Dane saw what Beasley meant. A very wide dark band surrounded the temple area.
“What is this?” he asked, pointing to two large rectangles flanking the city.
Beasley nodded. “More water. Those are Barays or reservoirs, which is rather interesting considering there’s no need for reservoirs for agriculture in that area, given that there is normally sufficient water already present. Those Barays, each over 16 square kilometers in size, can feed into the moats surrounding both Angkor Thom and Angkor Wat. Keeping those moats filled must have been of tremendous importance to the Khmer.”
Beasley's thick finger centered on the square representing Angkor Wat. “The temple is considered one of the world's foremost architectural wonders. If it were any place other than in the jungles of Cambodia, it would be as well known as the Great Pyramids of Egypt.
“In fact, the amount of stone used in building Angkor Wat is estimated to be equal to that used in the Great Pyramid at Giza. The temple covers a square kilometer and the central spire or Prang as it is called, rises over 213 feet above the moats. It is the largest temple of any kind in the world, easily dwarfing the great cathedrals of Europe.
“Unlike the pyramids, though, the surfaces of the temple are not smooth stone. The Khmer covered every available surface with finely carved bas-relief and figure sculpture.”
Dane noted that even Michelet and Freed had been drawn in by Beasley's voice and were now listening carefully.
“Angkor Wat was supposedly built with a very specific idea in mind: to be a schematic interpretation of the Hindu Universe. The Prang in the center represents mythic Mount Meru, while the surrounding moats supposedly represent the ocean.”
“Why do you say supposedly?” Dane asked.
“You have to remember that Hinduism and Buddhism came to Cambodia after these temples were built so those explanations of the architecture and layout that are commonly accepted could not have been the motivating factor in the design or building, but rather added on after the fact, something many of my colleagues fail to acknowledge. What they view as the result of a myth, may in fact have given rise to the myth.
“It is that motivation, gentlemen,” Beasley said, “that I believe to be critical to solving whatever this mystery is.”
“We don't have to solve a mystery,” Michelet said. “We just have to get my daughter and the others out.”
Beasley shook his head. “I think you are mistaken, Mister Michelet. I think this mystery has ensnared your daughter, and the members of your team,” he added, nodding toward Dane. “And we won't be able to accomplish your goals unless we have a much better understanding of what we are up against.”
Bangkok was known in the Orient as Sin City. From its early days catering to divisions of American soldiers on furlough from Vietnam, to the present-day battalions of Japanese businessmen who took sex junkets from their island kingdom, Bangkok had slid into a cesspool of crime, prostitution and corruption that, truth be known, the men in power in Thailand were quite glad to have. Vice brought in hard currency and since it wasn't likely that Disney was going to open a theme park on the muddy banks of the Cho Prang River that ran through the city, the sex industry would have to suffice. Human bodies were not worth much in Thailand and despite having perhaps the highest rate of HIV per capita in the world, the government was not overly concerned with stopping the trade in flesh despite occasional press releases to the contrary.
Nestled among the darkest depths of the red light district off of Patpong Road, the “street of a thousand pleasures,” among the bars, whorehouses and massage parlors, a renovated two story hotel squatted, its recent coat of white paint already dank and dirty. Men slid in and out of the ground floor side entrance, greeted by young girls and boys who would take them along dark corridors to fulfill their desires.
Upstairs was different. There was only one way to the second floor, a single staircase in the back of the building. In the shadows around the stairs several men dressed in black waited, automatic weapons slung over their shoulders. They made sure that only those who were invited went up the stairs and turned away the occasional drunken fool.
The staircase opened onto an anteroom with steel walls and a large vault door at the end. Going through the heavy reinforced door, a visitor would come upon a scene that could quite as easily have been drawn up underneath the Pentagon on the other side of the world.
State of the art satellite phones lined one wall, their dishes hidden among the pigeon coops and plywood shanties on the roof. An electronic HDTV display of Southeast Asia eight feet wide by six high rested on another wall. Three rows of computers manned by earnest young men and women faced the map. At the back of the room, furthest from the door, was a raised dais, surrounded by bullet and soundproof, darkly tinted, glass. There was one chair inside, facing a computer console.
The chair was currently occupied by an old man who slowly cracked the shell of a peanut between wrinkled fingers, letting the shell fall to the floor. Taped to the glass were the three sets of imagery he'd had faxed in during his flight to Thailand.
He turned as a red light beeped on the handle of one of the phones in his booth. He picked it up.
“Foreman.”
The voice on the other end was harsh with barely restrained anger. “Foreman, this is Bancroft. I just wanted to let you know we lost Bright Eye.”
A white eyebrow arched on Foreman's face. “Lost it?”
Bancroft's voice was clipped, the tone curt. “It's gone, Foreman. Destroyed. It was imaging down, trying to do what you wanted, and something came back up and destroyed it. Some sort of energy weapon. What is going on over there?” Bancroft's voice went up several notches at the last sentence.
“I don't know,” Foreman said. “That’s why I wanted Bright Eye to give me a picture. Did it get any data?”
“I don’t have all the information yet,” Bancroft said. “I'll have NSA forward whatever they've picked up. But the big issue right now is that I've got some very powerful people on my back because we just had a rather large nuclear reactor explode in a hundred and twenty-five mile orbit. Do you know what that means? Do you have any idea what that means?”
“It means there's something in Angkor Gate that hates pictures,” Foreman replied. “It also means for the first time something has come out of one of the Gates. That we know of,” Foreman added.
“Fuck your Gates!” Bancroft yelled. “We weren't supposed to have this reactor in orbit. We weren’t supposed to have any nuclear reactor in orbit. It violates every treaty this country has ever signed regarding the exploitation of space. Never mind the fact that the reactor was tied to a down-firing laser. That little fact violates every space armament agreement we ever signed also.”
“I didn't blow up your satellite,” Foreman said in a level tone. “But I'm going to find out who did.”
“Damn right, you'd better.”
Foreman leaned back in his chair and fought for control. “Mister Bancroft, I suggest you forget about what the press is going to say if it should discover this and consider the fact that we don't have a weapon capable of firing one hundred and twenty-five miles into orbit and destroying a satellite, but someone, or something, inside Angkor Gate does. I think that is the more pressing concern at the moment.”
There was a moment of silence on the other end. “All right, Foreman. I'll get back to you. I've got to go brief the Old Man and he's not going to be pleased.”