The Khufu Equation (20 page)

Fisher threw aside the cigarette, resolutely got up, went to the desk, lifted the receiver of the phone and dialed the controller's number. Moments later, he was connected to the Boeing 747 bound, he assumed, for Bangkok.

Rita Amesbury answered the phone at the attendants' station in tourist class. As usual, she did so in the distinctly business-like approach she gave to most things. She was, however, disarmingly pretty, with a lavish head of hair that any woman would envy. She had never colored it even once in her thirty years. Nature, she felt, was against such blasphemy. This day would change all that.

Rita, like women throughout time, held fast to the dream of a happy family. Every man she'd met, though, left her eventually. She wanted a child of her own, but on two prior occasions she found that she couldn't go through with the pregnancy. She accused herself of being too soft, thinking she'd never be able to manage her life with a child in tow. She was mistaken, as the coming events would prove.

"Board seventeen thirty-five. Can I help you? said Rita into the phone.

"Hello, dear. Please summon Mr. Howard Slaiker to the phone. He's a strong-looking man, with prominent cheekbones. He'll be seated next to a Chinese gentleman."

"Yes, I'll do that. Please, wait a moment."

She removed the line to the radiophone and entered the cabin. It didn't take long to find the man. She stopped at the row in which Slaiker and Brett were seated. They finished speaking and looked at her.

"Are we talking too loudly," asked Brett.

"No, you're fine. Excuse me, but are you Mr. Slaiker?"

"Yes, I am," he said expectantly.

"Sir, you have a call." Rita handed the phone to him and stepped away.

"Fisher, is that you?" asked Slaiker, almost without breath.

"Yes. Listen, I've remembered something."

"Have you seen the Frenchman with the braid? Come on, I have to know." Slaiker's anxiety was obvious.

"But you interrupt me," said Fisher, who, after a brief pause, continued: "No fellow with a braid, but I can certainly tell you that . . . ."

Fisher suddenly noted certain ambitions he had, and thus proceeded carefully.

"But before . . . . Can I be sure all this will be confidential? Otherwise, I risk a situation of disgrace before my boss."

"Yeah-yeah-yeah," said Slaiker anxiously. "Only between us. You're safe with me. Now, what is it!?"

The customs officer, satisfied with that assurance, started the story.

Slaiker listened attentively, trying to get every word. Meanwhile, the second attendant came down the aisle with the snack cart, which was loaded with all the usual items: crackers, cookies, pretzel sticks, coffee, soda and juices. The enticing aroma of citrus caused Slaiker to turn his head, whereupon he met eyes with the woman. Everything about her conveyed power and confidence, like a lioness after a lucky hunt. She smiled and continued on her way toward the cockpit. At the bulkhead, a wall-mounted phone rang.

Slaiker continued on the line with Fisher, hungry for any and all information. The customs officer continued his account of where and when he had encountered the woman in black accompanied by a young girl. The description of the woman seemed familiar to Slaiker.

He had definitely seen her, somewhere.

Fisher wasn't in a hurry to focus attention on the girl. Everything has its time. First, he needed to talk about the woman in black, since she had cured him of his impotence. The detective began to guess about everything, but he didn't interrupt.

Suddenly, Fisher's voice disappeared, and Slaiker, despite his efforts, couldn't get a response.

When Alan set about description of the girl, an insinuating woman's voice interfered:

"Hello, baldy. Your friend doesn't hear you."

"Who's speaking? Slaiker, are you there? Who is this on the line!?"

"This is your death," the woman said calmly, as if such a thing was no more serious than requesting a cup of coffee.

"What on earth! Who is this!?" Fisher said, as a tide of fear rose within. He looked at the sofa where the red-haired girl was. Curiously, she showed no interest in the conversation.

"You're right to worry. Your little ginger bitch has heard it all." The voice on the phone softened with a slight sigh.

Alan, trembling like a leaf in the wind, was unable to say a word.

He thought, "Where is this person, that she'd know that I'm with Selma? Where has Slaiker gone? Who is this person talking to me?

The voice hardened abruptly and ordered, "Look at the desk." Fisher obeyed. On it was a little knife of the type used to cut paper.

The command was given with absolute authority: "Pick up the knife and kill her." Like a sleepwalker, Alan stood up, took the knife in hand and approached the girl, who lay stretched out on the bed.

It was some time later that Alan returned to his senses. He then saw the once-beautiful body of a young woman, now awash in a pool of blood. Shouts were heard from the other side of the door. Someone was about to break through. Only then did he realize that he had killed the girl and her cries had attracted the security guard. Fisher knew it was the end for him. Solemnly he went to the chair, took the holster in his bloody hands, pulled out the revolver, slid the barrel into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Bill Wesson, the copilot, was at the controls of the 747 as Garrett followed his movements and took little sips of coffee. In the course of twenty years he had been to nearly every country in the world. He had tested the entire spectrum of enjoyments, and he had pinned some unpleasant people to the ground. Garrett had wives in three capitals, but he never reproached himself. Actually, he felt the urge to add a new ring to the collection.

John didn't consider himself a sinner. In fact, he thought very highly of himself. It was a particular ability to make a woman happy. Surely all his wives had very human faults and failings, but in each he found something valuable and unique. The most interesting thing was that each of them knew about the others but didn't feel threatened or subordinate. It wasn't worth being jealous, or next time John might not come home at all. So, it was pleasant for him to fly to another wife again. There were no scandals, reproaches or tears. Each visit was like a holiday. The first wife cooked perfectly, the second was a good conversationalist, and from the third he required nothing but good, hot sex. As a result, John concluded that the first two women occupied 40 percent of the meaning in his life . . . and the third had the rest.

