The SONG of SHIVA

by Michael Caulfield

  Above her head dark clouds swept the turbulent sky, erasing moon and stars, leaving only darkness, this unknown watcher and, in the background, a faint, faraway melody. It was vaguely familiar. She was certain she had heard the tune before. But it seemed out of place here on this indistinct landscape, in the middle of this ― dream.

  Consciousness returned abruptly inside the Boeing 7L7. No wonder that tune had been so familiar; it was her cell’s ringtone. Pulling the device from the seatback where she had stowed it hours before and immediately recognizing the number, she placed the phone to her ear.

  “Hello, this is Carmichael.”

  “Nora, it’s Marty.” Kosoy’s voice sounded distant and hollow.

  “This can’t be good news, Marty.” They had spoken only minutes before she had left for the airport and agreed to connect again once she was settled in Bangkok. She looked at her watch.

  Must be over the polar icecap about now, she thought, cruising at altitude halfway to Yokohama. Protected only by these idle thoughts, Nora braced herself.

  After an empty eternity, Kosoy spoke two words, “Jack’s dead.”

  “When?”

  “About twenty minutes ago. The hospital just called. I thought you’d want to know immediately. He was your protégé. It’s a damned shame. The Emory docs did everything they could, but... I’m sorry.”

  “I know. I know. Thanks for calling right away, Marty.”

  “You want to talk about it. Anything I can do?”

  “How are his folks holding up?” Jack’s parents had come to Atlanta right after he had fallen ill.

  “I haven’t heard. It was sudden, you know. Not unexpected, but sudden...” His voice trailed away in a wisp. “No other information right now. I’ll let you know, give you all the details when they’re available. In the meantime, while things are so unsettled, if you call and can’t reach me, talk to Megan.” Megan McBride had been Kosoy’s administrative assistant for years. She’d know where the boss was, any time of day or night.

  “Sure.” A million thoughts were blowing like a hurricane through the void in a series of wordless shrieks. “Thanks for calling, Marty. I appreciate it ― I really do ― but I’m going to hang up now.”

  Before she could disconnect, Kosoy squeezed in a final, “Take care of yourself, Nora. Be careful.”

  “I intend to,” she replied. She hit endcall and watched the screen go dark, then experienced a sudden chill. Most of the other passengers were curled up under blankets. Nothing in the cabin was moving. It was almost three in the morning, Atlanta time, and the cabin was as silent as a mausoleum.

  She pulled the Ōkiinami out of her carry-on, hoping to break the grip despair had suddenly taken on her thoughts. Maybe she could pick up the briefing files where she had left off earlier in the flight. She wanted to be doing something, anything constructive

  Opening one of the HHS-supplied files, she began reading. The WHO investigative team was being led by a French virologist, Dr. Jean-George Tardieu. The screen blurred. A teardrop, the first of many that would soon follow, splashed onto the keyboard.

  * * *

  The remainder of the flight rushed by in a blur, including a fitful layover in Yokohama. Viewed from the inside, airports were all the same, she thought, obscenely uniform and equally oppressive. On really long flights, the people-warpers seemed to operate at full intensity. In her head, paranoia was playing a long forgotten song at head-splitting volume:

  Crying, “Save me, save me, save me, save me…”

  She had been cast adrift. Crushed by mortality’s inexorable burden. She felt as though she had been delivered into the grasp of an inherently cold technology with its people movers, electronic check-ins, real-time paging ― all the trappings of a consummately impersonal thing, cold and hard as the steel and silicon from which it sprang.

  As time passed, the oils in her skin began to boil to the surface, every square inch of exposed flesh a magnet for microscopic airborne debris. In many ways, modern globetrotting had become as onerous as wandering the squalid streets of a third world city, particularly when gauged by how much it could drain from body and spirit.

  Still imprisoned in the Yokohama Airport, hours after Marty's call, she watched as two ruddy-faced German behemoths, dressed in khaki shorts, strutted by on albinotic legs, cameras dangling pendulously, their irritating laughter piercing the dull buzz of background static. How could anyone enjoy this place, this abuse? Her body was in desperate need of sleep. She had even considered renting one of the airport sleeping rack compartments, if only for an hour, but the claustrophobic image of the MRI-like tube-enclosure had held her back. How do you sanitize a coffin? she wondered. In the intervening minutes between this last conscious thought and the first boarding announcement, she had simply lost consciousness.

