The Khufu Equation (28 page)

"Now you'll put your nose to the ground. Nobody has abolished the ranks. Go ahead, get busy. Search all the houses. When you find him, start shooting."

The two men, obviously unhappy with their orders, turned and headed toward a group of young women. The person they were searching for was known to be very dangerous. He wouldn't stand on ceremony with them. He could send them to their ancestors without the use of a single weapon. He was a walking arsenal, without so much as a pistol. Even the fully loaded carbines wouldn't help.

The sergeant scanned the street, square after square. Through gray-green sunglasses he saw children on bicycles, but they were of no interest. He saw gray-haired men advancing in measured steps, but they were immaterial. Then he saw his soldiers and the women. For some time they stood and gesticulated with their hands, and eventually one of the Khmer pushed one of them aside.

The sergeant's gaze followed the woman and came to rest at the monastery. A moment later, he saw two monks step down the staircase. He moved toward them.

"Are you the abbot of this monastery?" he asked the little one.

"Yes, I am," answered the monk.

The sergeant had been raised to respect monks, so he didn't want to offend them. However, there was no time for ritual. He put forth a question.

"People saw a wounded Chinese get out of that car and disappear into your building. Is that true?"

"Yes, it was so," said the abbot without so much as a blink. "I gave him first aid and advised him to go to the hospital. And he did so."

The sergeant saw the soldiers approach.

"Nevertheless, I have to search the monastery.

"It's your right. My helper will show you." The abbot gestured toward the boy monk, who suddenly sprung up nearby.

The sergeant silently bowed and stepped up the stairway with his subordinates. At the entrance, a certain feeling made him turn back. As if a shroud had suddenly been removed, he saw the second monk. He was a Chinese. But another fact embarrassed the sergeant.

The Chinese community in Cambodia is one of the oldest in Southeast Asia, and for many centuries there was constant exchange between their cultures. Mixed marriages even led to the appearance of a great subgroup, the Sino-Khmer.

The muscles on his arm were prominent, and a broad scar could be seen in the middle of the left shoulder. The sergeant set right the carbine in order to collect his thoughts.

"The one we are looking for is a Chinese, and he has a similar injury. Is it possible that a bullet wound could heal in such a short time?"

The shroud of defense, one of the magic means of the Card Master, could allow one to be imperceptible, coinciding with the general background even in a crowd. The simplest method was to go into the under-layer of reality, having stopped to radiate vibrations in the outer world. It was more difficult, staying in one place, to touch a stranger's consciousness and dress the eyes in blinders. Brett Li used the first method to distract the attention of the three. That was enough.

The military men entered the monastery, whereupon the commissioner removed the shroud and stopped a motorcycle rickshaw rushing along the road. He jumped into the transport and started away. Straight tree-lined streets led to the trade center, but from behind he heard the blast of a gun. The bullet pierced a tent, broke the window of a flower shop and came to rest in a pot. Brett turned back. A roofless jeep was there, just ten meters back. Surely the pursuers wouldn't miss their mark.

The sergeant ordered the driver to accelerate. He caught Brett's face in the rear-view mirror of the rickshaw, and suddenly time stopped. He saw the Chinese man fly upward like an acrobat, change his trajectory and land on the hood of the jeep. The sergeant would remember it in detail, and years later he'd tell his children how the windshield scattered into tiny pieces, blinding the driver. How the finger, frozen on the trigger, would be numb and useless for three years and his consciousness would bear the imprint of Brett's diamond-hard fist.

The rickshaw stopped near the huge Central Market building. Earlier, the site was the home of the market square. Now the high-rise building, with its five massive wings, resembled a mountain with a peak of cut glass. The color of sandstone, its monumental dimensions spoke about the epoch of the Angkor Empire. The Central Market began with numerous overcrowded streets, and there were hundreds of stores, shops, window-shops with endless names and quantity of goods. Brett poked some banknotes into the driver's hand and followed the little monk. As he had promised, he had refrained from killing. He only played with their consciousness and gave them a couple of stiff slaps.

They moved through rows of vegetables and fruits toward the end of the marketplace and the rows of fish and meat. Here everything was sold and bought. Generally, the sellers and purchasers were women. As is the case in Eastern markets, the buyers would drop from the high price to the point of agreement. The market lived its ordinary life.

They passed the market, whereupon the little monk dove into a taxi. Brett took the back seat.

"To Angkor Wat," said Brett to the driver, discerning his eyes under a wide-brimmed hat.

A detachment was being prepared up ahead. Military personnel were ready to check all machines, and more were ferrying in from northwest of Phnom Penh. While entering the city, Commissioner Li noted the concentration. Today's government, if one were to believe the mass media, was in full control. In the 1980s Pol Pot's supporters tried to return the country to its terrible past through means of strength and terror, but now their approach was a bit different. With the velvet-glove tactic, from the peasants they bought rice for dollars and gold at high prices, and they distributed medicine and arms. The idea was clear: to enlist the support of the poor in the next elections. Thus the Red Khmer bought votes, but the velvet gloves concealed the same bloody hands.

The regime was put down, whereupon Pol Pot lived in Trat Province, in the southeast of Thailand. Calling himself a scientific worker of the High Institute of National Defense, he continued to lead the Reds. Many times the dictator "died" to quiet the public, but in reality he died only in 1998 from malaria in the settlement of Anlon Ven. This time his death was not a ruse. The last battle with the Red Khmer had taken place four years ago, at Battambang.

As the car approached the cordon, the little monk came near to Brett and said gently:

"There is another but longer road through Battambang."

