The Khufu Equation (16 page)

"How do you do, Jeanette. This is Slaiker."

The timbre of his voice betrayed the dread he felt.

"What's the matter?" she asked, almost in a whisper.

"No time to explain. Answer me one question, truly. What was in that letter?"

She understood there was no need to lie. She remembered the context by heart and read it. Immediately, Slaiker phoned Brett. The latter was not in a good mood.

"What's the result of the examination?" said Slaiker, using as few words as possible.

"It's the body of Brian Limont. He worked . . . ."

"I know the rest," interrupted the detective. "Look here. Rush over to the hotel Beau Vallon. Take a flak jacket and a high-powered gun. We'll meet on the way."

"Clear. Will" answered the commissioner, equally brief. Questions were unnecessary at the moment. Time was not in their favor.

Slaiker's blood froze in his veins from the terror of it. He felt as if he was stranded in the Antarctic, so helpless was he in the knowledge of what was happening to his son. Jeanette suspected Jean-Pierre in the theft of the disc, so the essence had another opportunity to entice Jeanette to Cambodia, where the Stone was kept. Thus the essence left Brian's body to enter that of Jean-Pierre, placed the envelope under the door. A moment later, Slaiker rang the doorbell. The Beast saw everything and kidnapped Jeff in order that Slaiker would not destroy its plan.

Moments later, protected and armed with a semi-automatic pistol--a "Desert Eagle" 9 mm--Slaiker followed the trail to an exit. Carefully, he opened the door and saw a man standing with a bell in his hand. He was dressed in black monastic garb, upon which was a ten-inch white stone cross. A cowl covered the newcomer's eyes.

"Who are you, and what do you want!?" hissed the furious Slaiker.

The stranger opened the cowl, and nervously revealing the scarlet scar on the right side of his face, pronounced:

"It is I, who will kill the Beast."

10:30 p.m.

Life in the hotel Beau Vallon was permanently ordinary. The tourists, spoiled with attention and tropical sun, were capricious and delicate. To feed their spiritual thirst, the hotel staff, like wise mothers, applied an abundance of wit. That evening, in the restaurant, history would take place. The blues singer Bridget Nilsen, a talent unsurpassed, would sing on invitation. It would be her final performance.

The restaurant of some fifty tables, decorated in the style of Ludwig XVI, certainly wasn't on the list of Greenpeace partisans. The delicate aroma of crocodile, marinated in coconut milk and fried, poured out among the seating. The ornamental candles created a soft glow, hovering in the semi-darkness like fireflies in anticipation of Ms. Nilsen's appearance.

Swaying to the rhythm of the first number, Bridget immediately became entranced by the sound of her own voice. She could rise to a height of five octaves from her lowest pitch, or she could just as easily soar downward from the pinnacle. Her textures ranged from velvety and warm to the chill of a high mountain stream. Even the alcohol so liberally washed down by the audience members was far less sweet than the intoxicant issued forth by this twenty-two-year-old chanteuse.

Even the waitresses cooled vapor in their cauldrons. Certainly it was the work of Bridget Nilsen. She had the talent of a legend, but somewhere in the past she too had been a waitress. Now, all attention was directed at the stage, where Bridget was singing a song about tragic love amid the malachite rays of the footlights. However, even as she held that microphone in her slender fingers she didn't realize that the black velvet of her dress was intoning to the sadness of her destiny.

The concert ended with thunderous applause. Holding luxurious bunches of flowers, the singer left the stage. She went back to the dressing room, set down the flowers and dropped herself into a chair.

If anybody could know how much inner strength that applause had stolen! Never in her life had she felt such a burden upon her shoulders.

She still remembered the fog as it enveloped her eyes, and the giddiness of it, as if she were standing at the edge of a precipice. It was her first appearance on the stage. She was able to stand there and sing right to the end, and she made a good impression on the audience.

"Very pleasing, girl! On that first day you felt better than you do now. What's the matter? Maybe you're pregnant?" The idea of a possible pregnancy made her feel nauseated. "Only not now, girl! You're unable to rub your feet, just thinking about the contract, so not now. Maintain your composure!"

She suddenly imagined herself in a kitchen apron, just as she was then, two years ago. It was a roadside snack bar. She was the waitress. Her skin still felt sticky at the sight of drivers. That's why, on receiving that first paycheck, she bought a black velvety dress, hoping even x-rays wouldn't be able to pierce it. Only the narrow slit along the leg allowed a glimpse of that slender form.

Bridget was not tall. She was a brunette, with beautiful curly hair. She had several dresses, but today she chose the same one: black velvet. It was her favorite, and she had no reason to suspect it would be the last time she'd wear it . . . or anything else. Now, however, in that dress she felt absolutely naked. It was if she was a virgin in the desert, surrounded by a horde of lustful men. There was nowhere to run, there was no way to hide. The twenty-minute intermission wasn't very long, and the necessity of another stage appearance was almost too much to bear. She was very tired and could barely stand on her feet.

"Be strong, baby! That wonderful career is just ahead. Luck comes once. You've found the golden egg, so hold onto it. If you fall down, you'll be trampled. Surely you'll be trampled if you fall."

The singer then remembered that, during the performance, she was drawn to a particular table next to the stage. There was a couple seated at that table: a young Frenchman with a braid and a pretty woman with hair the color of summer wheat. They sat opposite one another, but they didn't move an inch. In the cold sheen of candles, they looked more like statues than living people. There was something unearthly in all that.

Bridget waited two minutes more, and then she left the dressing room. Perhaps she would see that couple at the table again. As she walked down the hall toward the restaurant, she felt a rush of anticipation. There was a magician on the stage. Amid the sounds of an amazed audience, he pulled blue balls out of thin air, pierced them to reveal more, and then he let fly pigeons from an empty top hat. The conjurer created many wonders, at least for those who wanted to believe it was all real.

