The Khufu Equation (5 page)

The woman, in searching for the books, came across other interesting ones. She picked up various titles and leafed through the pages, but like a fog the thoughts of her husband's death, that strange computer disc and the disconcerting behavior of her boss floated in upon her. Then the sudden emergence of a sickeningly sweet odor made Jeanette turn back, stupefied. From the upper shelf, emblazoned with a green binding, was a book that seemed to creep down toward her. Jeanette was terror-stricken. Her nerves immediately went into knots, as if something had seized her spine and jolted it. There was a sensation of cold, which ran from her toes up to her brain. She tried to run, but her feet wouldn't move. She wanted to cry out, but her throat was dry and functionless. Next came the rush of adrenaline. Jeanette reached for the book, and as she pulled it from the shelf there appeared on the back cover, embossed in gold, "Cambodia: Land of the Khmer." She gasped, dropped the book and ran out of the library.

The Pirate's Arms Hotel, situated on the long pier just steps from the National Library, received two taxis in the space of fifteen seconds. The building had housed a series of foreign embassies, back in the early days of independence. It wasn't till the night of June 28, 1976, that Great Britain lost its hold on the islands as a good and dutiful colony.

If Lucien Emanescu could have turned her head back, she would have noticed how Jean-Pierre was following her at a distance as she entered the lobby. Alas, she was busy with different things. Moreover, the soporific she had poured into her husband's coffee guaranteed the absolute secret. Of course, nothing in this world can be absolute.

Jean-Pierre watched his wife as she ascended the stairs, the way one would in a spy movie. He followed the unsuspecting wench. He knocked at a door and then entered. Without thinking too much, he climbed to the floor above and knocked at the door of the room immediately above the one Lucien had entered.

"Who's there?" a man said in a low voice.

"Service."

"What? I don't need anything.

Through the gap in a barely open door, Jean-Pierre was able to see the face of a young person. Evidently, that person was concealing something and didn't want Jean to come in.

"You have given too much tip," Jean said, without a hint of embarrassment.

"Now it's clear. Has the chambermaid complained? But she gets her salary for the job. All services are included in the cost of living, and she won't get a cent from me."

"I'm from inspection," said Jean-Pierre, "in charge of greedy and stingy business."

Like a bolt of lightning, Pierre's leg blasted the man through the door. His hapless victim sailed into the corridor, where he landed butt-up on the pile carpet. Apparently, this man had a liking for women's panties. He had a pair, along with a bra and stockings, on beneath that sheath of a robe he'd been wearing. This was enough to embarrass nearly anyone, but not Jean-Pierre. Among the customers to whom he had vended his chemical goods there were similar anomalies, so his attitude toward it was best expressed one way: to spit. The guy, thus humiliated, covered the panties with his with plump, sunburned hands.

"You have no right!" said the man, as he rose to his feet. It was all he could say--or, all he did say--because instantly his jaw was whacked shut with an uppercut from Jean's fist. Out like a light went the transvestite: off to sleep in the dreamy land of lingerie, populated not by those who look good in bras and panties but by those who wish they did.

Jean-Pierre stepped into the now-empty room and out to the balcony. Then he realized, with some amusement, that it was the second time in slightly more than a quarter-hour that he had entered a stranger's room, decked a guy and exited via the balcony. It took him twenty seconds to reach the balcony on the lower floor, but this time he wasn't seen doing it. There, as he peered into the window, he caught a sight that made him clench his fists into steel pigs. A hot rush of blood reddened his face, and all his suspicions were confirmed.

He saw Lucien in the arms of a thickset man. They were standing in the middle of the room and didn't guess: The secret is good only when it's spoken in a whisper.

"Don't worry, Christian," said Lucien as she wrapped her arms around the man's powerful neck and ran her fingers through his hair. "I poured the soporific into his coffee."

