The Khufu Equation by Rail Sharifov Page B
Authors: Rail Sharifov
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!"
Ven focused in on the man, whose face was now clearly visible. He had a white beard, a straight but meaty nose and a perfectly arched upper lip. The brow was heavy in a masculine way, but not too. He was broad-shouldered. The captain fixed the camera on the man's eyes, drawing increasingly closer. "Damn it, hold still!" he whispered anxiously. At last, he got the view he wanted and was able to see what he was looking for. The captain held his breath in suspense. It was what he had feared. The past had finally returned, and the past had looked at him through the lens of that camera. In the close-up view, Ven noticed three dots of grayish-black color amid the blue of the right pupil. The captain was dumbstruck by the discovery. He shook his head.
The man in the camera turned and left the customs area. "I've lost him," Ven complained to himself. "He has gone away."
He switched to the camera at the exit from the terminal building, where he was just able to catch sight of the bearded man. He was getting into a taxi. Now at least, it didn't matter that he was leaving the airport. Ven knew how--and where--to find him. Moments later, he reached for the telephone.
"Chen?"
"Yes, Father."
"Come. We need to talk. Possibly tomorrow, we will lose everything we have."
Chapter 12
The international airport of Phnom Penh was located five kilometers from Phnom Penh. The highway to it, named after the Soviet Union, was built on an earthen dam, like any Cambodian highway. On both sides of the road spread a mirror of water, reflecting the billowy clouds, shining sun and date palms. But Kreis, riding in a taxi to meet his destiny, could see only his recollections. There was blood. There was love. There was defeat.
17 April, 1975
Victory. . .
When stones become dust and the rivers, having changed the direction, go back, this is the day people will remember forever. In the coming age of space colonization, when humankind begins to cultivate the ground of beloved planets, historians will tell about the time when the crazy idea of building communism was embodied in reality. Maybe it will be offered to countrymen by some fanatic in the form of a terrible, terrible fairy tale. Thus he will begin:
The truly bloody day for Cambodia was marked by the victory of patriotic forces over the Americano-Saigon aggressors and the reactionary pro-American regime, headed by Lon Nol. Freedom? No, is wasn't . . . .
Treachery
As the result of a five-year war for liberation, Cambodia--once a flourishing country--was left half-destroyed. Four-fifths of its enterprises were decimated, two-thirds of the rubber-bearing plantations were crushed, and three-fourths of the highways and railways were unusable. The ports suffered, too. The country, weakened by violence and struggle, had no time to stand up. On the same day--the 17th of April, 1975--the new aggressor was an Americo-Saigon one. His name was Pol Pot. He usurped the power and surrounded himself with a brutish military clique.
Two hours after the war representatives of Lon Nolo's party declared capitulation, Pol Pot's clique, using violence and fraudulent means, forced the population of Phnom Penh--two-and-a-half million people--to leave the city. Amid the heat, which sweltered at forty degrees Centigrade, the people, without food or water, were driven like cattle into agricultural districts. Thousands of them were shot, died from exhaustion or sunstroke, disease and epidemic diseases. Three hundred thousand houses in Phnom Penh were left empty, as if in the aftermath of a neutron bomb that left structures standing but erased every single life form in its path. Other towns and settlements
Ven focused in on the man, whose face was now clearly visible. He had a white beard, a straight but meaty nose and a perfectly arched upper lip. The brow was heavy in a masculine way, but not too. He was broad-shouldered. The captain fixed the camera on the man's eyes, drawing increasingly closer. "Damn it, hold still!" he whispered anxiously. At last, he got the view he wanted and was able to see what he was looking for. The captain held his breath in suspense. It was what he had feared. The past had finally returned, and the past had looked at him through the lens of that camera. In the close-up view, Ven noticed three dots of grayish-black color amid the blue of the right pupil. The captain was dumbstruck by the discovery. He shook his head.
The man in the camera turned and left the customs area. "I've lost him," Ven complained to himself. "He has gone away."
He switched to the camera at the exit from the terminal building, where he was just able to catch sight of the bearded man. He was getting into a taxi. Now at least, it didn't matter that he was leaving the airport. Ven knew how--and where--to find him. Moments later, he reached for the telephone.
"Chen?"
"Yes, Father."
"Come. We need to talk. Possibly tomorrow, we will lose everything we have."
Chapter 12
The international airport of Phnom Penh was located five kilometers from Phnom Penh. The highway to it, named after the Soviet Union, was built on an earthen dam, like any Cambodian highway. On both sides of the road spread a mirror of water, reflecting the billowy clouds, shining sun and date palms. But Kreis, riding in a taxi to meet his destiny, could see only his recollections. There was blood. There was love. There was defeat.
17 April, 1975
Victory. . .
When stones become dust and the rivers, having changed the direction, go back, this is the day people will remember forever. In the coming age of space colonization, when humankind begins to cultivate the ground of beloved planets, historians will tell about the time when the crazy idea of building communism was embodied in reality. Maybe it will be offered to countrymen by some fanatic in the form of a terrible, terrible fairy tale. Thus he will begin:
The truly bloody day for Cambodia was marked by the victory of patriotic forces over the Americano-Saigon aggressors and the reactionary pro-American regime, headed by Lon Nol. Freedom? No, is wasn't . . . .
Treachery
As the result of a five-year war for liberation, Cambodia--once a flourishing country--was left half-destroyed. Four-fifths of its enterprises were decimated, two-thirds of the rubber-bearing plantations were crushed, and three-fourths of the highways and railways were unusable. The ports suffered, too. The country, weakened by violence and struggle, had no time to stand up. On the same day--the 17th of April, 1975--the new aggressor was an Americo-Saigon one. His name was Pol Pot. He usurped the power and surrounded himself with a brutish military clique.
Two hours after the war representatives of Lon Nolo's party declared capitulation, Pol Pot's clique, using violence and fraudulent means, forced the population of Phnom Penh--two-and-a-half million people--to leave the city. Amid the heat, which sweltered at forty degrees Centigrade, the people, without food or water, were driven like cattle into agricultural districts. Thousands of them were shot, died from exhaustion or sunstroke, disease and epidemic diseases. Three hundred thousand houses in Phnom Penh were left empty, as if in the aftermath of a neutron bomb that left structures standing but erased every single life form in its path. Other towns and settlements
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