Ice Claw

15

Max had, as always, very little to pack-travel light, travel fast. He weighed his options as he rolled his trousers and T-shirts and stuffed them into the backpack. How best to escape the police hunt and the attacks of whoever wanted him dead? He was beginning to feel like a fish caught in a net. Squirming to breathe, he knew panic was just waiting to smother him, and that was when big mistakes were made. Well, he wouldn’t panic. He’d make a plan.

“You have to tell the police everything, Max,” Sayid said, interrupting his thoughts.

“No. I turn myself in now and we’ll never find the secret. Listen, Sayid, Zabala was murdered for something so important that I can’t let it die with him. The police have got enough evidence to put me away until there’s a trial. This is a setup.”

“What do you mean?” Sophie asked.

Still unable to read her intention, Max held her gaze.

“How did they find Zabala’s body?” Max said.

“There must have been a melt,” she said.

“But there hasn’t been. You saw the news; they went straight to the spot where he fell.”

“Someone told them!” Sayid said.

“That’s right. And who knew?”

“The killer,” Sophie said calmly.

It wasn’t a guess, it was stating the obvious, but why did such a bare fact feel like a challenge? Max wondered. Was it the way she said it-so coolly?

He nodded. “Whoever’s been chasing me needs me in a place where they can get whatever information I have. Setting the French police force onto me is a hell of a way of getting me pinned down, wouldn’t you say?”

“You lied to me. You went to Zabala’s hut to look for something. What?”

“I wanted to find out more about him,” Max told her, still unwilling to let her know too much until he determined how involved she was.

“And that’s why you went to the chateau?”

“Because I discovered that’s where he once worked.”

“And isn’t it all obvious to you now?” Sophie could barely keep the irritation out of her voice. “It’s the animal smugglers. They’re the ones responsible. You should have told me. You should have trusted me.”

Max knew it was far more than animal smugglers. The German had waited at d’Abbadie’s chateau until Max had discovered the drawing on the pendant. It was only then that they attacked.

“I’m sorry, Sophie. The less you knew, the better. I didn’t know how dangerous it was going to be.” He still didn’t want to tell her anything more.

“Is there any other reason you think Zabala died? Other than being murdered by animal smugglers?” Sophie asked, staring straight into Max’s eyes.

Sayid looked worried. Was Max going to tell her everything? He didn’t trust Sophie. (A) She was a girl who was good at just about all the things Sayid couldn’t do. (B) She had crept into his friendship with Max-so he was a bit jealous. (C) She was making a play for Max, and that was so obvious that even the old clock on the wall could have noticed. (D) She seemed to be in the exact place where Max was, when it mattered, like at Zabala’s hut, and just before the avalanche, when he saved her from the bikers. (E) Well, Sayid could probably come up with a whole alphabet of reasons why he didn’t trust Sophie Fauvre.

“I don’t know why he was killed,” Max told her. “But there might be another reason other than animal smugglers. Though I’m not sure what it is yet.” Max chucked one of Sayid’s T-shirts at him. “C’mon, Sayid. There isn’t much time.”

“Wait a minute,” Sophie said. “Where are you going?” “Where I think Zabala’s clues want me to go.” She waited, but Max said nothing more. He was waiting for her response. She looked concerned. All Max was certain about was that in a short while he had to get clear across France without being spotted. And that was going to be pretty near impossible. He had deliberately said very little to Sophie. The triangle etched on the pendant pinpointed Sophie’s country of birth. With her involvement in the endangered-species trade and her mysterious appearance on the mountain, he was convinced she was caught up in this whole thing far more than she had told him. What Max had told no one was that he had to get to the Atlas Mountains in Morocco. He needed her to open the way for him.

“You should come home with me,” she said.

“Why would I do that?” Max said, barely able to conceal his relief-this was exactly what he had wanted her to say.

“Because you would be safe. For a while, at least. And then you can decide what you want to do. My family owes you. My father would be honored to help you.”

“Thanks. Give me a minute to think about it. I need a word with Sayid.”

She left the room and Max closed the door. Sayid shook his head.

“You’re crazy, Max. Y’know, things about her don’t feel right.”

“It’s what I have to do, Sayid.”

“What? Walk deliberately into a trap?”

“Keep your voice down. We don’t know exactly how she’s involved. Not yet.”

“I think a boulder must have hit you on the head in that avalanche. You’re getting deeper and deeper into trouble. Real big-time-very-messy-desperate-to-get-out-of trouble.”

“I know it’s dodgy, but we’ll sort it out when we get there. It’s vital, Sayid. It’s exactly where Zabala wanted his clues to lead us.”

“I can’t go,” Sayid said.

“Course you can. I need your help. You know some of the info we found at the chateau was all about sacred geometry, and you’re good at working out stuff like that. You’ll be fine. And I need someone to speak Arabic for me.”