Garrett turned his head a few degrees, specifically for the purpose of watching Sheena. He admired her long, toned legs and figured this one was worth his whole collection. Sheena was an interesting young woman with an obvious array of skills. About how she was in the sack, he could only guess. John imagined giving her a soft smack on the butt. The thought of it brought a squirt of saliva to his mouth. What would it be like to suck on those breasts?

"So, you won't reveal the secret of your coffee?" he said with a smile.

"No," she replied with a sly smile. "That secret is already buried. Besides, it's harmful to drink too much coffee, and it'll give you a nasty surprise."

"That's a pity," Garrett said, "but the matter of the sauna isn't yet settled. You haven't changed your mind?"

"No, but I don't think you'd like it. I steam topless, and the sight of all that gleaming skin causes a man's blood to boil. Then, what would you be left with? Only yourself, I think."

Garrett opened the mouth ready to say something to her but mocking expression in her eyes made him keep silence. The stewardess drove out a hand-cart having left John a little puzzled.

Wesson the navigator, usually quiet, spoke up.

"I really don't like the way she's acting today."

"You simply can't read the sausage scraps," interrupted Garrett. "A woman must be different and distinctive. She must be furious and a nun, and both clever and stupid. That's the salt."

"But she isn't a woman who prays for the forgiveness of sins," the navigator said. "Horns and hooves are what she wants."

John swallowed semi-voluntarily.

"What's that?"

The amazement on Wesson's face spoke of the coming conflict. Garrett looked down into his coffee cup. Curiosity led Bill to look in, too. The blackish liquid had reconstituted into little balls. Mystified, Garrett placed the cup in its holder, but hundreds of those balls hung in the air as if Newton's law of gravitation didn't apply to them. Suddenly, the Brownian motion enveloped them, and in obedience to some unknown power they scattered into the air, whereupon they froze in front of John's eyes. He could now perceive a certain order in the groups of coffee balls. Then, each group acquired a definite combination, in such a way that it resembled a kind of writing.

Garrett could scarcely believe what he was seeing. He pivoted toward the navigator:

"Do you see all this?"

"Yeah . . . ," whispered Wesson.

"Then, read it aloud."

The navigator breathed in, and in one exhalation intoned the words that hung in the air.

"The plane has to land in Cambodia, at Phnom Penh Airport, or else it'll crash."

Thus Newton's law took effect again. The coffee balls fell into a scattering of spots on the floor of the cockpit.

"Damn it!" said Garrett through his teeth. "I don't know what's happening here, but don't ever tell anyone about it. Otherwise, we'll brush the airports. So, nothing happened. It was only something we imagined."

The monk and the Creole were sound asleep, so reluctantly Slaiker woke them. It was necessary, given the circumstances. He told them about his conversation with Alan Fisher, in which it became clear that his son Jeff was on board. The Essence had captivated Jeff, having already seized the body of the blues singer Bridget Nelson in order to disguise itself. Slaiker told them that the conversation was interrupted when Fisher mentioned the young girl. That grain of information, however, was enough for Slaiker to extrapolate the conclusion.

Slaiker and Li decided to examine the plane. Brett would start searching at the rear of the cabin, and Slaiker would do it in other places. Krepfol Sohn, the monk, would stay with Jeanette.

As the two men got up to begin their task, the pilgrim gave them a warning:

"Don't look into the eyes of the Beast. Its gaze is powerful enough to burn you alive. Jeanette, still drowsy, took Slaiker's hand. The glint in her eyes assured him that he wasn't alone.

"I'll pray for you," she said. Their hands slid slowly apart, and he left to begin his work.

Slaiker entered the first-class cabin and thus his first steps into uncertainty. It seemed that life had stopped here, and that in its place there was death. Slaiker read the signs. It was in the soul-chilling silence, and it was in that lingering, sweet odor of something burnt. The bouquet, from the departure of a devilish fairy, was familiar to Slaiker from his military operations, when it was his job to seek and defeat death. Now the past was coming back: It tried to catch him as he napped, but he's shrug it off his shoulders like an unnecessary load. He still had the same level of response. Like a polar bear, he'd act with lightning speed. He would bristle with the power of a leopard, and spread his claws to gut the python.

The detective walked carefully along the passage, observing the indifferent faces. He was struck by their inexorable commonness. They were united by a certain innocence; the innocence of people who naturally did not presume that their grip on life could be released at any moment. Slaiker moved to the second row from the bulkhead and proceeded backwards.

"The first row is clear," he thought. "Let's have a look here. Well . . . what's this?" He stopped.

The detective stood in the aisle next to two empty seats. Running a palm over the leather, he could vaguely sense his son's aura. It was as if the life was leaving his body. They had escaped, he knew, but they were somewhere close.

He turned his head just in time to catch a silhouette at the kitchen elevator, situated between the first-class and economy cabins.

"Go!" he instructed himself.

Slaiker didn't use the elevator but instead took the winding staircase down to the kitchen. There could feel the weight of emotion in the air, and it adhered to the cabinets in the form of gray flakes.

Something was happening.

His throat felt dry, so he opened the fridge and took out a bottle of water. He uncapped it and took a couple of swigs. Then came the awareness of a presence immediately behind him. Slaiker went into action instantaneously, without mental analysis. The detective removed the plastic cap and, spinning up and over, waylaid the interloper with a powerful kick to the shoulder. The body tried in vain to seize the cabinet as it fell to the floor. Slaiker's hand descended from above, and his finger stopped a millimeter from an eyeball. It was Brett there on the floor, and in his fingers was the bottle cap. There was shock on the face of everyone who saw it happen, but Brett spoke.