  By the time her flight touched down on the Suvarnahbumi International tarmac, she had lost an entire lifetime to jet-lag and sorrow. There was still one more bustling gauntlet to run: from arrival gate to baggage claim, then customs, followed by ground transport downtown and check-in at the Ayutt Haya. Escorted to her suite, she greeted her new home and the CDC’s remote operations center for the next who-knew-how-long with genuine relief. It was lovely, but she hardly noticed.

  The blackcap dropped her bags beside the bedroom bureau and, politely refusing the hundred baht note she offered, closed the door as he exited the room. Leaning exhausted against the locked door, she glanced at her watch. Eleven twenty-four. It may have taken twenty-two hours, but she had finally been successfully bludgeoned into complete submission. Struggling out of her clothes, she showered briskly, pulled on fresh panties and a short top and collapsed in a heap on the bed without drawing down the covers.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Neodioscuri

  If a man is free of avarice, even the most cunning grafter cannot hope to corrupt him.

  Lao Tzu : Tao Te Ching

  “What do you mean unavailable?” Lyköan asked impatiently. “Mr. Whitehall is expecting me. Give me that phone.”

  Deftly avoiding Lyköan’s lunge, the desk clerk took a quick step back from the counter, explaining in a soft voice, “Mr. Whitehall already have two gentlemen in his room.”

  There were still some Thais who calculated time by an archaic, uneven division of the 24-hour day. By that method the conventional eight-fifty would be a few minutes before three in the second segment of midmorning. But the present confusion didn’t sound like a simple miscalculation of the hour.

  Eyeing Lyköan suspiciously, the clerk refused to return to the other side of the front desk. Thai decorum frowned upon overt displays of emotion, especially anger. How much more would this guy tolerate before he called hotel security?

  Who are these people with Whitehall anyway? Lyköan wondered. People apparently important enough to keep Lyköan cooling his heels here in the lobby. People worth identifying.

  “Can you tell me Mr. Whitehall’s room number?” Lyköan attempted in a more controlled voice. The clerk offered only a strained smile in reply.

  “Will you at least tell him Egan Lyköan is here for our scheduled nine o’clock appointment?” The affable smile continued, appended by an acknowledging nod.

  Lyköan located a couch in the lobby that afforded strategic views of both the street entrance and the hotel elevators. A fresh copy of the English language Thai Times lay on an ornately inlaid low table between the couch and its facing twin. The hotel brochures and traveler’s guides all spoke of the Ayutt Haya’s museum-quality furnishings. This particular piece seemed to prove their veracity.

  He picked up the newspaper and laid down the data-filled Ōkiinami tablet he had brought with him for the morning’s get-together. The front page was devoted to the obligatory story with banner headline boldly proclaiming “His beloved Majesty, the King” again (or was it still?) benefacting his adoring subjects in some manner or other. Lyköan idly sifted through the pages.

  Catering mostly to expatriates, the Times was rarely
concerned with crime and apprehension, more appropriate fodder for the Thai-language rags. Instead, it usually spent ink flattering the kingdom and praising Thailand’s stature in world affairs, which was why Lyköan’s attention was immediately drawn to a short article reporting the recent arrest of a group of suspected arsonists. The unidentified suspects had been charged with an infamous Buddhist wat conflagration in Pattani Province some months back. Few details beyond plans for rebuilding the temple were provided in the brief story with no mention at all of the group’s possible religious affiliation. Trust the Thais to be discreet at every opportunity. A voice suddenly broke in on Lyköan’s concentration.

  “Egan, you never learn Thai time?” True to form, Jimmy had arrived less than two minutes before nine. While Thais respected punctuality, they would never think of arriving early and catching a would-be host unawares. Embarrassment, the loss of face, was to be avoided at all cost in a culture that revered societal decorum. “Why wait in lobby? Whitehall sleep late?”

