The Quantum Mantra

by Henri-Paul Bour

A window with a video opened. Pascal clicked play. A close up shot of the late professor appeared.

  “Pascal, I have made this video especially for your attention.

  As you listen to this message, my soul waves are probably flying into the million universes around us. Please watch carefully the

  Pascal saw a gigantic machine, much bigger than the one at the nuclear hospital, spinning around and sending flashing signals.

  “This is a type of MRI, much more sophisticated that our, explained Placido.

  Pascal, see! They also displayed a huge network of cables connecting to a large crystal container. Sorry I did not tell you, but I must confess now that I have seen those drawings in the document I copied from a Tesla file.

  Let me explain that:

  During one of my seminars in Princeton, I was introduced to a strange guy who declared that he, in fact his grand father, had found and kept in his garage up New York, some secret documents retrieved from the big fire which destroyed the “Wenderclyff Tower”, in the 1930s.

  The guy was certain I would be the one interested to get those files. He knew that my research on waves and particles applied to the brain was matching perfectly the formula. That’s why he wanted to talk to me only: Only you can understand, did he tell me.

  He might have been not genuine, but what he showed me was beyond my expectations.

  It was a single manuscript with complex equations. Even I did not understand them all, what I perceived was already enough to realize how advanced they were. I could already envision it contained a fantastic new technology to identify and manipulate the frequencies emitted by the brain and body.

  I copied the page and let Aung see it. He was more experienced than me into that field and could better value the potential of the complete file. As soon as he saw the equations, he pushed me to get the document, as he was ready to pay the important amount requested by the greedy man.

  I did not understand where he got the money. May be other sponsors, interested in his research? Anyway it does not matter. Aung paid the guy who came to me with an important file.

  I could check that many details indicated a very advanced electro magnetic technology.

  Unfortunately, even Aung who was a kind of genius, could not make clear everything the formula contained, particularly the symmetry factor.

  Some equations I have noted personally before to copy them to Aung seemed very near from the String Theorists’ new mathematical model where particles existed only as waves.

  Tesla himself had declared that electrons did not exist. Only waves and energy were intermingling through the universe.

  Other equations referred to the very sophisticated calculations of Schrodinger, one of the Quantum theory founder, who demonstrated that existed a reality beyond our observation.

  There was nevertheless a daring assumption I completely shared and could clearly recognize from the Tesla document:

  “Body and human consciousness were a kind of machine made of vibrations, waves, structured according the perfect three-dimensional symmetry of the Quantum equations from Niels Bohr””

  Even for me, a professor of theoretical physics, the application of the formula was extremely complex.

  Since I am gone, and Aung as well, you have to be on your own and use your fantastic intuition.

  The best way is indeed to have a good transcription of the microchip, which could clarify the protocol invented by Nikola Tesla.

  All of a sudden Pascal felt sad and tired, and somewhat depressed at the thought of departing from so dedicated and genuine men. He had seen enough. After all, he was not a scientist or an investigator—or a knight in white shining armour.

  If he really wanted to help, he had to calm down and draw a plan.

  The plan had to be simple.

  First he had to decrypt the full microchip.

  If there were a special code to it, he knew that his friend Mohit, a computer genius in India, would be able to decipher it, and he decided to courier the microchip in Mumbai.

  Then, it was imperative to find the second mantra.

  The Buddha’s Oracle had indicated that a mantra had been sent to the Occident, and most probably to Italy because the Romans were the first in that historical period to receive emissaries from the Far Eastern Empires.

  The Buddha’s companions had managed to send the mantras by using Chinese pilgrims traveling the Silk Road that was open to the West during the Han Dynasty.

  Mayumi, by chance, was indicating a trail ending in Rome.

  …

  Since Pascal had already found one mantra, probably sent along the Burma Road to the Khmer Empire, it was consistent with the Buddhist prophecy for east to join west. Ironically Pascal thought, wasn’t he, himself, a pure mix of both?

  Before going to Italy, he decided to meet his Thai friends at the airport to let them know his new plan before his departure. Of course, he wouldn’t tell them about his visions—or the Tesla formula, they wouldn’t believe him anyway.

  Pascal hailed a taxi painted in a flamboyant pink colour. As the city was littered with these taxis it would be very difficult for the gangsters to track him down. He wanted to arrive early at the International Suvarnabhumi Airport to meet his friends at the crowded terminal as planned. Sumit and Pichai would escort him inside to protect him.

  On the highway, few miles before the entrance to the airport, Pascal suddenly had the intuition that he was in grave danger in this taxi. Without thinking, he asked the driver to stop at the tollbooth, pretending an urgency to go to the toilet. Few seconds after he exited the car he heard a deafening noise and turned back to see an enormous truck crash into the taxi he had just exited. Both vehicles exploded on the highway.

