The Khufu Equation (9 page)

Slaiker had, for a decade, served proudly in the United States Navy. While in service, he participated in many secret missions. The conditions were those of war, and the danger was constant. But it was with a stroke of fate that Slaiker turned out to be in the Seychelles concurrently with a friend, who had served alongside him in the Navy. The islands were as perfect a place as could be, so Slaiker and Brett Li had independently decided to begin civilian life there with some much-needed R&R. Considerable time passed then, and each of the men had paired with a charming Creole and put down roots. But now it was only four years since the death of Slaiker's wife in a car accident. What he had left were happy memories and a little boy. He had, however, established a solid practice as a private investigator over the years; and Brett ran the homicide division in the police department.

Nevertheless, something very unusual had happened in Brett's practice, and only Slaiker could prevent him from losing his career.

Brett Li: age, thirty-five; Chinese; five feet ten inches; bodybuilder; hot-tempered; divorced father of a five-year-old girl. In war conditions, Brett had proved to be a most capable fighter. He was particularly skilled with sidearms, but he preferred sewing needles and shaving razors. He, like Slaiker, was a master of metafighting.

. . . Driving into settlement Mont Fleuri, Slaiker noticed a crowd near one of the houses. Policemen had encircled the crowd and taped off the scene. The Bronco pulled to a stop at the side of the road, several yards away. Slaiker stepped out of the truck, and as he approached on foot he removed a pack from his pocket. He was sharply dressed, as always, and his perfectly tailored suit teased at the taut musculature of his fearsome build. His arms swung lightly as we walked, like the hammers of a god, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea as he drew near. He was, to put it simply, a bad-ass. He had the speed of thought to catch a shadow, and the physical prowess to break that shadow in two. Clearly, in those large and purposeful hands, even the most rudimentary item could have lethal power. He worked the pack over in his right hand, and with his left he pulled out a card.

"The two of hearts . . . blind," said Slaiker as he reached out to shake Brett's hand.

"Right, the two of hearts," answered the commissioner, without bothering to look at the card. "The sense of relief is wearing a bit thin, though. I've ordered two new packs from Hong Kong."

"Order one more," Slaiker said. "I've taught Jeff, too. He doesn't shuffle the cards very well yet, but he reads without distortion and is already posting new info."

Brett nodded an invitation to his friend to enter the house, and then let Slaiker step through the doorway first.

"By the way, how is he?"

"Well, you have to keep an eye on him," answered Slaiker. "Yesterday Jeff thrashed a boy who's five years his senior. A month earlier, he nearly reddened Alan Fisher's butt. Remember that customs official at the airport?

"The boy needs a mother," said Brett flatly. "Have you thought about that?"

"I've brought two good candidates to the house, but he accepts no one. He's very closed. Once a week, he goes to the site of accident. He brings flowers. Still, four years have passed. But . . . what about you?"

"You know. I'm not your typical 'family man.' I need a woman for one night at a time."

The house was a one-story structure with an attached garage and a pool. Having passed the corridor, they found themselves in the front room. Blood was spattered across the ceiling, walls, floor and furniture. It was as if someone had sprayed the stuff. The police photographer was at work, documenting the scene.

"The room is decorated perfectly, I think," said Slaiker. "It's too bad I don't follow fashion."

"I'm sure you're familiar with the painting technique, but that's not all," Brett said. "The most interesting part is in the outbuilding by pool." But he couldn't hid the fact that it was serious, and a gloomy expression overtook his face.

The men went through two rooms, and everywhere they looked there were splotches of blood. The last room faced the garden. Just five strides from the house, there was a small pool. The water in it was stained a brilliant hue. To the right was a simple, bamboo structure. There was a trail of blood from the house to the door of the structure.

Slaiker and Brett were walking along the edge of the pool when an aging police officer ran from the outbuilding and, leaning against a young palm tree, proceeded to blow the breakfast his wife had made for him that morning.

Brett proceeded to the outbuilding, and Slaiker entered after him. It contained a woodworker's bench and tools, but the most imposing presence was almost indescribable. Hanging from two hooks in the rafters was the bluish-gray hulk of something vaguely, but obviously, human. The mass was without skin, from the top of the head to the soles of the feet. It had been entirely peeled off and was left in grotesque display on the workbench, like a wetsuit laid out to try. Blood oozed out of naked veins and muscles, and streamed down to the concrete floor. Flies encircled everything, as an ungodly feast for infestation.

Slaiker scanned the scene with deepening sorrow, perhaps absently flashing through the deck of cards. He always did that when there was much to consider, and he was in no mood to change the habit. Li, seeing how his friend had reacted, said, "We and the photographer are the only ones who haven't emptied our stomachs upon seeing this. So, I guess we're pretty solid."

The two left the outbuilding, and Slaiker began: "I've never seen anything like that before in my life. It doesn't look like a cult ceremony or cannibalism, though." The cards in his hand began to cycle even more quickly.

"Is that all you can say?" said Brett, somewhat surprised. "Where's the compassion?"

"Really, I'm sorry," answered Slaiker apologetically. "I won't touch food till tomorrow morning."

"I thought you were better than that, man. Well, in this case, the place under the palm is free."

"I have breakfast at seven, but you woke me up at six."

Any meeting of these old friends started with small biting remarks, but after that ritual the talk became serious.

The six of clubs meant it was time to act.

The bank, Francis Rachel Street, 9:00 a.m.

Jeanette, on her way to the bank, was bothered by a question: "How could I leave the disc in the office? I really remember placing it into a yellow envelope, but now the envelope is empty. Oh, maybe it only seems to me. Since yesterday so much seems to me . . . . But this happens when you're pregnant, or so I've read.

