The Khufu Equation (17 page)

The boy held out the box. Bridget took it, understanding that it was a gift. The mystery of the box had worried her for long, but now she felt that all was falsity and wasn't worth her attention.

The singer enjoyed the beauty a little more, though. Then she hooked the edges and lifted the cover. Time slowed to a standstill. Around her, the colors started to dim. The world was becoming black and white, and the intoxicating fragrance of the daisy field was fading. Everything was changing form; everything was funneling into the box. There, to her horror, Bridget discovered that damned room with the Splitter. The universe was collapsing into itself. Bridget felt herself being pulled into a white room without a door. It was useless to resist. A flash of realization in her mind gave her to understand that the history of this world was based on lies and traps, where one thing was transcended by another and the meanings of "good" and "bad" were interchangeable in binary fashion. Upon this realization, she knew that she wanted to cry. Absorbed with patterns of devilish energy, however, she could not allow herself to do so. A man lifted Bridget by the shoulders and, having drawn her tender flesh to his body, brought his head down to her mouth.

Their lips fused in a kiss, and Bridget felt a powerful stream of cold energy as it poured into her. While the man's body was drying like an apple in oven, her mind was saying farewell to the flesh, farewell to life . . . .

A moment before death, however, she managed to think: "I'd better stay at that lousy little snack bar."

10:45 p.m.

Brett Li, in his Cherokee, followed Slaiker in his Bronco over the pass at Mont Signal on the way to the hotel Beau Vallon. They had met at the entrance ramp, where Slaiker waved his hand and indicated, "Go after me." The commissioner was in a rage. He scarcely realized what Slaiker had told him. It was too much, and it was too weird: the "Gates of Net," or something like that; devil essence; perverted murders; black magic.

The Master was likely right.

Li hadn't encountered anything similar during his time in the service. But the war past, which engendered the habits of a professional scout, reminded him. The detachment "Sea bears" wasn't noted for altruism. It was occupied only with anti-terrorism. Crude methods of obtaining information and certifiable killing skills were among their private instruments, whereby they could influence the balance of economic areas across the planet. Brett Li and Slaiker, having grown from lowly screws into distributing shafts of the great state apparatus, weren't holy men. However, as terminators they neither sought nor desired holiness. To retire, they could only rely on two articles: "lack of correspondence" and "lack of health."

Brett precisely remembered the day they came to one card shop in Hong Kong, where their attention was drawn by two refined plastic packs. On the question of price, the card master, an elderly man, smiled broadly and answered.

"Your two teeth," he said, and opened his palm. In it were two teeth, complete with their roots."

The method, thanks to which the master had deprived them of teeth, came from the realm of metaphysics. A year later, the friends were dismissed on the article "lack of health." Brett had kidney insufficiency, while Slaiker had only fifty percent of his once keen eyesight.

Their health was restored some time after their return to civil life. Only later did they understand that these were tricks of the old card master. They remained on good terms with each other, and the old man, since then.

The master helped the men to work out the pulse of life, which begins the harmony. It builds the perfect interconnection among all livings on earth. He explained that the universe consists of energy fields in the form of shining threads, and that the world, with its settled system of interpretation, is not as it appears to be. It is multi-measured, the forms of life are innumerable, and it is inhabited by many spiritual beings. The elderly man, however, did not reveal all his secrets, as he was convinced the two weren't ready and doing so could affect their health. Meanwhile, he taught each the ability to penetrate into the under-layer of reality and move through it very quickly. Could the friends know at that time that the old man was preparing them for a specific mission?

It was a quarter till eleven at night when the two cars reached the hotel Beau Vallon. Brett paid attention to a person in a cassock, accompanying Slaiker. Without explanation, the detective handed Brett two cards: the ace of spades and the six of hearts. They spoke.

"Category of danger is the highest, will do as ordered."

The three of them entered the hotel in silence. Commissioner Li brought protection in the form of a Winchester rifle and a SPAS-12 combat shotgun. Brett gave the carbine to Slaiker. They went toward a noisy hall, where they met a man stationed at the glass door: certainly not worth their attention. The guy tried to block the way, but Brett upped him by the lapel with his free hand and moved him aside like a vacant bar stool. Having noticed uninvited guests, a detective from the hotel's security service was directed to them. Scott Brown was talking over the mobile phone and chewing gum. To Brett, he resembled a cow.

"Hey, you . . . ." Scott stopped talking. He recognized these old acquaintances, but he was perplexed by the weapons they were carrying. That kind of thing was sure to invite panic among the guests.

"Any problems? – Scott finished chewing and scratched behind the protruding as a locator ear.

"Repeat once. You know me." It seemed as if Slaiker was compressed, like a spring. "Put your bulldogs between all stories. Nobody goes in, nobody out. Let them examine the entertainment areas quietly. We're looking for the Frenchman with the braid, Jean-Pierre Lefebvre by name. If he's found, we're on the third floor.

Scratching his ear questioningly, the security man Brown pressed the button on his wireless and, shouting something, quickly disappeared.

Commissioner Li and Father Sohn followed Slaiker to the end of the hall, where a wide staircase led to subsequent floors. Now it was possible to steal an extra minute. On the way, Slaiker unlocked the safety, and Brett did the same. Thirty seconds later, jumping over stairs, the three stood in front of room 97.

"What's next?" whispered Slaiker to the monk, hugging the wall. Krepfol opened his cowl, and Slaiker saw a wide scar on the right cheek. It seemed to change color from scarlet to dark violet.

"There is only one arm capable of killing the Beast," Krepfol pronounced, as he revealed the white-stone cross and its hieroglyphs.

