The Einstein Equation Read online

  THE EINSTEIN EQUATION

  Order of the Black Sun - Book 22

  Preston William Child

  Tasha Danzig

  Copyright © 2017 by Preston William Child

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication might be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Publisher's Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author's imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  ‘Like the lonesome wail of the locomotive

  Hurtling over the timeless tracks, endless

  Our endeavors linger long after our steam had vanished from the efforts of our power

  Our journeys forgotten but only for the remnants of words and deeds recorded of the hour…’

  ~ Miho Thunderbane

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Misha’s Prank

  2. The Virgin of Balmoral

  3. Watercress and Pain

  4. The Dead Relative Phenomenon

  5. The Other Nurse

  6. Apostate

  7. The Day After

  8. The Face Under the Fedora

  9. Going Home with Purdue

  10. Skullduggery in Oban

  11. The Marrow of the Matter

  12. Olga

  13. Purdue’s Pawn

  14. The Big Decision

  15. Rats in the Barley

  16. Dr. Jacobs and the Einstein Equation

  17. And the Yoke is Fixed

  18. Beacon in the Fearsome Night

  19. Pandora Unlocks

  20. Family Ties

  21. The Weigh-In

  22. Jericho Falls

  23. Tripartite

  24. Wrichtishousis Tears

  25. Calling in a Favor

  26. All Aboard!

  27. Lilith’s Bane

  28. Terror Train

  29. The Break Up

  30. Chaos, Part I

  31. Corrective Measures

  32. Chaos, Part II

  33. Redemption

  Prologue

  Winter never scared Misha and his friends. In fact, they reveled in the fact that they could walk barefoot where tourists dared not even venture out of their hotel lobbies. It was a grand source of amusement for Misha to watch tourists, not only because their weakness for luxury and comfortable climes presenting him with much hilarity, but also because they paid. They paid well.

  Many got their currencies confused in the heat of the moment, if only to get him to direct them to the best spots for a photo session or senseless reports on historical events that once plagued Belarus. That was when they overpaid him, and his friends were only too happy to share in the spoils when they congregated at the deserted railroad station after sunset.

  Minsk was big enough to have its own criminal underground, both of an international caliber and of the petty variety. Nineteen-year old Misha was not a bad specimen, per se, but he did what he had to do to get through college. His lanky, blonde image was attractive, in an Eastern European sort of way, which garnered him enough attention from foreign visitors. Dark circles under his eyes spoke of late nights and malnourishment, but his striking pale blue eyes kept him handsome.

  Today was a special day. He was due at the Kazlova Hotel, a less than lavish establishment that passed as proper accommodations, considering its competition. The afternoon sunshine was pallid in the bland autumn sky, but it lent its rays to the dying branches of the tree lanes throughout the park. The temperature was mild and pleasant, a perfect afternoon for Misha to make some extra money. With the agreeable environment, he was bound to persuade the Americans at the hotel to visit at least two more sites for some photographic fun and leisure.

  “The new ones are from Texas,” Misha told his pals, sucking on a half-smoked Fest while they grouped around a drum fire at the train station.

  “How many?” asked his friend, Viktor.

  “Four. Should be easy. Three females and a fat cowboy,” Misha laughed, his giggles forcing out rhythmic tufts of smoke through his nostrils. “And the best is; one of the females is a pretty little thing.”

  “Edible?” came the curious enquiry from Mikel, a dark haired rogue, taller than them all by at least a foot. He was a freakish looking young man with a skin like old pizza.

  “Jailbait. Keep clear,” Misha warned, “unless she tells you she wants to, where nobody can see.”

  The group of adolescents howled like wild dogs in the chill of the dystopian building they ruled. It took them two years and several hospital visits before they claimed the terrain fair and square from another troop of clowns from their high school. As they planned their scam, the broken windows whistled hymns of misery as the strong breeze challenged the grey walls of the old deserted station. Off the crumbling platform, the tracks lay silent, rusted and overgrown.

  “Mikel, you do your headless station master bit while Vik does the whistle,” Misha delegated. “I will make sure the car dies just short of the side path, so that we have to get out and walk up the platform.” His eyes flared at his tall friend. “And don’t fuck it up like last time. Made a complete fool of me when they saw you taking a piss on the rail.”

  “You were early! You were only supposed to bring them ten minutes later, fuckwit!” Mikel defended fervently.

  “Does not matter, idiot!” Misha hissed, flicking his cigarette butt aside and stepping up for a rumble. “You have to be ready, no matter what!”

  “Hey, you don’t give me a big enough cut to take this shit from you,” Mikel growled.

  Viktor jumped in and parted the two testosterone monkeys. “Listen! We don’t have time for this! If you get into a fight now, we cannot do this hustle, get it? We need every gullible group we can reel in. But if you two want to wrestle right now, I am out!”

  The other two ceased their scuffle and corrected their clothing. Mikel looked worried. Quietly he muttered, “I don’t have pants for tonight. This is my last pair. My mother will fucking kill me if I get these dirty.”