  The taxi where Pascal had sat was completely smashed and in flames. The taxi driver had been thrown violently out of his seat, probably dead. Pascal’s luggage had been ejected on the asphalt.

  The truck driver had jumped out before the crash and was running in the opposite direction. Pascal realized that this was a terrible and odious scheme to kill him.

  He had been so lucky—or was it really luck?

  Without delay, Pascal had to leave quickly before police arrived to avoid being detained for questioning.

  The conspirators were very smart and audacious!

  He grabbed his bag and hopped into another taxi that had just stopped. Luck again!

  It was definitely time to leave Thailand, meet his love, and look for the second mantra.

  …

  The newly built Bangkok Airport was glowing in a purple haze of lights. Suvarnabhumi or ‘Conqueror’ in Thai language was a massive structure of glass and steel, built as a showpiece for the capital. Due to the immense structure and the very hot weather, working air conditioners were a daily miracle. But today, miraculously, it was all working properlyIt was three hours before his British Airways flight to London. Still in shock, Pascal recounted the incident to the others.

  “Let’s get a massage so you can calm down and better concentrate,” proposed Pichai.

  “Excellent idea,” agreed Pascal. Thailand truly did have its advantages sometimes.

  All three men installed themselves in long and puffy armchairs in the cool, air-conditioned room. The smell of Tiger Balm lingered in the air.

  They had exchanged their jeans for large cotton trousers. The smiling masseuses had washed their feet with much care; almost affectionately. Now their fingers were pushing onto the men’s tired muscles and nerves. It was almost painful. The girl who massaged Pascal was quite nice looking with a slender figure. She stared boldly into his eyes and asked questions in a candid and seducing manner.

  “Where are you from? Khun Lau mak! (You are very handsome!)”

  Pascal gently indicated that he was busy and respectfully the girl stopped talking as she massaged. She would introduce herself and her family to the next man who came along.

  Pascal explained to Sumit and Pichai what had happened in the last two days. He also
told them with some reticence about the necessity to have two mantras and the probability of finding the second one in Italy. He remained quite evasive about his meeting with Boon and the old man. He did mention offhandedly that MI6 might be also behind the scenes.

  “Oooi!,” exclaimed Sumit in the characteristic Thai manner. “I really regret Wanee didn’t hear you say that as I’m sure she would have lots to say on the matter. That woman always has some good advice to give.”

  “So, it really seems we are going to catch these bastards soon, hey? And you will find your final mantra,” chirped Sumit.

  “Yes and no,” said Pascal. “At this point we have a general direction but no exact locations. Yes, we have found one mantra, but locating the other is still a great challenge.”

  As though reminding himself of the danger, he immediately switched to a whisper.

  “The ‘bastards’, as you call them—whoever they are—seem to know everything. They are very powerful, well organised, and committed to securing the mantras. They know we found the old statue containing the first mantra in the Temple of the Mountain because they were able to secretly follow us there. They have informants scattered everywhere, it seems.

  If we are to believe the old retired Thai official, who had explained to us that this conspiracy to retrieve the mantras was monitored by some rogue military generals from the BRIC Nations, we can understand how generously they could be sponsored by an ambitious organization, possibly businessmen, that are looking to exploit the mantras and associated technology for some reason that is very important and profitable. We have to try our best to stay under their radar.”

  “Do you really believe that story and fear that they are now sending their people attack us?”

  “Yes, I wouldn’t doubt that for a minute—and they’ve already begun their move.” Pascal told them about the incident at the toll way.

  “Why?” Sumit strained his neck to make eye contact with Pascal.

  “They seem to think that we have already found what they are after. They may not know that another mantra is waiting to be discovered. We have all painfully experienced that they are becoming extremely aggressive and dangerous. We may not be so lucky next time, since they feel free to strike openly now.”

  “Do you mean they haven’t been informed that we are searching for another mantra?”

  “Yes, that’s why they feel free to get the first one at any cost and attacked with guns and kidnapped your uncle, the honourable Ajahn in the forest.”

  Ouch!” Pascal whimpered slightly when the masseuse slipped and scratched him with her nail.

  “Ooh Kotoot, sorry, sorry!” she hooted.

  “Mai pen rai, never mind,” he answered.

  “They have no shame; no fear. And they are seriously pursuing us now.”

  “How do you know that they believe there is only one mantra?” Sumit’s eyes were closed, as though he were pulled into a trance.

  “Because it is obvious.