Having clutched with fingers a secret knob, Krepfol unsheathed a five-inch blade. Then, from the folds of the cassock he took out a small book. Its cover was sewn from buffalo hide and had silver threads.

Father Sohn placed his palm on the book, closed his eyes and moved his lips soundlessly, making a certain pronouncement three times, whereupon he said to Slaiker:

"If I don't come back in two minutes, run away. That's all I can say."

Krepfol made the Sign of the Cross three times and silently inserted a slender blade into the keyhole. The blade flashed with a bright blue halo and, in direct defiance of any property of the "real" world, made the lock springs move aside. A definite click was heard, and Krepfol opened the door. He entered the room. Darkness immediately swallowed the monk, and the door, like the mouth of a ravenous dragon, closed again. At first Brett and Slaiker were calm. A minute passed, and the stress was growing. Silence, with its invisible fingers, groped for any weak strings in their souls, namely fear and perturbation. Silence was stretching them, seeking the opportunity to tear, but they were as strong as anchor cable.

"Where's my son? What has happened to him?" Slaiker asked himself, and in a plea for help broke into a speechless cry. Dear God, help my boy! He hasn't seen life yet. Good Lord, help him!"

Slaiker's muscles became leaden, and his face took on the color of rage.

The door opened suddenly. It was already light in the room, and Krepfol was standing there. He was downcast and the scar on his right cheek was a scarlet as before.

"We are late. He has left a new trace, though." Krepfol pointed toward the back.

The two men ran in. Practically everything in the room, from the ceiling to the floor, had been bathed in blood. In the corner of the room a young woman, rolled up into a ball like a dog, was trembling all over. Her blue dress, hands, face and even her hair were covered in blood. In the depth of her tear-filled eyes, one could read undisguised terror. The woman tried to say something, but instead of words there came a lowing sound and a gush of blood.

Slaiker had a look at the bathroom. The door was wide open. The men stepped in. In a bath, filled with bloody water, lay a body without skin. The head bore a hole in such a way that brain tissue floated nearby. The skin, which had been pulled off like a stocking, hung over the clothesline. A note was pinned to the wall with a knife, but Slaiker something hanging on the knife. It was a little piece of meat, like that of a tongue.

"He has bitten off her tongue," Commissioner Li pronounced in a cheerless voice.

Slaiker took the note, read it and held it out to his friend. His hand was trembling. Brett read: "Slaiker, don't hinder. You don't want your son to be dissected like a sheep, do you? Tomorrow Jeanette is to be in Cambodia."

"What is happening?" gasped Brett, white as a sheet. Before answering, Slaiker punched a hole in the wall, but the pain of it couldn't erase the anguish within him. It only sharpened the situation whereby he was inconsolable.

"Call your helpers and medical service. I'll tell you everything in the car."

Walking down the staircase, Slaiker remembered he had felt the same pain four years before, when his wife died.

Michel Monten seems to have confirmed that a man who's capable of making a breach never cries. He's a liar . . . and a chatterbox.

Slaiker dried his tears with his broad palm, but he bit his lower lip till it bled.

"I have to be strong, and have to believe! Jeff will be okay. Be patient just a while more, son. I'll save you, my little boy! On each floor there were Brown's people; crowds of indignant tourists could not understand why they were not allowed to go.

Slaiker went down to the ground floor and then to the restaurant. The blues singer was performing on a semicircular stage. Life around him seemed to stand still. Even the waiters froze between tables. The candle flames seemed motionless, too. The stage attracted everybody's attention. There Bridget Nelson, in that black velvet dress, was charming the audience with her awesome voice.

Slaiker found that his eyesight was fixed on the movement of her lips. His hearing was affixed on the sound of the words. As soon as he understood that, he lost his ability to concentrate. He felt giddy, but he was able to turn and move away. At the exit, a wave of stormy applause and cries of "encore" overtook him.

A gray field mouse was awakened by strange sounds that night. Down in her nest filled with fresh grass, a brood of babies lay sleeping, blind and helpless. They were to grow up, become strong and take their place in the evolution of this hostile world. First, however, they had to fulfill the most important task in the universe: to survive beyond the point they were considered merely food for another. Strong instincts made the gray mouse rush an exit. Having stopped suddenly, she sniffed the air. Her main enemy--the yellow-headed grass snake, which had eaten the sire of her brood--could be sensed, not ten meters away. Now, though, she felt drops of human perspiration. Human. This creature didn't trouble her, but one had to be apprehensive.

The mouse, ever curious, went out and found herself inside an old barn. It was chosen not by chance. People didn't throw poison here, and people generally didn't visit it.

The mouse saw the moonlight penetrating through chinks into the half-darkness. She scampered past the slender strips of light toward the corner, where something big was stirring. The mouse didn't feel aggression from the strange object; she wasn't afraid. She quietly, very quietly, snuck up and got on. The human child had been tied to a pole. Their eyes met, and now she felt a wave of strength well up within. Her heart started to beat rapidly, and soon fear drove her back, to the hole, to her babies, who were to survive and take their own place in evolution.

Streams of salty sweat covered Jeffrey's eyes. They ran down his cheeks and dropped to the ground. His mouth was bandaged with dense cloth to prevent any cry for help from being heard. The cord with which he was bound, having cut into tendons, overarched the boy's complicated survival mechanism, whereby he remained sedentary at the pole.

Jeff, in his effort to loosen the knots, spent the first two hours of imprisonment straining his muscles, but the only result was pain. A sudden feeling of panic was halted by the idea that it was all just a game. The wily boy didn't remember what had happened, nor did he analyze the past. At this moment, he was interested in the present. He was there, in that place, at that moment, and he needed to get out!

If it is impossible to break through a wall, find its weakest spot. That's what his father taught him. The constant impact of droplets eventually wears away the stone.