The Khufu Equation (18 page)

Jeff, with the help of will, made his body switch off the pain and weakened muscles. Time was no longer important, because it couldn't solve the problem. Inhaling air with his stomach, Jeff slowed down his heart rate till it resonated with the quiet of his surroundings. Penetrating into the porous membrane at the border between the worlds, his consciousness broke through to steady perception. It was able to absorb information and speed him through shiny tunnels.

Once the boy was able to perceive that every cell in his body had its own life, he could be a separate one and the whole unit simultaneously. Then his attention was attracted by a bright, oncoming stream of energy, but it was impossible to stop the collision. It happened, and it exploded into a tornado of fire.

A strange, toneless sound returned Jeff to his body. The boy lay on the ground, somehow free of the cord that had held him. For some time he didn't move, listening to his organism. Having stood too long the blood was rushing, fighting to return the equilibrium and flexibility to his body. Touching the ground with his cheek Jeff looked at the moonlight through the bitter haze of sweat that had invaded his eyes.

"I am free."

He then tore away the cloth, wiped the dust out of his eyes and took a deep breath. He turned onto his back and lay still for several minutes. Eventually, sensing the giddiness of his restored freedom, he stood up and proceeded to leave.

The door, small and crookedly made, opened suddenly. A very nice woman appeared. But neither the silvery moon falling upon the velvet of her black dress nor the tempting forms of her body attracted Jeff. Instead, he became drunk from the sight of her eyes, which flashed a devilish, poisonous green in the shadows of that place.

11:05 p.m.

A small suitcase, containing a set of underclothes, cosmetics and a toothbrush, was near the entrance door. All the other necessities Jeanette would buy in her destination. In the pocket of her cotton overalls was a ticket to Phnom Penh, with a plane change in Bangkok.

Despite the promise given to Slaiker, she would leave that long-occupied place and clear up the reason for her husband's death. Apparently it was useless to seek help, and she didn't want any. Even if it was a trap, as Slaiker had warned, nobody and nothing would stop her.

The meeting with the detective had brought bad news. It turned out that a certain devilish essence had been close to her since the previous day, spying and communicating.

Andrew's death marked the start of the string of awful events. However, it had been presented to Jeanette in such a way that she was obstructed from any involvement in the game. Now she asked herself why the Beast needed her and what it wanted from her.

One can't make an omelet without breaking eggs, Jeanette told herself as she picked up the suitcase. Saying farewell to her home, she realized that she could somehow breathe more easily now that Slaiker was around. Perhaps something had negatively charged the ions in the air, and perhaps the flowers had reacted with an outpouring of fragrance.

He was a man she could stand behind in order to protect the life of the baby she carried, but her fierce pride and self-reliance pushed her toward the door. She paused there and looked the place over one last time. She loved the home: It was part of the happiness she had once lived. She didn't know whether she'd return, nor did she know what lay ahead.

"Farewell, my home," she though. "You gifted me with the coolness of your secret corners. You were kind to me. In your rooms my baby was conceived. I really want to return to you. My baby will miss you, too. Goodbye!"

Her unspoken monologue was interrupted by the arrival of someone at the door. As she opened it, she felt the ringing of bells in her heart.

"You!?"

Slaiker stood there, sad and distressed.

"May I come in?" he asked in a muted, sober tone.

"Yes . . . . Yes, come in," she said softly, trying to suppress the ringing in the heart. Slaiker entered and, with hand trembling, removed a bloody note from his pocket.

International Airport, Victoria, Seychelles.

Alan Fisher had spent exactly thirteen years working at the customs house of the international airport. There was a time when he was handsome and cheerful, but over the years his condition deteriorated: By the age of thirty-five his mouth was full of artificial teeth, his stomach had taken on the shape of a beer keg, and on his head there was merely a suggestion of the dark-brown, curly hair he once had. A month earlier, he had revealed his junior member to another party bearing forbidden fruit, and this fact became the last straw in his marital relationship. The situation was made worse by the fact that, with this discovery, Alan lost the ability to perform for his wife. She left him. Thus the only joy and passion he had left was in regard to heart-clogging foods, and as punishment that couldn't be satisfied, he buried his face in them.

Grey Stringer, the chief of the meteorological service, bore this in mind as he went to the cafe. He saw Alan through the window glass.

"Hi, Alan," he said, taking a seat at the table.

Fisher looked up and, chewing feverishly, replied:

"Hey, Grey. Want a burger?"

"No, thanks. Just a coffee will be fine." He snapped his fingers, and a waiter understandingly bowed. It would be the usual.

"Coffee will kill you, Grey."

"Hamburgers will kill you."

"You're right. But please, just allow me my only joy in life."

"You've become pretty stout, I have to say. How's Elma?"

"She left me a month ago. She said that she loves me but can't live without sex."

"I see. And what do the doctors say?"

Alan picked up his second burger.

"They didn't, really. I visited a psychiatrist and even tried acupuncture, but I couldn't get a boner if a lingerie model stripped for me. I can't believe I'm telling you all this, but there it is. Now I'm ready to do anything I can to be cured."

"Alan, I'm embarrassed to say this, but I think a little black magic . . . ."

"What!?" said Alan in a half-shout, and coughed up several bits of charred, chewed burger meat.

"You heard me. My aunt is a witch, and you need her. Besides, what have you got to lose?"

"Well, if it works I'll be forever indebted to you. Please talk to her for me."

