The Marks of Cain

49

Simon watched, aghast. Miguel flashed a brief smile, and a gun, at Angus and David. The terrorist was surrounded by men, carrying weapons, cans of gasoline and flat silver packages. Explosives maybe. The men set to work: in the shadows at the edge of the vault.

They had been so engrossed in their unravelling of the story, they hadn’t even heard the stealthy approach of the Wolf and his men. And now here he was.

Smiling at Amy.

‘Amy. Esti. Muchas gracias, senorita.’

She was gazing back at him; her voice was an eerie monotone. ‘Yes…I did…what I promised.’

‘You did.’

Miguel laughed a richly sad laugh. David felt the anger surging inside, like an oncoming storm:

‘You. Amy? You? You betrayed us?’

She didn’t turn his way. She couldn’t even bear to look at him.

Miguel strode close to David. His breath was sweet, and fragranced with red wine. It mingled with the reek of the petrol, that Miguel’s silent men were splashing over the wooden cases. David was instantly reminded: the stench of the bonfire in Namibia. When Amy saved him. And now she had betrayed him.

Miguel nodded, almost sympathetically. ‘Yes, of course, she betrayed you. She loves me. She always did. What is your life to her…’

David ignored the terrorist; instead he spoke, angrily, ferociously, at Amy. She was hunched and averting her eyes, maybe crying.

‘So it was you? All along? Who told them where we were going? Namibia? You fucking bitch -’

Miguel intervened: ‘Enough!’

David swore once again at Amy, who was now deep in the shadows.

Miguel’s smile faded.

‘Do not blame her. She is a woman. Arrotz herri, otso herri. And besides, Davido, she did the correct thing, the moral choice, she is correct. Because I am the good guy. The hero. We are the good guys. Do you not understand? We are on the side of the good.’ Miguel’s eye was faintly twitching. ‘If the information in this cellar was ever to become known by others, then nations, races, tribes…would be forced into war. Humans who are not human? One race provably superior to another? Imagine. Human species fighting human species. Racial hierarchies confirmed. Nazi science vindicated. The democratic multiracial world – in ruins.’

Angus spoke up:

‘But you can’t stop science. One day a lab will repeat these results on genomic diversity, it is inevitable -’

‘Is it, Nairn?’ Miguel swivelled, turning on the scientist. ‘Is it true? We closed down the Stanford Project. We closed down GenoMap. The Cagots are all dead, so the Fischer experiments can never be repeated. We have won. We have to win, or do you want us to be like animals, like rats, fighting each other, fighting always? Do you want that?…Umeak! You are children!’

He glanced along the vault; his men had set the charges, the flat, sinister grey packages were tucked snug against the walls. The crates, doused in petrol, were ready to burn.

‘Good. We are nearly done. Bai.’

Was there any way of escape? David urgently counted the number of men: there were seven or eight of them. Armed, dressed in dark clothes, and quietly efficient. Finishing their task.

There was no escape. And what did it matter anyway? They were finally cornered; they had lost; and he, David Martinez, was going to die, betrayed by the woman he loved. Even as he discovered the truth. A generous and bitter irony.

‘Are we ready?’

One man turned.

‘Bai, Miguel.’

‘Excellent.’ The Wolf turned back to the captives. ‘I must also thank you for helping us locate the Fischer results. People, agencies – governments – have been searching for these for many decades.’

Miguel gazed first at Simon, then Angus, then David, as if he wanted to gain their entire attention for his following words, which he enunciated very carefully.

‘Of course, you thought it was the church, didn’t you? You realized it must be the Society of Pius the Tenth, and therefore you decided the entire church was involved, behind the scenes. The Holy Church.’ He shook his head, with a contemptuous smile. ‘Well, maybe we have a little help, some cooperation at a certain level…but do you really think Rome would have the money and the means and the will and the savagery to do all this, to take all these lives, mmm? Cardinals with guns and missiles? Really? Bai? Does that really make sense? Do you want to know where our money actually came from?’

The lamplight was dim, the air was stale. Miguel continued:

‘The money came from much higher than that. Let us just say…Washington, and London, and Paris, and Jerusalem, and Beijing, and, of course, Berlin. Such a lot of money and assistance from Berlin. There is one government which sees it as its duty and, yes, its destiny, to make sure Nazism is never reborn in any form. They would do almost anything to rid Germany of her shame, and save the world from scientific racism. They would recruit any zealots or terrorists, for instance…They would make sure these zealots worked at a distance, in the darkness. So as to give everyone…in that succulent English phrase “plausible deniability”.’

He stepped back. ‘Bai…David – and you…Angus Nairn…and you, the journalist. Quinn. Obviously we cannot let anyone survive. Consequently, you will be buried in here, along with the Fischer results, forever. Nola bizi, hala hil. The passage will be concreted. The barroom demolished and the passage filled in.’ He held up a box, the trigger for the explosives. ‘You will be in the most impressive of tombs. Which is nice for you.’ He smiled in the torchbeams. ‘But dead, nonetheless.’