Bridget looked toward the table. That strange couple was gone.

"God blesses. They're gone, and it'll be easier for me to work. Oh, well . . . a few more songs . . . ."

Kissing the floor with her heels, the singer slowly entered the room. How did she become a singer? In that faraway snack bar she had become acquainted with a man who was to be her impresario. Everything happened simply and quickly. Flowers, champagne, bed. Up till that time, she hadn't been aware of any God-given talent. The man didn't fail to notice. He exclaimed: "Baby, what are you doing here? Your mission is the stage, not some mangy coffee joint. To have five octaves and not even know it . . . . That's beyond belief. To have the voice others spend tens of thousands trying to get. Magnificent!"

Her destiny was settled. Bridget burst into the world of entertainment as a singer, just as one would in an old movie or a cheap romance novel.

Invisible wings grew up behind Bridget's back. She was free again, as before. And now she would fulfill the conditions of the contract. Just seven more songs were needed, and she could sing them all without breaking a sweat!"

Bridget, upon her arrival back at the dressing room, discovered bunches of orchids and black tulips on the table in front of the mirror. She inhaled their aroma and smiled. For her, flowers were no less important than money and recognition. Flower made her feel feminine, and whatever came after that was secondary. Bridget, however, was aware of someone behind her in the room. She could sense the presence and hear the breathing. She looked in the mirror, but it seemed she was alone. She looked again and saw a man: the same Frenchman with the narrow braid, which hung down upon his shoulder.

Bridget looked in the mirror again, but she saw only the fright in her eyes. Hers was the only reflection. She turned around, and he was there. He was smiling, but his eyes burned with the most unkindly fire.

"What do you want here? Your flowers?" said Bridget, but to her surprise no sound came forth.

"Yes, mine. I hope you like them."

She nodded in the affirmative. She was speechless with fear.

"What I need . . . ." The man gave an ironic smile, and his green eyes glinted. "Your body, my berry. There must be a luxurious body under that velvety dress. B-b-bitch! Body . . . !"

The braided man threw his arms upon Bridget's shoulders, and she seemed to feel the weight of the universe. She closed her eyes in fear, like a little child who plays "peek-a-boo" without realizing she is in plain sight.

It sounds comical, but kids are right in any case. Bridget saw unknown space in front. It was blindingly white. There were two doors in one wall. She was realizing, though nobody had ever told her, there was safety behind one of those doors. Beyond one was "her" world, and beyond the other was "his" world. She paused in hesitation.

"What on earth, baby! You ought to choose either Paradise or Hell. But this is dreadful. I'd better stay here in timbre up to the very end. I don't play such games." However, the system of coordinates with which she was involved worked according to its own rules. There was an odd sound that led Bridget to turn. A peculiar construction from the side walls was moving toward her and filling the area. On its opposite ends, two atomic magnets--plus and minus--were furiously spinning.

Splitter.

Bridget defined the name of the construction without any mistake because anyone, upon leaving his flesh, encounters it. Any deed in one's life remains in the consciousness as either a positive charge or a negative charge. It may be the theft of a nice little soap from one's hotel room, or it may be disbelief in church. There is no difference. Because an implantation of false guilt can make person believe he is the last nit in this universe and the punishment will be strict. Bridget remembered her whole life. Was it pure to go through the Splitter and stay untouched? It meant she had to be static, not having wavelength, mass, time or position in space. In other words, no charge. The woman retreated. Somewhere in her childhood, she had stolen a piece of chalk from school. This incident--the implantation of false guilt--settled into its permanent place within her mind. She imagined the Splitter tearing her into eight pieces (the number of chakra) and became horrified. It would be less painful to be boiled alive.

She was almost pressed against the door when she remembered the previous meeting with the Splitter and the pursuit of her reincarnations. More than two hundred years ago, out of the broken pieces of her personality (she was Mozart) during one year four famous composers appeared: Chopin, Liszt, Mendelssohn and Schumann. The fact was difficult to explain to her; she simply knew it right then, at that moment.

Bridget turned to the doors. She had to choose one, to save herself. The decision came immediately, without any explanation. She chose the right one, turned a knob, entered, and . . . .

Everything disappeared. The terrible room. And the Splitter. And fear.

Yeah, I could hide myself. This is my world. The world of my childhood. My castle, my abode. I saw Paradise in that.

She was standing in a daisy field, gradually coming to herself. The wave of aesthetics blew round her. A light wind was playing in her hair and kissing her lips. Not far away, the ocean was crashing green upon the shore, and snow-white clouds were floating above. Fresh fragrances made her feel drunk with excitement. Thanks to her emotions, Bridget began to cry, because she was at last free of the burden of perishable days. Regardless of everything, she had found her own world. She was free. She was eager to fly over the daisy field and compete with the wind far along the ocean, and she did that. She was light as a feather, and she was greatly surprised to find that she could be in some places simultaneously and see things from different perspectives. She had the perception of depth in four dimensions. Wasn't it the full blessing of freedom? Wasn't it absolute happiness to realize that world, and to model it as she liked?

But what's this?

The stream of someone's intention made her fall to the ground. In that daisy field, she saw an approach ten-year-old boy. It was a boy she knew in school. She liked him very much, and he was her secret love right up till the graduation day. He was carrying a box. It was the very one she had kept an eye on in a curiosity shop. The box was incrusted with emeralds, pearls and diamonds.

Bridget's eyes lit up. The breathing stopped. The matter was not in the price. She was attracted by harmony of color as well as the game of light and shadow in the trinket. It spoke of a certain mystery, the answer to which required that she open the box. Only then could she be sure to read the ideas of the master, who had created this and similar wonders. He must have been in love.