The Khufu Equation (2 page)

This day, it was different. She had simply decided that she would look into the contents of envelope. She had to know what was there before she could take it to the police. She was not ashamed, as Andrew hadn't told her not to open it.

She unlocked the safe and took out the envelope. She hesitated for a minute and then slid a polished nail beneath the edges of the sealed flap. A moment later, on the table in front of Jeanette the contents were revealed: a computer disc. Touching it tentatively with her fingers, she sensed the emergence of an emotion different from any other.

"It must be the key from the door behind which Andrew was killed," Jeanette judged. In any case, she was sure of that. She inserted the disc into her computer and opened the only file it offered.

Initially, it seemed she wouldn't be able to crack this nut and would need the help of a specialist, but one's first impressions aren't always right.

The display didn't highlight any words or letters. Instead, she was drawn to the graphic: a strange intermingling of broken lines and geometrical figures. But the image seemed to evolve slowly, almost indiscernibly, and soon Jeanette was drawn in further. Her mind began to discern an image resembling an unopened lotus, but then she could distinctly make out three well-proportioned towers.

Like shadows from the past they urged her forward, luring her consciousness into a pool of mystery and foreboding. For a second she lost the thread and immediately suspected she would lose whatever message was being conveyed, but then the towers were transformed into the image of a stone.

It looked like mountain rock, with a glassy mass that bore the tones of emerald and malachite. The computer display showed the stone in all possible projections, and Jeanette began to understand. Suddenly, almost everything was clear to her, but she didn't realize how voracious this mystery would become. Her mind was entranced by the moment, so she could not see the beast that was about to consume her.

9:40 a.m.

"Baby, hop into my office, and make it quick. Come on, get those bones moving." There was a greasy, smoky tone in the voice, like that of a man who had spent too many years in a bar.

Jeanette pressed the button for internal communication.

"I haven't given you a reason to speak to me that way," she said with indignation. "Be careful, because the time will come when I'll cut off your foul tongue . . . ."

"Stop all that chattering!" interrupted the voice on the other end. "Get in here! Now!"

Jeanette switched off the selector, but still it was difficult to breathe. Her respiratory system felt like a bicycle pump with a stopped-up hose. She placed her hands upon her throat, and her fingers trembled. She was eager to cry, but doing so could upset the baby within her. She closed her eyes and tried to calm herself.

"I am strong," she reminded herself, "and this jerk won't see my tears. He wants them, I know. 'Baby . . . get those bones moving . . . .' You scumbag! I hope you get cut to pieces."

Jeanette hated Brian Limont, and without a single word the banner of solidarity in that sentiment could summon many from among humankind's more beautiful half. None would have kind words in return for his lewd remarks and bitter inferences. The cause of such a bad reputation was his character, made more corrupt by three distasteful features.

A month-and-a-half earlier, a certain Brian Limont slithered into the bank building. For half a day he talked to the manager and rummaged through documents. At the end of his foraging, he shook hands with manager and said with indifference, as if he were speaking about a carton of cigarettes, "Accept it." Soon, Brian occupied the bank manager's chair, and from that moment everyone--particularly the women--began to hate him.

His appearance was the initial factor in their disgust. Brian nearly always came to work dressed in a slovenly manner, with a stale shirt and wrinkled trousers. One could smell the garlic on him from a mile away, as if an attack of vampires was imminent. No less important was the second reason. Brian let himself joke frivolously in the presence of women, like a pubescent boy, and he would scour porno magazines with magnifying glass in hand. In his understanding of ethical conduct, or the absence thereof, this was normal. The last of these traits was that he was a cold-hearted mongrel with filthy intent, the stain of which went right down to his soul. They could all see it: Limont was a woman-hater.

As for his professional experience, that was entirely different. When he was so inclined, Brian could sell the back end of a dead rat and present it as an heirloom of the highest merit. Brian was good at bank operations, and he was a successful negotiator. He even once had Jeanette participate in a discussion, but prior to it he condescended to give her all the talking points.

Several minutes went by, following her exchange with Brian over the communication link, but Jeanette didn't hurry to the meeting. She had to regain her composure enough, at least, to breathe normally.

"Quiet," she told herself. "Nail the mongrel's tail to the floor, and then he'll sing a different tune." There were three more women in the bank, and they didn't admire new manager, either. Together with them, Jeanette was going to bring an action against Brian for two reasons: loss of morale and sexual solicitation. He hadn't put his paws on them, but the movement of feminists up to the beginning of the twenty-first century had made significant strides in defense of personal rights and dignity.

The manager could be judged only for the fact that he had allowed himself to become absorbed in pornography in the presence of women. In a civilized state, this was regarded as sexual solicitation. Moreover, phrases such as "Move bones" or "Get in here, now" would put another nail in the coffin on the case against him, and forever ruin his professional reputation. Jeanette gathered her nerves, and it was time to go. Having removed the disc from the computer and put it into the yellow envelope, she locked it within the safety box in her desk. She had the good sense to lock her office door, too, though she didn't suppose that someone would seek to know what it contained.

A pair of gray eyes watched Jeanette as she walked dutifully down the hall. Then, a man of about thirty, not tall, came up to the door. From his pocket he removed a key--precisely fit to that lock--entered the room, and quietly closed the door.

Seemingly he was a bank clerk, but in reality he was the security officer with authority over the premises and their workings. All safes, windows, doors, corridors, vent installations and even underground communication lines, placed nearby, were under continuous observation of his cameras and monitors, light sensors, thermal apparatus, emitters, signal detectors and every other trifling bit of technology within the realm of signaling.