Even as his last words faded, Amy stepped out of the shadows. Her face was alive, now, alive and angry:

‘Miguel, you said you’d let them go.’

‘Mazeltov. Of course I lied.’

‘But Miguel – you said you’d spare them, for me – you promised -’

She stared at the terrorist. He scowled.

‘You think I love you that much? My little piglet? The whore that fucked with the Amerikako? Eh?’

Amy’s face was uplit by the paraffin lamp. There was a glow there, a pleading in her expression. She stumbled over her words.

‘But I never slept…with David.’

The statement was bizarre. Why was she saying this? Miguel dismissed her with a contemptuous wave. She repeated:

‘I never slept with him, Miguel. And this is important…Because…because…’

Amy faltered, her hand to her face. She was trying to say something, and failing. But David could see, in the shadows: her other hand was gently placed on her stomach. Protectively.

With a rush of anguish, David realized. ‘No.’

His word was so solitary, yet so firm, they all turned to him.

He spoke again.

‘You’re pregnant?’

Miguel stepped forward. David repeated, staring at Amy:

‘You’re pregnant. And you know it’s his. You know it’s his?’

This final torment was too much. Amy’s face was streaming tears. She nodded and took hold of the terrorist’s arm, then she pulled Miguel’s large dark hand to her stomach, and she placed his palm flat against her belly.

‘It’s yours, Miguel. It is yours.’

David’s resignation was now tinged with the most horrible tragedy. She had betrayed him, betrayed them all, and now this? He looked left and right, at Simon and Angus. They were both waiting, staring at Miguel, at Amy, at the trigger for the explosives.

‘So I have a son…’ Miguel’s voice was a rich whisper, hoarse and jubilant. ‘So I have a son! A child. A daughter.’ His eyes shone. ‘The Garovillos live…the name lives on…?’

He left her side, and reached to a crate, and took up his gun.

‘Amy, just for you, I will merely shoot them. A better death than being buried alive. Hauxe de lorra! I will kill your friends now. To save them pain. They do not want to be buried alive.’

Miguel gestured with the gun at David. The other men were now virtually done in their tasks and standing to attention behind Miguel, hands behind their backs. The charges were set. Ready and waiting.

‘Kneel!’

David shook his head. The gun insisted.

‘Kneel!’

‘Fuck you.’

Miguel went to David, and put a rough strong hand on his shoulder, and forced him to the floor. He had no choice. The gun was inches from his ear. His knees slowly buckled and he sank to the concrete, kneeling in the gloom.

Amy was staring at David. Her eyes glistening. He cursed her with a glowering stare. He felt pure hatred for her now. Was she enjoying this? Getting off on this? Had she never loved him ever? Had it always been Miguel?

Miguel crouched down directly in front of David. He put the pistol three inches from the condemned man’s eyes. The terrorist’s final smile was a pout of appreciation, like a gourmet’s air kiss.

And then Amy shouted: ‘I’ll kill the baby. Stop. Stop it now.’

David glanced wildly across the chamber.

Amy had Simon’s knife, and the blade was poised over her belly. The steel tip of the blade was aimed at her womb, the unborn. Ready to plunge.

David looked at Angus, who was gaping in amazement.

Amy said again, louder this time:

‘Let them go, Miguel. Because I will kill the child. Your son. The last Cagot in the world, in my womb. I will kill him. Let them go and then blow the place, but let them go.’

Angry, roaring, wolflike, Miguel stood – and ran at Amy, trying to lean and grab the knife, even as she jabbed it towards her womb, to kill, to stab; and as she did this, Amy screamed at Simon:

‘The lamp!’

It was already done. The paraffin lamp had been knocked across the wooden crates, smashing against the wall beyond. Instantly the flame of the lamp ignited the paper and wood, just soaked in gasoline. The chamber virtually exploded: a rush of flames flashed across, churning smoke, searing the air, choking the life from the cellar. One man screamed: his hair was on fire. Miguel was grabbing for Amy. She was shouting – at Angus. Where was he? Then David saw. Angus was swinging a torch at Miguel’s skull. The impact was gruesomely audible: a tremendous crack.

It happened so fast in the fire and the smoke, David could not see what happened next. Was Miguel down? But where was Simon. The air was dusty and burning, the shouts loud, the flames were keen. Amy? And then he realized, someone was yelling: ‘Run! The explosives!’

They were all running. Bodies running in the chaos. Everyone was turning, and running up the passage; but David lingered, and swivelled, and saw: Miguel was on the ground and bleeding. But he was reaching for something on the floor, between the stinking flames of the paraffin. The terrorist was seeking the switch – the explosive trigger. David was the nearest, he tried to lean and grab it. He was too late. The switch was pressed.

‘No -’

‘David!’ Amy screamed.

Her scream was utterly drowned by a strange explosion, oddly broken, and partial. For a moment the room shook and concussed – but then came a blast wave.

It was like a sideswipe from God, hurling David into a corner, and slamming him to the concrete floor. All was smoke and blackness.