The thickset person place his hands firmly upon her waist and pulled her in tight. He could sense her richly appointed breasts, so firmly harnessed beneath the silken veil of her dress. She stayed there just long enough to tantalize him . . . and then pushed away with a turn of the head and a playful flick of the hair.

"How long will he sleep?

"At least six hours, so we have enough time."

"I want you, baby. Let's do it, right now," said the man, the volcanic desire forcing his voice into a hoarse half-whisper. He pulled her close, slid his hands beneath her dress, rode along the curvature of her hips with his bruising fingers and, having become deeply aroused, pushed the creature onto the bed. He hovered over her, his muscular arms outright on either side. Luci, however, eased him to the side and pronounced:

"No. The juicy parts are for later. First, we'll discuss business."

Jan-Pierre saw it all from outside. His primal instinct was to burst in and make stuffing out of the pair, but he didn't feel it was very sensible to do that. He stayed where he was, his lips noiselessly rustling:

"What's the matter? What does this bitch have in mind?"

Jean-Pierre struggled to restrain his desire for violence. For the moment, it was more important to listen. An injured ego could be cured by revenge, but vengeance, like everything else, had its time.

"No, business later. Right now, I'm going to sample your flavors . . . ." He approached Lucien again, his enthusiasm for the conquest undiminished. He seized her and started to take off her blue dress. She made no move to object, simply because she knew: He who is full doesn't understand the one who is hungry.

Jan-Pierre's hands clenched in jealous rage. He could see the man slavishly kissing his wife's body, touching her intimate places with the awe of an art collector, whispering vulgar nonsense and sending her to the pinnacle of pleasure. He could see this person--a stranger to him--flicking his tongue across the puckered pink tips of her big, olive-toned breasts, thereafter arching his back to kiss her taut, smooth abdomen as he slowly drew himself out. The force was tremendous then, as he rocketed past her uplifted, hairless thighs. Lucien let out a groan, with polished talons scraping across his muscular back. Twenty minutes later, the two fell into an embrace of sweaty exhaustion.

Jean-Pierre, having seen exactly what he had feared, sank into a mire of self-pity and regret.

"You're a complete psycho!" yelled his inner voice. "You idiot!"

He was only half-correct, though. Lucien certainly earned one such description, but she was not a fool. Poor Jean-Pierre: Fate had chosen such a time to reveal that to him. From his hiding place, he heard the critch-critch of a cigarette lighter, and after a moment the smell of tobacco smoke curled out to meet him through the screened sliding door. Pierre drew closer. He was all ears.

Lucien stretched and purred like a sublimely pleased cat. She took a deep drag on the cigarette.

"Christian, you really are a beast."

"Yes, I am," he replied. "But this isn't my only talent."

"I know," she said. "That's why I need you."

"To rob someone, or maybe break some bones?" Anyone would have wondered whether he was serious.

"We're flying low, don't you see?" Lucien said, her lips slithering into a sly smile. "It's neither the first, nor the second. No, Christian. I want you to . . . to kill Pierre!

"Did I hear right?" said Christian quizzically, as he raised his head from the pillow. "Suddenly you disappear to who-the-hell-knows for half a year, and then it becomes clear you've married some guy, and on the first day of the honeymoon you place an order on your husband . . . ."

"Cristy," she said, "you cannot imagine how rich this guy is. Still, he's so clueless that he doesn't even know it. Two months ago, a client of mine--an advocate--told me a story of the search for a man who had spent his entire childhood in an orphanage. Apparently, a certain hundred-year-old Moroccan woman with very deep and secret resources had given her soul to God, but to a child she left two hundred million."

Lucien paused, and after a moment she continued:

"I'll give you three guesses as to the orphan is," she said wryly. Now it was Christian's mind that was at attention.

"Is it really Jean-Pierre Lefebvre?

"That's right," said Lucien. "He turned out to be the old woman's only living descendent, three generations down the line."

Jean-Pierre overheard it all, and he was absolutely dumbstruck.