“Max, my leg is hurting like hell. And I would slow you down. Besides, they speak Darija in Morocco … it’s a dialect,” he quickly explained. “I wouldn’t understand a word.”

Max felt there was more to it than not speaking the language. “I promised your mum I’d look after you on this trip, and I haven’t done very well so far,” he said.

“Max, it’s been a scary time for me, and in a twisted kind of way it’s been fun, but I can’t keep up with you. Not with this leg. I’d better go home.”

Max hid his genuine disappointment. Sayid had been there when he needed him. Was his injured leg an excuse because he was too scared to go on? Max mentally chastised himself. It didn’t matter if Sayid needed a way out. He had already endured more than most boys his age. Max had already put him too much in harm’s way.

“Yeah, I suppose. OK. Look, I’ll get you to the airport.”

Sayid interrupted him. “You’ve got to get away. You can’t come to the airport. The authorities will be watching. Keep it simple. The comtesse can get me a taxi. We go our separate ways. We have to.”

Max pulled the drawstring tight on his backpack and stuck out his hand for Sayid. His friend took it. The boys embraced each other.

“Try and see my dad. Tell him I’ll be OK. When you get back leave a message on your voice mail. Something about-I dunno-flying lessons; then I’ll know you made it. If they pick you up in England because of me, just tell them everything except the bit about Morocco. I reckon that’s going to be my route into France when I have to come back.”

“You’re coming back to France? Why? Are you crazy?”

Max smiled and put his arm around his mate. Once he’d established whether Morocco really was where Zabala had intended the clue to take him, then he would explore the third side of the triangle, which pointed across the French Alps to Switzerland. “That’s one bit of info I don’t want to tell you. You already know more than anyone else. Let’s get out of here.”

The comtesse had filled baguettes with cheese and pate for them, packed fruit and bottled water, and tried unsuccessfully to thrust crumpled euro notes, which she had squirreled away in an empty jar, into their hands.

The taxi arrived. The comtesse went to the gate to see off her “exchange student” and to instruct the driver to deliver him safely at the departure terminal at Biarritz airport. She put the folded money directly into the driver’s hands. “He is just a boy, you look after him. I have paid you well.”

Sayid turned in the seat just as the taxi went round the corner. He waved at the comtesse but his eyes looked up towards the window where Max stood. He was saying good-bye to his friend, not sure when he would see him again. Imagined fears of Max being hunted, of his best mate fighting for his life, stabbed at his conscience. Max’s stubborn determination was scary at times. Whatever it was that drove him to take such huge risks was something Sayid didn’t fully understand. But had he agreed to go to Morocco, his injury would have put Max’s life in even greater danger.

Sayid would go home, he’d speak to Max’s dad, explain everything-Tom Gordon would know what to do.

Then Sayid would wait for his friend to call.

“I’ve left Bobby’s cell phone in his room, Comtesse. I can’t use it because the battery’s dead. I’m sure he’ll come back, and I don’t want him to feel he’s let me down. Tell him there’s no problem between us. I’d like us to still be friends,” Max said.

“I will tell him, and I will insist he finds you. He will phone me, he always does.”

“And my dad. You’ll remember to phone my dad for me?” Max repeated it like an instruction. These were the final moments before he went on the run.

The comtesse gave him a reassuring smile and her voice calmed his uncertainty. “Of course, once you are well away from here.”

“My dad, he’s … well, sometimes he doesn’t understand things too well and he can’t always take calls. If you have to leave a message with someone else, don’t say too much, because then they might feel obliged to tell the cops in England.”

“I will be brief, but I will be explicit in my discretion. He will be told what is essential, but nothing more. You must not worry-only about yourself. Be careful. And remember what I said.”

Her eyes glanced at Sophie as she bent her head to brush his cheeks with her lips. She quickly whispered, “About trust.”

Tishenko’s plan would flush Max Gordon out of his hiding place, he was certain of that. The killer knew exactly where the monk had fallen to his death, and that information had been passed to the authorities. Once Max Gordon was arrested, it would be the simplest of matters to have him snatched from police custody and brought to the unforgiving wasteland from where there was no escape.

Tishenko’s assassin had failed to kill Zabala in his hut; then the second attempt on the mountain had been complicated by this boy. Fedir Tishenko should, by his own standards, have punished such a failure, but when he spoke to his ambassador of death, the killer was calm and confident and expressed no regrets. The job had been done, and if this boy had been involved with Zabala before the killing, then that could not be laid at her door. Tishenko liked girls who killed. They were somehow more cold-blooded about the whole business. Like glaciers, as if their feminine emotions were buried beneath a mountain of cold intellect. He found that very attractive. But the greatest attraction of all was that no one ever suspected a girl could be an assassin.