  Sumit, they act as if we were of no value for them anymore since we found one mantra. The situation is extremely dangerous. You must understand this and take care.”

  Sumit opened his eyes and shook his head vigorously, “Yes, of course. We are all in deep trouble. They have no reason to be careful anymore and they will use all means to retrieve that first mantra, eliminate us and harm the Buddhist followers. What can we do?”

  “It’s very simple,” proposed Pascal. “They have to know the truth; they have to know that we only have a portion of what they want and that portion is useless without the other part, the other mantra we haven’t yet found. When they understand that they will continue to follow us, but we are still reasonably safe until we have discovered the second one, hopefully in Italy.

  “Who will tell them and how?” Sumit was like an attentive schoolboy now; it seemed his wife Wanee had taught him well.

  “You have a good connection with the mob. They work for them.

  Remember Pipa, the not-so-funny jerk in the Chinese restaurant? You only have to leak that information innocently. They will pass it on to the Russians, their official contacts and the Russians will inform the thugs. Simple, isn’t?”

  “How can you make sure these guys will do as you say?” asked Sumit.

  It seemed to Pascal that Sumit was asking too many questions now.

  “Sumit, come on, you know that guy! If he smells the money, this monkey doesn’t need to speak Russian to let them know. He will send ‘Big Boobies’, his fabulous girlfriend to share the information. These Russian mental-midgets only understand body language! And you know this information is worth a lot of money for whoever is hiring the Russian mafia. And sure, they will smell it. So it is up to you to wrap up the gift.”

  Very smart, thought Sumit. “Sounds like a plan.”

  Despite Pascal’s scolding, he was finding it difficult to keep his eyelids from shutting. Before they knew it, all three men were completely asleep, their mouths drooling slightly onto the yellow towel underneath them.

  Pascal’s thoughts were already with Mayumi at his European destination. In his imagination they were only kids who were lost in a remote playground; twin particles playing children’s games.

  …

  The airplane cabin was dimly lit, humming with the permanent sound of the engines. A group of Italian tourists were sucking the last seconds of their holiday out of a Pinot Noir, courtesy of the in-flight service.

  His flight was booked to Rome via London where the Thai General—the so-called ‘friend’ of MI6—had arranged a meeting with some ‘unofficial officials’ from the Agency.

  Pascal felt tense and didn’t manage to get any sleep during the 11-hour flight.

  He felt the pressure of previous events and was particularly obsessed by his ambiguous relationship with the intriguing and captivating Mayumi. He couldn’t understand what was going on, and for the first time in his life a woman was interfering with his usually rock-solid sense of determination.

  Since the flight was completely full, Pascal had no room to relax his body. He was sandwiched between a skinny young teenager playing a video game to his left who failed to utter a single word the whole time. To his right, an overweight sales representative spoke at him, occasionally asking him questions; the answers he ignored entirely.

  Trying to block out the incessant blabbering next to him, Pascal settled himself and decided to watch a movie. The choice was not exciting, but eventually he clicked on a soppy, romantic comedy, hoping it would bore him to sleep. Hollywood movies always had the tendency to iron out the reality of human emotions, stereo-typing all the nuances so that people seemed to fit into perfect, neat packages.

  His eyes began to blur at the pivotal scene where the romantic hero asks his father in the ‘bonding’ scene: “How do you know if you’re in love?”

  Of course, the question was completely legitimate, but the acting in this was horrendous if not hilarious. The script was not exempt from judgment, either. The father replied, “When the moment comes, you just know,” and as he patted his son on the knee, a crescendo of violins was heard, of course.

  Despite the cheesy script, Pascal was actually posing himself the same question. ‘Love’ was something he believed he had experienced, but the instability of feeling, the turbulence of emotion that tethered between adoration and fear

  It was impossible to make a choice about his feelings because Mayumi herself was so elusive, and he needed some kind of reciprocation.

  His neighbour snorted loudly before chugging the remnants of his beer. It seemed that it was impossible for him to remain quiet even when he wasn’t speaking.

  After failed breathing exercises, Pascal forced himself to swallow a panadol. He was instantly lulled into a feather-light sleep, woken only from time to time by the talkative passenger.

  The pressures of the flight blurred his stopover in London. He was bleary-eyed, crusty and disheveled, to say the least. Despite his French passport, he couldn’t escape the barrage of
questions from suspicious immigration officers. They were especially gifted in ruining anyone’s sense of goodwill in traveling abroad; it was as if they were hired for that very quality. As Pascal left the counter, a man dressed in a dark suit bumped into him, almost managing to push him over. He hadn’t even had time to think of a retort when he felt the stranger’s hand slip something into his jacket pocket. He glanced around to try and catch the man, but he was gone.