  “Uh, not exactly, Jimmy. Mr. Whitehall is apparently entertaining other guests and doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”

  Even Thai punctuality could be surprised. “Anyone we know?” Jimmy asked.

  “Probably not anyone I know or they would have asked me to join them. By any chance do you know Mr. Whitehall’s room number?” Although he and Jimmy had danced around Jimmy’s three-day disappearing act the day before, no direct answer had been forthcoming and Lyköan’s confidence in his associate was now sorely shaken. He doubted their relationship would ever completely recover.

  “Sure-sure. Invite me to room when we negotiate!” Jimmy’s gleeful emphasis of the admission’s final word made Lyköan uneasy. “Room eight three four!”

  “You heard Mr. Whitehall yesterday, Jimmy. He wanted us here by nine. Since you’ve been there before, why don’t you lead the way?”

  Dropping the newspaper, Lyköan accompanied Jimmy to the elevators, arriving just as a set of doors were opening. Dressed today in a pale nut-brown ensemble of unknown but obviously expensive pedigree, as well-tailored as yesterday’s Italian attire, Jimmy looked completely at home in the most elegant hotel in Bangkok. Lyköan was well aware that he never would. While his clothes were clean, pressed and presentable, they were years old, and to any cognoscente, noticeably out of fashion.

  Exiting at the eighth floor, Jimmy proceeded directly to room 834 and knocked briskly. Almost immediately, the door swung open, displaying a beaming Harry Whitehall, resplendent in three-piece white linen, like a vision of English colonialism. In a corner of the room behind him, two men were seated at a small table strewn with documents and two bright-screened laptops.

  “Aha, there you are! Every bit as resourceful as you are prompt, Lyköan. Good morning, Jimmy. Come in, come in.” Whitehall stepped aside so both men could enter. As they did, the two strangers looked up.

  “I dare say, there was some confusion when the desk clerk insisted only one visitor was in the lobby and Dr. Narayan asked if it wasn’t two gentlemen that would be coming up. But now I see it is. Sorry, but I was in the middle of something with Mr. Gordon and asked Dr. Narayan to take the call. There seems to have been a bit of a language problem; English is neither Dr. Narayan’s nor the desk clerk’s native tongue, I’m afraid. By the time I got back with the desk, I was told you had left. On your way here I see. Taking the initiative. Excellent.”

  Though odd, Whitehall’s explanation was at least tenable. The other two men didn’t seem at all troubled by Lyköan’s arrival. With natural, pleasant eye contact and grins all around, he relaxed. One of the seated men stood up and came around the table while the other continued with his paper shuffling.

  “We would have met soon enough in any case,” Whitehall explained, “but now that we’re all together I suppose introductions are in order. Egan Lyköan and Jimkret Sawadviphachai…” He lifted a hand in their direction. “Mr. Lyköan ― we’ve discussed his role ― oversight management for the Primrose build-out. Mr. Sawadviphachai is the Thai licensing agent I spoke to you about earlier.”

  He turned to the two strangers. “Robert Gordon, Innovac Comptroller and Director of Risk Management.” He indicated the other man. “Dr. Eshwar Narayan, Director of Special Projects. Both of them have come to Bangkok as point men, you might say.”

  Narayan walked over and energetically shook Lyköan’s hand. Gordon nodded from his chair. Jimmy waiied to each man. Gordon and Narayan returned the gesture, nodding towards their upturned, pressed palms.

  “Wasn’t expecting them until tomorrow,” Whitehall explained, “but when they called last night and requested an earlier confab, really, how could I refuse? You gentlemen,” he indicated Lyköan and Jimmy, “arrived at the perfect moment. With your help we should be able to accelerate the process immeasurably. Here, why don’t we all sit down?” He indicated two couches facing each other across a low mahogany table.

  Once the formalities were put behind them, the conversation became more fluid and it was late afternoon before Lyköan could again catch his breath. During the whirlwind of those hours he was able to provide the two visitors with a wealth facts and figures, every minutely considered detail about the Primrose operation that he had slaved over for so long expertly extracted in the torrent, no break for even a single personal question. On the motorbike taxi ride home, however, his thoughts were racing, covering every fleeting impression he hadn’t paid much attention to during the nonstop bustle of the day.