The Sicilian Giordano, formerly of the military, was a specialist in surveillance. In that capacity he had earned a certain reputation and was eventually offered the chance to leave Europe for the delights of a tropical, equatorial paradise: the Seychelles, especially Mae Island. At last, the victory was his. How could he be indifferent to such a proposition, with the beautiful Creole women and luscious restaurant fare? The indulgence of it was intoxicating.

Giordano had the habit of sniffing out any little chink in the armor of that security system. He would gather information that way, using it exclusively for mercantile purposes. Thus, with the build-out of the bank offices, with all the high-sensitivity microphones and video apparatus, Giordano was able to define the code of any safe. It was nearly enough just to know a safe's trademark. The slightest offense could trigger his curiosity, which was insatiable.

Giordano had, many years earlier, graduated from a school in Milan respected among those in the know for its training in intelligence. Thus he was dispatched to northern Italy: to a thoroughly forgettable hinterland deep in some nameless rural district where, in the opinion of any student, a race for promotion would be a contest of turtles. However, prior to his departure to that place, Giordano managed to penetrate the offices of key staff and, in the manner of a gifted thief, he emptied the safe of its cash. Thereafter, no trace of the culprit could be found; not so much as a hair from an eyebrow.

Two years later, having grown tired of the turtle race, Giordano complained of ill health and retired, whereupon he took up his true calling and cracked the safes of various wealthy gentlemen. In order not to spoil his service record, and to allay any suspicion, Giordano got a job in the Rome department of the Tax Police. (A similar profession, he joked to himself.) He wasn't sorry in the least because, from this new vantage point, everything could be seen and overheard. Many times he took part in revealing economic crimes, and the job, with its many secret devices, brought him considerable pleasure. It also saved time and let Giordano more precisely define the confluence of the possible and the impossible in a given situation. More than just a few times, Giordano was able to rob the clients of his own department. Moreover, from each escapade he came out clear as virgin snow.

Years later, Giordano was offered the chance to work for one of the offshore capital banks in the Seychelles. The post as chief of security services was not, of course, the peak of his professional ambition. Deep in his heart he felt godlike, as one who read people's thoughts and saw their dealings through a magnifying glass. Moreover, with the passing of the years and the rocketing pace of technology he had acquired the ability to trespass upon each and every sanctum within his sphere. Only the lowly key remained as a token of the reverence people in business once accorded each other.

Everything in his life was fine, until someone stepped hard upon his Achilles heel. Somewhere, at one moment or another, he had committed a serious error, and finally it was his turn to lose. For the first time in his criminal game, Giordano found that he was stuck on a hook. He had poked his nose into the soft film of disguise over fate, and thus it was evident: Prison awaited Giordano. He had been ordered to steal a certain computer disc from Jeanette's office. The disc was marked with three letters: "A.N.G." The payment for his good turn was silence.

Giordano asked no questions. First, under the pretence of checking with Jeanette about some trivial matter, he imperceptibly installed in her office a high-sensitivity microphone along with a video camera the size of a matchbox. Every day he heard Jeanette remove an envelope from her safe and, with obvious indecision, crumple it in her hands. Then, she would give a deep sigh and place it back in the safe. Giordano's intuition said: "This is exactly the item expected of me."

The date of May 24th wasn't chosen randomly. Every Thursday, Brian called each staff member into his office and deliver a sound verbal thrashing in the interest of prevention. So, that day the staff all waited for their respective summons, like mice for the cat's dinner. Nobody dared to look out into the corridor. If that happened, it meant only one thing: Nature was calling. So, in the event someone should see Giordano, he would explain everything by switching on the signaling at Jeanette's safe.

Now the man was standing in front of the next safe. (He had been through more of them than a stray dog has fleas.) It was an Italian model, number 4533, with a weight of 12 kilos. There was a coded electronic lock with an eight-level, two-cipher key. At that moment Giordano knew the code. He had been living merrily, never refusing himself . . . and he was a gambler. This time, however, his life was at stake.

Giordano made a poisonous grin. "Marco Mancini* would proud of me."

* Marco Mancini, the deputy chief of the military intelligence bureau SISMI in Milan; he was arrested for the alleged management of illegal surveillance of telephone chats. The Milan public prosecutor's office discovered an illegal gang, created with the aim of corruption, violation of confidentiality of investigation,
etc.

Certainly he was excited, but a first-class surgeon could envy his calmness and unwavering hand. With the complete absence of wasted motion, the clerk decoded and opened the safe. He saw at least forty envelopes inside. In one of them there was a compact disc marked with the letters "A.N.G." Giordano was able to define it based on his monitoring of Jeanette's office. Many times he had heard the rustle of paper, and this time he could actually touch the contents of the safe.

He looked over every envelope, but the tactile contact gave no results. The necessary letter was missing. He stood still for a moment, seeking to discern the situation.

She always returned the envelope to the safe!

Suddenly his sight caught the desk. He pulled out the box.

Damn it! Locked!

It took just five seconds to open the lock with the help of two English pins. The yellow envelope was there among the papers. Having touched it, his fingers felt that familiar rustle. Giordano wiped the drops of perspiration from his forehead and proceeded to open the envelope.

May 24, one hour earlier.

International Airport, Victoria, Mae Island, Seychelles

The huge Boeing 747 had circled the island prior to its landing on the airstrip. This maneuver, if for no other purpose, gave the passengers a chance to see the massive peak of Mont Seychelles, numerous harbors and bays, and the colors of the ocean, with its coral reefs. The passengers, with this birds-eye view, embraced the cluster of granite-and-gneiss islands, thrown around Mae, as their craft descended toward land. The plane touched down swiftly but heavily, and immediately the service vehicles appeared.