In England a telephone rang, echoing through the silent corridors of the specialized nursing home. Across the quadrangle, attached to one wing of the old estate, a huge brick and glass greenhouse brimming with natural fragrances from exotic countries created an ideal refuge for men who had spent their lives traveling the world, knew the jungle and needed the tactile comfort of stem and flower. Men who were now confined by ill health to St. Christopher’s.

The telephone did not stop ringing. It waited for the orderly in charge of that section to answer. Ex-Royal Marine Marty Kiernan, all 1.83 meters of him, and 112 kilos, took a few paces across the beautifully crafted Victorian tiled floor and lifted the receiver. He listened, pressed a button on the phone’s base, replaced the receiver and walked towards the mini-jungle that lay beneath the glass framework. His soft-soled shoes barely made a sound. Despite his size, he walked lightly. Old habits. Marty was a veteran of jungle and desert fighting. He had carried wounded men out of harm’s way in different war zones, had knelt-as the trained medic he was-under fire, to save others’ lives. And he had paid the price. In Afghanistan two bullets had torn into his big frame and rendered him helpless. It took six men to carry him to the medevac chopper. Marty suffered psychological as well as physical injuries, but he had been lucky and ended up in the only military hospital available in the UK. The people who cared for him gave him new hope, turning the black octopus of depression that gripped his mind into a positive, can-do attitude. Just the way he was before the bullets took his right arm.

You had to turn the emotionally draining negativity into action, he would quietly tell the injured men who were brought to St. Christopher’s. He didn’t ask them any questions about why they could barely speak, why some of them just started crying for no reason at all, why others just gazed at a picture on the wall for hours on end. Sooner or later these damaged men would find a way out of the tunnel they were trapped in. And then they’d nod, or smile, and maybe even begin to talk. Until then Marty, and others like him who knew what damage combat can do to men, would care for them. No one else would.

One of his charges was unique. A long time ago this man had worked in Special Forces, became a well-known mountaineer, then used his education, his courage and his skills to rove the world searching out potential, or inevitable, ecological disasters. Working for a privately funded organization had made him a lot of enemies, everyone from governments to powerful corporations, but Tom Gordon’s actions had averted many environmental catastrophes before they happened, long before climate change became such a hot topic. Marty smiled. Hot topic. He liked that. He’d try that on as a joke, even though it was a lame one.

Marty and the other staff knew what had happened to Tom Gordon out in Africa, how a corrupt doctor had tortured him, screwing up his mind with toxic chemicals, trying to get vital information from him. Well, he hadn’t, and Gordon’s son, Max, had defied incredible odds and led the rescue of his father. Like father, like son, maybe.

It was humid in the vast greenhouse, and if some of the overhead vents hadn’t been slightly open, it would have been hotter than the jungles of Borneo. He approached the man bent over the waist-high flower bed, digging around a brightly colored plant. Marty stopped. It was never a good idea to approach men such as Tom Gordon from behind, particularly when they had something like a trowel in their hand. It could suddenly, and unexpectedly, become a deadly weapon for someone caught unawares and whose instincts were still frighteningly fast. He coughed. The man turned. A moment of doubt clouded Gordon’s eyes. He knew this man. He saw him every day. What was his name? What was …?

He remembered. “Marty. Hello.”

“Hi, Tom. Switchboard says there’s a telephone call from France. I think it’s Max.”

There were days Tom Gordon could not remember his son. He knew the boy phoned regularly, because Marty told him, but there were days when nothing made any sense.

“Max?”

“Yeah. Y’know …”

“Don’t worry, Marty. Today’s a good day.” Tom Gordon smiled. He looked at the big man’s face. “He’s in trouble, isn’t he?”

“I am the comtesse Alyana Isadora Villeneuve. Your son has asked me to phone, so that I can explain recent events here which might otherwise lead you to think that his actions have been dishonorable.”

Tom Gordon listened as attentively as he could. The woman sounded as though she never took a breath when she spoke, or that she had only enough breath to say something once, because then she inhaled again, rattling off another barrage of words lasting a couple of minutes. Max’s dad had no chance of asking questions. Then, minutes later, after she had told him everything, she paused and her voice lowered slightly in a more measured tone.

“It has been an honor to talk to you,” the comtesse said finally. “And your son has qualities that are amazing, and which even he does not yet comprehend. I cannot think of any reason why my call would offer you any comfort; any parent would be anxious, I know, but I believe you should have faith, that your son will survive …”

Survive? Tom Gordon blinked. What was this woman talking about? But he had no time to interrogate her.

“… and that he will find a means of contacting you himself when the occasion arises. I offer you my heartfelt sympathy. Our children. Ah. Our children … what can one say? I urge you not to worry. He is a very capable and brave young man. Good-bye, Monsieur Gordon.”