  He had no concerns about the business equation. That all added up. Perfectly. Gordon and Narayan were smart, quick and engaging. Personable too. No problem there. But Lyköan still felt uneasy. There was something unsettling, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something beyond the two men’s obvious desire to see the Primrose project succeed. Like two musicians performing from the same sheet of music. Perfectly logical. They had both been with Innovac for years, since its inception. But the music, the connectivity, whatever the hell it was, seemed to run deeper than routine esprit de corps. And that was the least of it.

  The two men were strikingly similar in appearance: Gordon rather swarthy for an Englishman, far darker than Whitehall anyway. Of course, Whitehall was almost a ghost ― stood out like a flare in this dark-skinned city. Narayan, on the other hand, was quite fair for an Indian. Not a shade of difference between the two. Both possessed regular, symmetrical features, stood almost exactly the same height, maybe half a dozen centimeters taller than Lyköan. Tall for an Indian, but certainly not beyond the range of normal ethnic variation. They were both about the same age, mid-thirties Lyköan guessed. Both had brown eyes, almost identical in hue.

  Nothing odd in any one of those details alone. But taken together, they began to beggar the laws of coincidence. Unless Innovac hired only employees with specific physical attributes.

  Speeding through traffic on the back of the bike, Lyköan tried to recall other details that he could add to the growing list. The most obvious, at first glance, was their physiques, also almost identical. Both of these guys were obviously in great shape, even for men in the prime of life. Either could have convincingly passed himself off as a professional athlete.

  But the final detail was the oddest. Neither Gordon nor Narayan had a single visible blemish of any kind: no skin eruptions, no facial moles, no melanin variations, nothing. Skin as smooth and flawless as the proverbial baby’s bottom. If they were wearing makeup, it was undetectable.

  That would sure be something, Lyköan thought, grinning at the idea. Maybe male cosmetics are making a comeback in the UK. Facial jewelry, for both sexes, was already back and in a big way ― everywhere on earth.

  Okay, he thought as the motorbike pulled up in front of his apartment complex, maybe a dozen oddball similarities. Do they mean anything? Did they add up to a significant sum? Did they matter?

  Handing the driver thirty baht, Lyköan headed through the exterior archway and entered the interior court. Before reaching the entrance lamps, however, h
e realized he was not ready to face his tiny apartment’s grim walls and empty, uninviting bed.

  Stalled in mid-thought about what he might do instead, a movement in the periphery caught his attention. Out of the shadows, between the soi curb and the bougainvillea, from under a flowering dwarf hibiscus, a ragged shape emerged. She was bending forward, haunches in the air, front paws stretched out in front of her on the cement, jaws spread wide in a lazy yawn from which a pink tongue curled.

  In what could only have been described as a fit of Buddhist compassion, Lyköan had begun feeding the animal about two weeks before. After that first meal, she had begun plying her beggar’s trade in ever-smaller concentric circles, with his apartment complex as its epicenter. Seventy pounds of indeterminate breeding, wrapped in mottled gray fur, her penetrating blue-grey eyes seemed to speak of a soul that had already experienced many lifetimes. He smiled as she padded over to welcome him home.

  “How’s it going, girl?” he asked, as the as yet unnamed mongrel nuzzled his open hand.

  “Must be nice. Lying around all day avoiding the sun, just waiting for dinner to arrive.” Lyköan was painfully aware that she had recognized their spiritual kinship long before it had finally dawned on him. The prior life’s serious sins that had brought her to this lowly pass would forever remain a mystery. Then again, maybe the karmic lesson was meant more for his instruction than hers. He’d just have to wait and see.

  “I’ll be right back. Wait here.”

  Amazing. A meaningless encounter with a dumb beast even worse off than himself and suddenly all the concerns of only seconds ago had vanished. In fact, things were looking up. He took the stairs two at a time. By the time he reached his apartment at the end of the third floor hallway, however, the energy of the street-level encounter had evaporated.