The Marks of Cain

50

The pain was intimate and intense, somewhere deep inside him. A pain that lived in the darkness, like an eyeless animal. But then he opened his eyes, and discovered the truth: he had survived. Yet he was half-buried under rubble and stones, he could barely move, but he could breathe and see.

The chamber had collapsed. Rocks and earth had filled most of the void, entombing the boxes, and stifling the fires. A respectful silence reigned. David realized he had probably been lucky. If all the charges had detonated, he'd have been killed. Maybe the flames had destroyed the wiring, maybe just one bomb had detonated.

So the fires were dying but he was still trapped under rocks. And there was no sound of any other life, and certainly no rescue.

A noise. He looked left and right; there was light filtering from somewhere, up the tunnel. An aperture, letting in air, inhaling sad grey smoke.

The earth moved again, a few metres away. A face emerged.

Miguel, brushing soil from his face.

Miguel had survived. The indestructible killer, the jentilak from the forests of Irauty.

The terrorist was prone and he was bleeding copiously from a wound on the side of the head, with another vicious wound in his leg, a lavish gash, proudly glistening.

The smoke and dust of the explosion drifted, wistfully, as the light of the last gasoline flames died away.

Miguel saw David.

The terrorist frowned. He frowned and laughed and shook his bleeding head. And then he threw a plank of wood off his chest, and rolled free, and began dragging himself across the rubbled concrete floor, towards David.

David's blood was liquid cold. There was something unspeakable in the Cagot's slow, grisly crawl, dragging his ravaged leg. Dragging himself over to David.

Desperate to escape this human worm, this crawling, bleeding predator, David tried, again, to liberate himself, but the rocks and stones were too heavy. It was squassation. He was being crushed like a witch by the rocks. And now Miguel was on him.

And the terrorist was salivating. Miguel had ripped away David's shirt and exposed the flesh. A line of dribble spooled from the wide and scarred mouth; David's skin twitched, reflexively, at the sickly warmth of the spittle.

The Cagot flashed an exultant smile.

'Jaio zara, hilko zara…'

Miguel wiped his mouth and bared his teeth and then he stooped his mouth to the exposed flesh and he began to bite; David was being eaten alive; he could feel the teeth of the terrorist biting into his stomach muscles and then the gnawing, gnawing sound as Miguel tried to bite through, moaning with pleasure, biting into a man's living stomach, sucking at the pooling blood -

But a gunshot slapped Miguel away, and David gasped, and a second shot burst the terrorist's head open, like a great bloody flower, a vile carnation of red. He was shot dead. And Amy was standing above him, and some other men. They had climbed through the hole with the light, and David looked, in terror and panic, at Amy and Angus and others, as they pulled the rocks away, and set him free -

'Come on,' said Amy, dragging him to his feet.

He looked down at his stomach. He was bleeding, there was a bite mark and some blood — but he was OK -

'Now!' Angus shouted. He jerked his head, indicating their escape. There seemed to be soldiers up there. Or policemen, way up the passage. Bright lights. Torches. Uniforms.

'But — ' David protested. 'But — '

Amy squeezed his hand. Her gaze was ardent, and fierce.

'I did a deal with the police. They wanted Miguel, David. I gave them Miguel, and the archives — for us, you and me. Now try and run — the police have been fighting Miguel's men, in the bar — '

Angus yelled:

'We have to go!'

It was another rockfall. Blocks of stone and muddy boulders were slipping and groaning; the whole passage complex had been destabilized. They clambered through the hole and into the passage and then they ran: for their lives, a wall of mud was chasing them — everyone was running, sprinting, fleeing, as a tidal wave of slurry came after them like a wild animal, a devouring cave monster — a mouth of grey and black rocks — chasing them, trying to eat them alive, a wolf of rock.

And then they reached the little door and the booming sounds of the rockfall began to subside, and they wrenched open the Juden Tur, and emerged blinking and gasping and dirty into the bright light of the Bohemian pivnice.

Where several German policemen were standing and waiting. And Czech policemen too. And Sarria was there. And the other policeman from Biarritz. Some other guys in plain clothes and sunglasses. Secret police? What? There were doctors tending men on stretchers. Signs of a gunfight.

One German officer came over to Simon, brandishing a mobile phone:

'Herr Quinn?'

'Yes — but — '

'A detective…in Scotland Yard. Here.' The German officer handed over the phone. The journalist took it and stumbled outside, into damp grey October air. David watched for a second: then he saw, through the doorway, Simon buckling into tears, and crumpling, and stumbling. A hand over his eyes, hiding his shameful sobs.

No doubt Tim was dead. They had been too late for Tim.

David and Amy and Angus walked out into the rain. Large shiny police cars were lined up and down the road; several ambulances were waiting, red lights flashing, others were racing up the hill. A platoon of soldiers in fatigues stood at the end.

It was mayhem: cops were running into the beer-hall. Carrying more explosives, or so it seemed.

He looked at Amy, her face streaked and smeared with dirt and blood. But alive. Intact. Was she pregnant?

She shook her head. And spoke.

'Listen. Let me talk. I knew he would catch us. By the time we reached Amsterdam I realized…Miguel would never give up. One day somewhere he would find us. We had to entice him. Entice him into a trap where we could kill him. Where the cops could get him. I couldn't trust you to know, because…I knew you loved me too much…And…because…' She blinked, and wiped her eyes with the back of a grimy hand. Then she said: 'You would never let me risk it, David — especially if you knew I was pregnant. And the pregnancy was my one trump card, if we needed to buy time in the cellar. And we did — I guessed right — we needed to buy time.' Her gaze was calm, yet rich with emotion. 'So, yes, I called Miguel. Betrayed us, told him where we were going. He believed me. He still loved me. He wanted to believe.'

'But — '

'But then I called the police as well, Sarria. He spoke to the German government and to the French government. He told them that they would get everything they wanted — Miguel, an end to all this, and the hiding place of the Fischer archives. So the data could be destroyed. And the Cagots all dead…'

'You did a deal with the police?'

'As well as Miguel. Yes, I had to, David. But it was so difficult. Miguel had to get here first, any sign of the police and he'd never have come. But the police have been following us for days. We're lucky. Very lucky. They've agreed to let us go, and we must commit to stay silent. Forever. That's the deal, that's the deal that kept us alive. All of us.'

She took his hand, and, just as she had done with Miguel, she placed his palm on her stomach.

'So that really was true? You really are…'

'Yes.'

He couldn't bear to ask the terrible and obvious question. Instead he turned away and stared down the dismal street where the police lights twinkled sadly in the rain like blue stars written on an old grey map.