The Khufu Equation (34 page)

The Essence howled, and the wave of his intention threw the man-shadow away. The demonic creature's body was seized by a terrifying fit of convulsions, and a furious blue fire blasted out of its chest, throwing the blade into silhouette. It had gone inside, but not all the way. The Essence gripped it with both hands and pulled. The blade submitted. Slowly, like a rusty nail, it emerged.

Jeff noticed that everything appeared as in a stop-action film sequence: His consciousness could catch the small details, but his body was hampered.

Instinctively, the boy turned time back, quickly estimated the situation and threw all his might onto the handle of the blade. The holy steel slashed into the heart of the Beast. Jeff released his hands and fell down.

"We . . . will return, you will see!" yelled the Beast as it reeled and crashed to the ground. The body was in the fitful throes of an agonizing death, and the gushing blood clotted black in the rapidly advancing decay. Jeff turned back. He didn't see as the supernatural gust of wind swept in to seize the remains and carry them away. The boy raised the Stone Kaaba off the pale-pink plate. He could feel the presence of his dad, who stood directly behind him.

Jeanette gently embraced Jeff and looked at Slaiker. Her eyes shone with admiration. She was ready to burst into tears, but this time not because of grief. She could hear the ringing of bells in her heart.

The three descended the stone stairs of Angkor Wat. The air was full of the music of the Royal Ballet orchestra, and in the twinkling of fires they could see the unearthly Apsar in the dance of love. Yellow-eyed stars gazed wistfully upon the scene, and Jeff held tightly to Jeanette's hand. His father was in front, carrying the body of his departed friend. The Gates of Set didn't open but were converted in misty dust. Still, everyone understood it: The Beast was not dead. He would exist in the human soul as long as there was heartlessness, feebleness and lack of will. The eternal dust of Angkor Wat knew it too, but kept secret all such knowledge.

Mae Island, Seychelles: a week later.

The cemetery was hazy that evening, and the clouds over the horizon concealed the light. Slaiker stood beside a new grave. There was a bouquet of flowers, with orchids and aromatic white-pink vanilla. He gently removed a black beret from his pocket and placed it next to the flowers. On the cockade, bearing the emblem of the elite "Sea Bears" detachment, a last few golden rays of sun gleamed from just above the horizon. Slaiker looked out thoughtfully and squinted into the sunset. What else he could give to such a brave and true friend.

"Let the ground be your soft bed, Brett. Rest in peace."

He could have said more, but he preferred to be silent. He would say all the rest to him through mental conversation. They had plenty of things to talk about.

Memory took the detective many years back to the Sea Bears' training base. The instructor's words--fear and unbelief--were forever etched into Slaiker and his friend, Brett Li. During one examination they were pushed out from a plane, and five seconds later came their parachutes. They had to catch them, put on equipment and then exchange their parachutes. There was no time for extraneous motion. One had to trust the solidness of a friend's shoulder. It was necessary to have absolute control over the emotions.

Five out of thirty-five men died that day.

The wave of recollections pulled Slaiker out of the 747, and suspended in freefall he could see the contents of the cargo hold. It was awesomely cold over that ocean. Orientation was the immediate need, and then purpose: Catch the parachute . . . and put it on.

Slaiker glided down onto an island in the Maldives. There he hired a private plane and was in Cambodia by noon. He found out about the tragedy at the airport during a local news broadcast. Father Krepfol Sohn was dead, and Brett was a hunted fugitive. He was believed to be a terrorist. Slaiker understood that all the threads led to Angkor Wat. He hurried, but he was too late to save his friend. The confluence of fatal circumstances led Brett to the life's final stage and his resting place, the cemetery at Mont Fleuri.

Slaiker looked at the flowers. They were wild orchids: Phalaenopsis. Now he knew how and why he had climbed Niol, one of the peaks of the Three Brothers. He inhaled deeply, in the knowledge that life must go on. He turned and left, toward the embrace of his son and the Creole beauty whose fearless love and perseverance had saved him.