped at the door. The rain had subsided and the air was heavy with moisture and the sound of insects, which had started their incessant nocturnal cacophony.

“The president is aware of our plans and has been fully supportive.” The smile hung on Dhammasara’s face, but his eyes were empty. Rausing looked away and nodded.

Venerable Dhammasara shuffled heavily through the quiet temple alongside Rausing, who was now eager to leave. “I trust the Chinese are paying you handsomely for your company’s work in the new harbor?”

“Yes, they are a reliable and wealthy client,” Rausing said, annoyed at the monk’s prying question. He paused at the door to collect his shoes and