  “Stop growing, for Christ’s sake,” Viktor huffed, slapping his monstrous friend playfully. “Soon you’d be able to steal ducks in mid flight.”

  “At least we can eat then,” Mikel chuckled, lighting a fag behind the shield of his hand.

  “They don’t have to see your legs,” Misha told him. “Just stay behind the window frame and move along the platform. As long as they see your body.”

  Mikel agreed that it was a good solution. He nodded, looking through the shattered window glass, where the sun was painting the sharp edges bright red. Even the bones of dead trees lit up in crimson and orange, and Mikel imagined the park on fire. For all its loneliness and forsaken beauty, the park was still a peaceful place.

  In the summer, the leaves and lawns were dark green and the flowers immensely colorful, one of Mikel’s favorite places in Maladzyechna, where he was born and raised. Sadly, in the colder seasons it was as if the trees would shed their leaves to become tombstones, void of hue with claws that raked at each other. Creaking, they jostled for the attention of ravens, begging to be warmed. All these assumptions drifted through the tall, gaunt boy’s mind while his friends discussed the prank, but he was focused nonetheless. Above his daydreams, he knew that tonight’s prank was going to be something different. Wh
y, he could not reason.

  1

  Misha’s Prank

  The three-star Kazlova Hotel was barely active, apart from a stag party from Minsk and some transient guests on their way to St. Petersburg. It was a terrible time of year for business, with summer gone and most tourists being mature in age, reluctant spenders who came to see the historical sites. Just after 6pm, Misha showed up to the two-story inn with his Volkswagen Kombi and his lines rehearsed well.

  He checked his watch in the looming draw of shadows. Overhead, the cement and brick facade of the hotel lurched in quiet reprimand for his wayward methods. The Kazlova was one of the original buildings of the town as was evident by its turn of the Century architecture. Since Misha was a small boy his mother told him to steer clear of the old place, but he never heeded her drunken mumblings. In fact, he did not even listen to her when she told him she was dying, a small regret on his part. Since then, the teenage scoundrel had been cheating and hustling his way through what he deemed his final attempt at redeeming his abject existence – a small college course in basic physics and geometry.

  He loathed the subject, but around Russia, the Ukraine and Belarus this was the way to a respectable job. It was the one piece of advice Misha took from his late mother, after she told him that his late father was a physicist from Dolgoprudny’s Institute of Physics and Technology. It was in Misha’s blood, she said, but he shrugged it off as a parental mindfuck at first. Amazing, the way in which a short stint in juvenile detention could change a young man’s need for direction. However, with no money and no job, Misha had to resort to street smarts and cunning. Since most Eastern Europeans were conditioned to see through bullshit, he had to change his target marks to unassuming foreigners, and Americans were his favorites.

  Their naturally exuberant manner and mostly liberal stances made them very forthcoming toward the struggling Third World stories Misha told them. His American clients, as he called them, tipped the best and were delightfully gullible of the ‘extras’ his guided tours offered. As long as he could evade the authorities who asked for permits and tour guide registration, he would do alright. This was to be one of those nights where the extra money would come in for Misha and his fellow scamps. Misha had already baited the fat cowboy, one Mr. Henry Brown III from Fort Worth.

  “Ah, speak of the devil,” Misha grinned as the small group exited the front doors of the Kazlova. Through the recently buffed windows of his van, he scrutinized the tourists eagerly. Two older ladies, one being Mrs. Brown, were chatting profusely in high-pitched voices. Henry Brown was dressed in jeans and a long sleeved shirt, hidden in part by his sleeveless vest jacket that reminded Misha of Michael J. Fox in Back to the Future – four sizes larger. Defying expectation, the rich American opted for a baseball cap instead of a ten-gallon hat.

  “Evenin’ son!” Mr. Brown hollered loudly as they approached the old minivan. “Hope we’re not late.”

  “No, sir,” Misha smiled, hopping out of his vehicle to open the sliding door for the ladies as Henry Brown rocked the shotgun seat. “My next group is only at nine o’clock.” Misha lied, of course. It was a necessary fib to feed the ruse of his services being sought after by many, thus increasing the chance of obtaining a higher fee when the bullshit is presented in the trough.

  “Better get a move on, then,” the fetching young lady, presumed to be Brown’s daughter, rolled her eyes. Misha tried not to reveal his attraction to the spoiled blond teenager, but he found her virtually irresistible. He relished the idea of playing hero tonight, when she would doubtless be terrified of what he and his comrades had planned. As they drove to the park and its World War II memorial stones, Misha started applying his charm.

  “Pity you will not be seeing the station. It is also rich with history,” Misha remarked as they pulled into the park lane. “But I suppose its reputation scares off a lot of visitors. I mean, even my nine o’clock group backed out from the night tour.”

  “What reputation?” the young Miss Brown enquired hastily.