The hint was understood. Brett, bowing to the driver, said:

"I'll pay you twice more if you get us to Angkor via Battambang. Brett gave him payment on account. "Here's the first half. You'll get the rest when we reach it."

The young taxi driver understood that a real Buddhist-monk wouldn't profane himself with money, but that wasn't his business. Moreover, he had a plan. Without saying a word, the driver pulled the black hat down over his eyes and, with a stomp on the gas pedal, blasted forth between two jeeps that were being positioned to block the road.

Road Number Five to Battambang went along western side of Lake Tonlesap. The reservoir, with an area of three thousand square meters, was the region's main fishing center. It produced no less than a hundred thousand tons of fish per year. In the rainy season the lake burst its banks, enlarging threefold and reaching a depth of fourteen meters. Consequently, all country highways were located on dams, so flooding in the wet season posed relatively little danger.

To get Angkor one has to pass Battambang and round the lake in the city of Sisophon at the border with Thailand. Here, State Highway Five meets Road Number Six and proceeds toward the towns of Angkor, Siamreal and Camponghom, entering at the ferries.

The earlier crossing was by ferry, before the bridge of seven hundred meters was built. Now it is a wound left by Pol Pot. The bridge was blown up. Two years ago, just forty kilometers from Phnom Penh in the province of Kompong Cham, a new bridge across the Mekong was put in to operation. It was paid for by Japanese as a means to connect the western and eastern regions of the state. However, for Brett and the monk this bridge could be a trap, so they decided to use only the highway.

The car eventually started its descent of Mount Udong, revealing a wondrous view of the Cambodian valleys. The whole landscape, so masterfully painted by Nature, was reminiscent of a vast bowl, with the flooded lake at its low point.

On the opposite side, one could see uncultivated ground surrounded by sparse growth of trees and savanna with tall, rigid grass as sharp as sedge. Further out, mountains covered in thick, impassable jungle rose above the savanna. Along Highway Number Five grew sugar palms, and among them were bright-red Chinese roses. Great poly-colored butterflies flitted from flower to a flower. Viewing this divine beauty, Brett and the dwarfish monk fell asleep.

Simultaneously, the driver was conceiving an insidious plan. He had a look at the dashboard. Two dozen peculiar notches marked his progress toward a cherished dream, and now two new notches would bring him to a new line.

A hen pecks seeds, one by one.

Only one who is deprived of eyesight knows the force of smells, sounds and tactile sensations. Sometimes he is able to tell more than a sighted person can through the thoughtless observation of physical objects and surrounding colors. The load of unfinished business distracts a person's attention. So, despite the fact that the eyes perceives objects in terms of form and position in any given space, one can still argue the question of whose vision is more acute.

Jeff, drowning in a wave of unknown smells and sounds, sensed that ambulance had entered some sort of settlement. The catching of bicycle chains on their sprockets, and the hopelessly unmusical barking of automobile horns informed him of that. Also, the air was filled with the smell of burnt oil, piquant seasonings and ginger, along with the stupefying scent of heliotrope flowers.

Jeff could understand they had passed many intersections and stopped at others. Suddenly, though, he realized that the warmth of Jeanette's palms was absent. He heard how two people had exited the car, leaving him alone. Now the sensation of time was measured in the number of breaths.

Jeff tried to free his eyelids, but the optic nerve, connected to his brain, signaled danger in the form of sharp pain. It was as if a razor would slice through the vascular membrane of blood-filled vessels. The tissue of the eyes and retina immediately filled with blood. Tears like scarlet drops appeared on his eyelashes and stuck to his cheeks.

Jeff wanted to wipe them, but thousands of small stings simultaneously pierced his muscles, whereupon his body convulsed. He was only able to hear sounds, smell odors and think. He thought of his father. Could he notice what Jeff could? Did he make use of the saving thread that destiny throws to one who about to sink?

His thoughts were interrupted by the opened door and the strict voice of the Essence.

"Change his dress."

Jeff felt Jeanette's fingers carefully remove the dress, after which he was dressed in shorts and a shirt. Her sweet voice over his ear sounded loving and tender.

"I know how you are aching. But you must not lose faith and be strong, my boy!"

"I am okay," said Jeff through clenched teeth, fighting to overcome the pain. The sound of working engine was the sign of beginning if new way.

"Please endure all this, baby. We'll think of something." The Creole gently took his hand in hers.

"You must be very nice. It's too bad I can't see you."

Jeanette embraced the boy and kissed him. The light fragrance of her hair awakened unforgotten feelings.

"You smell like my mother did."

"I'm sure she loved you very much."

Jeff restrained the desire to burst into tears. "More than life," he replied.

Campong Thom: 10:20 a.m.

The water mirror of the morning, in flooded squares of rice paddies, reflected more than the sun alone. An ominous shadow a helicopter, flew along the dam on blades that sliced through the humid air. For people working in the fields this event was a wonder, because there was just one helicopter in the country. It was reserved for use by King Sianuk and high-ranking military officers. However, having observed more attentively, people were greatly surprised. It wasn't a military craft but a small, two-seat helicopter flying toward the Campong Thom side, bathed in rays of sunlight.

Ven Jhun, on finding ground for a landing, made a smooth curve. It was no mere pleasure trip, and the proper control of the craft took brainwork. He didn't want to destroy the only available copter. For the rent of this sport toy, he would have to open a green corridor to a drug smuggler for the entire week. At the moment, this problem outweighed the need for compassion concerning the loss of comrades. Any trace of compassion he might have had disappeared in 1976, when Pol Pot's soldiers made him eat the liver of his murdered friend in one of the concentration camps. He would likely have eaten the own soul that day.