  Only after he had left the baggage claim did Pascal endeavour to check out what was in his pocket. Noted in pale, blue ink in very scruffy handwriting was the address of a Jim’s Grocery Store in some unknown district of Greater London, presumably.

  Well, thought Pascal, suddenly injected with energy, it is business as usual.

  The black London taxi had some difficulty bringing him to his destination, but he eventually arrived in the residential suburb. Throughout the ride, Pascal kept turning his head to check if he was being followed.

  I’m like James Bond without the perks, he mused. He almost wished that a Ferrari had been following him at least, to keep him entertained.

  The fat shopkeeper who welcomed him had a strong Greek accent and a thick moustache that obscured his plump, pink cheeks. They exchanged glances, although no words of courtesy were even exchanged. He was brought to a room in the back where several men were already seated. None of them were clearly noticeable, each quite plain and tweed-clad.

  They flatly introduced their names—probably fake—without standing up. Only one of them stood out; his suit slightly more tailored and considered. His checkered tweed jacket and tie sat well above his flannel pants that cascaded perfectly onto his Church shoes. He spoke in a high-pitched tone.

  “George Been,” he said as he held out his hand.

  Pascal recalled to them his experience in Thailand during this extended meeting. Everything was being recorded into an antiquated device. They were extremely specific in their interrogation. Since Pascal did not really trust them, caution was of course, necessary, but Pascal really needed all the help he could get. In the meantime he decided not to give any information on the coded device: the microchip that Ram found on the biologist’s body. He didn’t either mention Placido’s website and assumptions.

  After a while, Pascal became aware that these men had to have a scientific background. Surprised, he too took his part in the interrogation:

  “What are you exactly interested in?” he asked the group.

  “Well,” scoffed one of them, whose unfamiliar face scrunched up as he spoke, “everything about the Biologist you have rescued in Thailand, any indication on the lab he was working with, and any details which could help us figure out the work he was involved in.

  Pascal mused that perhaps MI6 was developing a program similar to the one Placido was investigating, or simply duplicating it…they would never tell him anyway.

  Although the tone of the meeting had been courteous, it had not been jovial. The gentlemen did however invite him to a very elegant restaurant in the centre of London where the lamb chops were perfectly cooked. Pascal was more often than not, vegetarian—not as a discipline he imposed on himself, but because he did not really enjoy the taste of meat; it always felt very heavy on his stomach. But it would be insulting to refuse the offered meal.

  George Been, English to the bone, completed his reception by personally escorting Pascal to the airport so that he could catch his flight to Rome.

  “Somebody from our side will contact you in Italy. The code of this operation is ‘Meditation’; don’t forget it. Our contact will need to receive this code before trusting you.”

  “Meditation?” prodded Pascal.

  “Not very original, I know” as though he, too, had had some qualms about its inception.

  With this, he handed Pascal a small Buddha reproduction attached to a metal necklace.

  “This is a masked USB key you can insert into your computer. The code I gave you will also unlock the software. Additionally, it has a microchip incorporated into it and a tracking system. The chain is the antenna. In case of immediate danger, just press that button,” he said as he simulated the action with his left hand.

  “Your Buddha will transmit your location to us directly. But don’t press it unless you are absolutely certain that you are under extreme danger. No crying wolf, now. Still, we are here to protect you,” he added.

  This is a nice way of saying ‘we’re stalking you’, thought Pascal, but he didn’t express it.

  Pascal, patriotically trained to mock the English, admitted to himself that they were not so backward after all. However, he too had made a few arrangements. Before landing at Heathrow he had made a few phone calls to Paris to ensure his safety. He had some contacts at the French consulate because his father had been a functionary in French foreign affairs. He had let them know of his movements just in case.

  With the help of Mr. Been, he had arranged a safe flight for the biologist’s daughter. Ma Sue was to arrive the following day with Ram, but Pascal wouldn’t have time to see them. Everything would be taken care of for them anyway. His thoughts were fixated on Mayumi, and this was distraction enough.

  He had already achieved his first mission successfully and he knew that even though it hadn’t been his entire intention, this would definitely impress Mayumi. The reason for his success was due to his special capacities, but also through chance and the help of very good friends. Of course they had been placed in grave danger, but the roll of events had almost happened too naturally, too easily. Impending failure was never attractive.

  PART II : THE RENAISSANCE

  SEASON 1: BRUNO GIORDANO

  “There should be two words for truth:

  One that means ‘consistent with the rules and theorems of our system’;

  another that means ‘a useful representative of how things are for the purpose in hand.”

  Michael Frayn, The Human Touch