  ‘Hooked,’ Misha thought.

  He shrugged, “Well, it has a reputation of,” he applied dramatic pause, “being haunted.”

  “By what?” Miss Brown pushed, amusing her grinning father.

  “Damn it, Carly, he is just messin’ with ya, honeh,” Henry chuckled, keeping an eye on the two women taking pictures. Their incessant yapping dwindled as far as they walked away from Henry, and the distance soothed his ears.

  Misha smiled, “It’s not an empty line, sir. Locals have been reporting sightings for years, but we keep it to ourselves, mostly. Look, no worries, I understand that most people are not brave enough to come out to the station at night. It is natural to be scared.”

  “Daddy,” Miss Brown urged in a whispered, jerking her father’s sleeve.

  “Come on, you are not seriously falling for this,” Henry smirked.

  “Daddy, everything I have seen so far since we left Poland has bored the crap out of me. Can’t we just do this one thing for me?” she persisted. “Please?”

  Henry, a seasoned businessman, cast the young man a glimmering leer. “How much?”

  “Don’t feel pressured now, Mr. Brown,” Misha replied, trying not to meet eyes with the young lady at her father’s side. “Those tours are a bit steep for most people, due to the danger involved.”

  “Oh my gawd, Daddy, you have to take us!” she wailed excitedly. Miss Brown swung around to Misha. “I just, like, love dangerous stuff. Ask my dad. I am such an adventurous person…”

  ‘I bet you are,’ Misha’s inner voice agreed lustfully as his eyes studied the smooth marble skin between her scarf and the seam of her open collar.

  “Carly, there is no such thing as a haunted train station. It is all part of the show, isn’t it, Misha?” Henry roared cheerfully. Again, he leaned forward to Misha. “How much?”

  ‘…line and sinker!’ Misha shouted inside the confines of his scheming mind.

  Carly rushed to call her mother and aunt back to the van as the sun kissed the horizon goodbye. The mellow breeze rapidly became a chilly breath as the darkness descended over the park. Shaking his head at his weakness for his daughter’s imploring, Henry struggled to fix the seat belt around his belly as Misha started the VW Kombi.

  “Is this going to take long?” the aunt asked. Misha hated her. Even her resting expression reminded him of someone smelling something rotten.

  “Would you like me to drop you off at the hotel first, ma’am?” Misha stirred deliberately.

  “No, no, can we just go to the train station and get the tour over with?” Henry said, masking his firm resolution as a request to sound considerate.

  Misha hoped his friends would be ready this time. There could be no glitches this time, especially a urinating ghost caught on the tracks. He was relieved to find the eerie deserted station as planned – solitary, dark and miserable. Across the overgrown tracks, the wind swept the autumn leaves, bending the stems of weeds in the Minsk night.

  “Now, the story goes that, if you stand on Platform 6 of the Dudko Railroad Station at night, you will hear the whistle of the old locomotive that carried condemned prisoners-of-war to Stalag 342,” Misha recounted the fabricated details to his clients. “And then you see the station master, looking for his head after the NKVD beheaded him during an interrogation.”

  “What is Stalag 342?” Carly Brown asked. Her father looked a bit less cheerful by now, as the details sounded a bit too realistic to be a scam, and he answered her with a solemn tone.

  “It was a prison camp for Soviet soldiers, hun,” he said.

  They strolled in a tight scrum, reluctantly traversing Platform 6. The only light on the morose building came from the beams of the Volkswagen van a few meters away.

  “Who is the NK…what again?” Carly asked.

  “Soviet Secret Police,” Misha bragged to make his story more believable.

  He took great delight in watching the women shiver, their eyes like saucers as they w
aited to see the spectral form of the stationmaster.

  ‘Come on, Viktor,’ Misha prayed that his friends would pull through. At once, a forlorn train whistle echoed from somewhere down the tracks, ferried by the icy northwestern gale.

  “Oh sweet Jesus!” Mr. Brown’s wife shrieked, but her husband was skeptical.

  “Not real, Polly,” Henry reminded her. “Probably have a group of people working with him.”

  Misha paid no attention to Henry. He knew what was coming. Another louder wail whistled closer to them. Desperate to smile, Misha was most impressed by the efforts of his accomplices when a faint cyclops glare emanated from the darkness on the tracks.

  “Look! Holy shit! There he is!” Carly whispered in panic, pointing across the sunken rails to the other side, where Mikel’s slender frame came into view. Her knees buckled, but the other frightened women barely supported her in their own hysteria. Misha did not smile, maintaining his ruse. He looked at Henry, who just watched the shaky movements of the towering Mikel doing his headless station master act.

  “Do you see that?” Henry’s wife whined, but the cowboy said nothing. Suddenly his eye was on the approaching light of the screaming locomotive, puffing like a leviathan dragon as it tore towards the station. The fat cowboy’s face drained of blood as the vintage steam engine emerged from the night, gliding towards them with pulsing thunder.