"I will, but you must do something for me. Be on duty in my study at night. Will get some faxes.

"All right. Let it be the whole day, then. Your aunt is my only hope. I've been without my woman for a month already. And you . . . you and Jackie again?

Cunningly, Grey held forth his keys under the table.

"Only quietly, without noise."

Fisher hid the keys in his pocket and turned toward the window.

"Have a look at this fifa! The one holding a girl by the hand!"

Having turned a little, Grey's eyes became fixed upon the sight of a luxurious woman in black dress. She was leading a little girl, like a miniature Barbie doll dressed in a pink dress, with wavy blond hair and a cute bow on top.

"Alan, that woman is truly beautiful, but you have to visit my aunt first."

"I don't mean that. Mind me, she earns her way with music, but she doesn't have a musician's hands. More likely, she's a singer. But why is she dressed for performance in this scorching heat?"

"Guys have told me legends about you, but I didn't believe them."

"The woman really is a singer. A saw her featured in an ad about a week ago. But hey . . . how do you do that!?"

"Don't know. I don't even look at documents. I simply sense whatever it is about a person. Besides, I have a photographic memory."

Alan, however, kept something to himself; a little secret. Every person wears a mask in order to conceal his or her true personality from others. If a child is greatly taken with a toy, she falls into hysterics, even though the child is otherwise very sweet. So a young woman, half an hour ago, being unfaithful to her spouse, began to fondle to him. That, too, was a mask. A fellow, having stolen a wallet in a crowd, begins to shout that he has been robbed. All these are masks. When such a mask is removed, one can learn not only the person's secret agenda but also his next step toward its completion.

Alan, in unmasking travelers at the airport, subjected them to a shocking procedure. Remarks such as "How's your wife," "Shouldn't you wear a size 45 shoe," or things even more probing, were made with considerable regularity. Occasionally, he would even says, "Are you aware that narcotics trafficking is subject to capital punishment?" In such ways he would abruptly unmask his victims.

Thanks to these tactics, Fisher could precisely define that an enraged person would ultimately descend into a state of pain, or even resort to antagonism, while an optimistic person, strongly interested in everything, would rise to the point of elation or descend to emotional conservatism.

Fisher was never mistaken. As a rule, it turned out that a detained person who didn't correspond to his passport data would be revealed as a smuggler.

Grey held out his hand.

"Sorry, bud. "It's time to go. Jackie is waiting."

"Yeah, me too. Say hello to Jackie for me."

"Will do!"

Alan finished eating and went to the terminal, where he took up his post. Usually, he would watch a passenger from a distance. He would study the person's gait. He'd take note of the clothing and its color, and he'd be aware of the manner in which documents were submitted. Accordingly, he could define a person as being of a particular type and thereby judge his inclination toward criminal activity. He could tell a lot just reading a face, too. Now, however, Fisher's attention now was upon the woman standing in his line. He felt overwhelmed by some excitement he couldn't explain. This young woman was quickly driving him insane with her allure. He found himself swimming in the most lascivious fantasies. He imagine falling back upon the desk, having his boxer shorts yanked off and his manhood promptly up to the hilt in her warm contours, with panties pulled aside. He wondered if she'd groan as they did it.

Alan's member, however, failed to salute. He was like a cat crouched before a saucer of cream, its mouth bandaged to prevent the merest taste. Alan felt his hands shivering. He tried to overcome it but was unable. His sight skimmed along with woman's perfect hips. They were making him drunk inside, with their delicate, nearly imperceptible back-and-forth movement.

"Do you want me?"

A turbid green shroud of foam overwhelmed his consciousness, and only then, at the boundary of the real and the imagined, Alan saw that the woman held a little girl by the hand.

How could he have failed to notice? Something was definitely wrong. "Now I'll decode you, beauty and all!" he said to himself as he settled into the task.

However what happened then fully broke Fisher's will. The woman in black gave him papers and touched his hand with the tips of her fingers. A light electric charge ran through him and, with his head swimming, he suddenly realized that his long-absent ability had returned. At last, he was rising through tumescence to a full, raging hard-on.

"Good Lord, it's true!" he thought. "My boy is standing! Yes!"

Spitting at the rules of decency, Fisher put down his hand and gave himself a quick feel.

He could barely believe it. His heart began to beat with the force of a blacksmith's mallet. He was whole again! Moreover, he was free. He was about to compliment the female, but she spoke first:

"Documents here, quickly!" She held forth a hand, flashed her green eyes and, when Alan Fisher obeyed, added:

"Say 'hello' to your 'little boy' for me!"

The next moment, some ethereal power cleared his memory of those past few moments. Fisher didn't even remember the fact he had followed the woman with eyes. There she went, the woman leading a young girl toward the plane; one whose unnatural image was similar to the image of homeless Bolognese. Alan looked at the clock. There were five minutes left, and then the plane would taxi on runway 47, bound for Bangkok.

Fisher was, however, still aware of the change in his vitality, and soon he became actively involved in planning for that night's adventures.

The keys were in his pocket. He'd take Selma and give her some heat.

The approach of old acquaintances threw a dam over his stream of thought. He saw Brett Li and Slaiker, followed by a monk and a pretty Creole woman.

"Hello, there," said Fisher, as he greeted his friends. "Why such gloomy faces? Has something happened?"

"Yes," answered Brett. "Have a look at this profile sketch."

The commissioner placed a piece of paper on the table. On it was drawn a man with a long braid.