Christian borrowed Lucien's cigarette and took a puff or two, his left eyebrow making a stylish s-curve as he considered the possibilities.

"You are one hot-looking chick," said Christian, "but you can scheme with the best of them. You've snared the guy and married him, and now you want to kill him. And how does the advocate figure into all this?"

"He's in for a share. He's the one who found Pierre, but it took all the energy I had to make the snotty kid marry me. Now . . . it's your turn."

"Look," said Christian, his voice becoming monotone. "I've always figured you were abnormal, but your tricks won't fool me. Sure, I'll kill Pierre, but if you decide to throw me away . . . I will bury you. Don't bet against it."

"Don't worry, Christian," cooed Lucien. "I won't be greedy. You'll get two million dollars."

"Compared to what you and the advocate are getting, two million is chump-change," he said. "I want an equal part!"

The insistence of his demand was met by Lucien's bitter wrath.

"Don't even think about it! You can't imagine what it's like to sleep with all those creeps for ten straight years, hoping that something better would come along. Well, I do know what it's like! The two hundred million is my jackpot: a once-in-a-lifetime score. So, if you don't like the deal, you can go to Hell. All I'll have to do is whistle, and a dozen guys will be ready to take your place."

"Aren't you afraid I'll give you some bad publicity?" asked Christian with a cunning grin.

"I'm ready to stake everything and win two hundred million," answered Lucien defiantly. "I am not willing to lose it. Now, do you really want to lose two million?

A long silence followed, and at last Jean-Pierre heard Christian's reply.

"You've talked me into it. For that much money," he said, wiping a trickle of perspiration from his neck, "I'd send anyone to the other side. But tell me this: Why not in France? Why have you decided to kill him here, in the Seychelles?"

"A honeymoon trip will minimize the possibility of suspicion," said Lucien. "Even though Pierre is just an ordinary salesman, in France I'd sink under the weight of the evidence and be pronounced guilty. Here, the situation is different. Who would question the circumstances? Imagine that a certain Frenchman, an ordinary working person, encounters a thief in his room and takes a knife in the gut as a result? Afterwards, I'll wait half a year and then declare my right to fifty percent of the money: a hundred million. That's the condition given to me by the advocate.

"So, you know everything," said Christian. "That's very clever of you. Now, how about the details? How does everything work?"

Lucien leaned in close. "You will kill him tomorrow night, at ten o'clock. Pierre and I will be in the restaurant at our hotel. Suddenly, I'll realize that I've forgotten to turn off the iron, or maybe the fan . . . I don't know yet . . . so I'll send him up to the room. You'll be there, waiting for him. Then, you'll kill him and make the place look messed up. Toss things around. It should look as if Jean-Pierre ran into a burglar and died in the scuffle."

Jean-Pierre felt tempted to crash the party then, but he controlled himself.

"This cock-eating bitch hasn't even decided which appliance to leave on!"

"But, the key to the room?" asked Christian.

"We'll have time today to make a duplicate," said Lucien as she slid her hand slowly across the top sheet. "Right now, though, I want you to drill me again. That Jean-Pierre just can't seem to get it right." She rose to her knees and threw herself onto Christian.

Pierre had no desire to be witness any more of the woman's orgiastic display. It would have been senseless to do so. He leaped from the balcony with all the aplomb of a naturally gifted athlete, and soon he was among the tourists on the broad verandah, directing one or another to the National Library on the long pier. In fact, he said, he was headed there too.

The closer he got to the library, the greater was the sensation that he was becoming the Jean-Pierre of old; the one who hated the thought of animals caught in the torment of neglect. The events of the past several minutes went round and round in his mind, to the point that he was on the verge of tears. The problem of a deadly secret, now discovered, was, however, unlike anything he had experienced. He felt no happiness in the knowledge that he was the heir to a fortune. In fact, he was made vulnerable by it. Aside from any joy it might bring, a vast fortune could certainly end in the banality of death. So, now he bore the black spot, and from none other than his wife.