Lines from some clever medical reference book came to her mind: "A woman in pregnancy, from the third month till the end of term, is prone to drowsiness, nervousness, forgetfulness and various other symptoms. Very seldom, however, is the process accompanied by hallucinations . . . ."

It seemed the author had some sort of medical degree, as Jeanette recalled. She looked around her office, rummaged through the drawer in her desk, looked under the table and inside the safe. Then it dawned up on her.

"Nothing simply 'seems' to me, because I remember it exactly. I put the disc in the envelope, put envelope in the handbag, and then . . . .

Jeanette remembered the handsome young Frenchman, hailing her near the clock tower and returning the bag. However, it was only this morning that the loss became apparent. Now, when she remembered everything, the mystery was becoming clear. "He stole the disc from my bag, but why? Oh, there's my notebook." Jeanette reached for it and began turning rapidly through the pages. There was the note he'd written. In cursive, it said, "Hotel Beau Vallon, Room 97, Jean-Pierre Lefebvre."

Jeanette was embarrassed.

If he had stolen the disc, why did he give his address? There'd be no reason for that. Still, so much of what had happened since Andrew's death was strange.

Her eyes were closed; she was seated in the armchair behind the desk, thinking.

The thought about her husband, the computer disc, the sudden change in Brian's behavior and the books he had instructed her to find. The more she tried to understand something, the deeper and more complex her thinking became.

Jeanette thought, "I need a vacation; some time away. Andrew's death has unsettled me. Who said work would save you from problems? Apparently, it was one mixed work and relaxation. What if I could change the scenario entirely? I should leave for Europe, without even hesitating."

Five minutes later, Jeanette entered office, which was awash in smoke. Brian Limont had lit a cigar and sat licking his lips over it as he watched the local news on a portable TV. Easily the most sensation news that morning would have been the discovery of two utterly skinless bodies. Journalists discussed the possible presence of a maniac on the island and suggested that everyone remain vigilant.

Brian, his gaze fixed on the TV, motioned for her not to speak. Jeanette, however, instinctively began to feel that the murder in Mont Fleuri was somehow connected with her. Although it was a repulsive thought, she continued watching.

Commissioner Brett Li appeared on the screen. He didn't comment on the event but instead asked the community to provide information about any suspicious men.

The report ended, whereupon Brian turned to Jeanette and, seeming to read her thoughts, said:

"I think it's most important that you care for the baby. So, don't worry about yesterday's business. You should have a rest." Brian extinguished the cigar in the ashtray.

Kreis changed planes in Bangkok and arrived at Phnom Penh, Cambodia, at eleven o'clock. It was about thirty degrees Centigrade in the shade, and his constitution had difficulty with the rainy season, which lasted from May till October. It was the end of May. Morning in the rainy season begins with hard evaporation. By midday, the air becomes unbearably stuffy. The sun floated up from the horizon like a tennis ball, bringing with it scorching heat that would last till sunset. Every afternoon in summer, the monsoons from the Indian Ocean would bring masses of warm, damp air, pouring it onto the continent in torrents of rain. Already an hour after downpour there isn't a trace of water on the streets. Everything that hasn't soaked into the ground and fields rises again instead, thus perpetuating the fierce cycle of humidity and storms. At about twenty minutes past six in the evening, the sun drops behind the horizon and the sky fills with stars. This is repeated till November, when the winter monsoonal flow brings dry air from the continent.

Phnom Penh, the international airport at Phnom Penh, was once one of the nicest places in the world. It was fashionable and comfortable, with perfect proportions and ideal functionality. Now, however, it met Kreis with disconcerting stuffiness.

It was simply fate that Captain Ven Jhun was seated before the security monitors that day, keeping guard over the goings-on within the terminal. Usually, one of the subordinates did that kind of work, but new equipment had recently been installed and the captain was checking its workability. With a joystick he could rotate any camera nearly 360 degrees, and thanks to sophisticated electronics he could examine every nap in an individual's clothing.

Ven Jun was forty-six, but he looked seventy. The day he was born, God rested. His broad, Robespierre forehead gave the impression of great intellect, as if all the potential for beauty had been absorbed and subordinated by the brain. However, that broad forehead concealed not intellect but cunning malevolence. This man, once so ordinary, had been victimized by the fate of his own nationality, and now what he had to show for it was a prosthetic left leg. Ven disliked his country's fearsome climate, and he hated its terrible past. He dreamed of settling down in a drier, quieter corner of the world and watching the birds nibble at the cactus pears. He had his reasons for feeling that way, but they had nothing to do with rest and relaxation.

Twenty-three years earlier, Ven Jun had been involved in matters the memory of which brought a chilling itch to his crippled half-leg. Little about the country's present circumstances or appearance seemed very different, and everything was a painful reminder to him. The captain could never sleep through the night, because the stump of his leg was very sensitive to the prolonged hours of contact with the fitting of his prosthetic. The itchiness of it could be unbearable. The previous night he had been up till dawn concocting various lotions, but the past was hurtling toward with the speed of a fighter plane. Thus the past became the present, without deception or mind tricks.

As he put the new system through its paces, he turned to the camera for the customs station. The arrivals were being checked with regard to documents, bags, etcetera. There, among the passengers, Captain Jun spotted the figure of a man, who was passing documents to the customs officer. His walk, the way he turned his torso and head . . . the purposeful eloquence in the use of his arms . . . it all seemed so familiar. It was as if a piece of a puzzle, lost in his coat sleeve, had suddenly dropped out and fell into place in the picture. Fireworks exploded in Jhun's mind. "No! It couldn't be!"