Tom Gordon looked blankly at the receiver. Had he just imagined that conversation? It seemed unreal. He looked at Marty, who waited patiently in case he needed to do anything for him.

“Everything OK, Tom?”

“A few days ago, did you tell me Max had been involved in an avalanche?”

“That’s right. He phoned.” Tom Gordon had had one of his “bad days” and couldn’t take the call. “You were busy,” Marty said, nudging Tom to remember.

His patient nodded.

“Max was OK. No harm done. He phoned to let you know that,” Marty said, and waited. Tom Gordon was collating the information from whoever had just phoned. “Is there a problem?” Marty asked gently.

“Someone died in the avalanche and they think Max is involved. This woman, some countess, she said Max had asked her to phone. The French police are after him and he’s looking for some kind of secret that the dead man gave him.”

Marty was never too surprised at some of the people who visited the patients at St. Christopher’s, or about some of the phone calls they received. “So where is Max?” he asked.

Tom Gordon pushed compacted dirt off the trowel with his thumb, rubbed his fingers together to disperse the soil. He seemed deep in thought. Then he looked up and shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Max and Sophie reached the main road. He wished he could just climb into the Mercedes he had taken from the Germans at the Chateau d’Abbadie, but it was parked a couple of kilometers away in a high-rise apartments’ car park. Max hadn’t wanted anyone tracing the stolen car to the comtesse’s chateau.

His plan now was to be as low-key as he could. An edgy certainty tugged at him. All his instincts said that going to Morocco was a huge step towards uncovering Zabala’s secret. He would let Sophie lead the way. If she was his enemy he would soon know, as he was putting himself right on the line being with her. The sea fog comforted him, blurring shapes, then revealed a bus gliding almost silently out of the white mist.

When the bus pulled in he let Sophie board first. He kept his ski beanie low across his forehead and ducked his face when he followed her inside. She slotted the money into the small machine that curled out a ticket, and then he nudged her into a seat a couple of rows behind it, on the opposite side of the driver.

He sat upright, face turned, looking out of the window. Act natural, be natural. Two kids on a bus.

“I don’t have enough money to get to Morocco,” he had told Sophie. She didn’t think twice. She had a credit card and she would book everything. All they had to do was get out of Biarritz, down to St. Jean de Luz, forty minutes away near the Spanish border. Trains ran regularly to the Spanish town of Bilbao and from that old industrial town they could get a cheap flight into Morocco. The Spanish wouldn’t be looking for him-not yet, at least.

St. Jean de Luz, a smart seaside town, still drew tourists even at this time of year, but compared to the bigger city of Biarritz, it felt like a crossroads between the Atlantic slamming against the sea wall and the Basque Pyrenees guarding its people and secrets. Sea mist still clawed across the coast road and railway line, and the damp night chill settled like dew on Max’s jacket.

The railway station was almost deserted, the sea fog adding to his sense of vulnerability-an enemy could be on him before he saw them. He and Sophie had barely spoken a word since they left the comtesse, and they now sat hunched on a station bench against the increasingly cold mist. Better to be in the open than caught inside. Small places meant an easier chance of being identified, and the station cafe had a television on the wall. He didn’t know how often French television had a news broadcast, but he didn’t want to be in there when it came on.

The train was late. Two dark-coated figures walked slowly towards them from the end of the platform. Each carried a submachine gun slung around his chest, hands resting deceptively casually on the butt. Their slow, steady pace showed their authority. They were gendarmes, and they were walking towards Max and Sophie.

Stay or run?

There were half a dozen rail tracks to get across before the road. To the right the river’s inlet meant an exposed footbridge.

The lazy grinding of the approaching train’s wheels and the air-shuddering engine noise caused one of the gendarmes to turn. If Max was going to run, it had to be now. He looked at Sophie, whose eyes looked past his face, then quickly glanced back. A barely perceptible shake of her head.

His mind raced. Were they on to him or was this a routine patrol?

One of the gendarmes shifted the weight of the submachine gun. For comfort? Or readying for action?

Sociopathic killer! Max’s brain screamed at him. That was who they were looking for.

Cops-five meters away.

The train-twenty meters.

Sophie smiled.

Her hands cupped his face and her lips covered his. Her hand dropped and pulled his arm around her in a quick, easy motion, taking care of his dumbfounded surprise and his slow response.

He closed his eyes, caught between fear of the gendarmes, now standing almost next to them, and the warmth and safety of Sophie’s embrace. Somewhere in the background, muted by his pounding heart and the blood that stormed around his body like water through bad plumbing, the heavy metal wheels screeched and ground to a halt. Doors slammed open. A scratched and incomprehensible voice blared through the station’s public-address system.

Max opened an eye.

The cops had moved on. One of them smiled-or was that a smirk? — to the other.

Without another look, or another word, Sophie was off the bench and within four or five strides stepped into the train.

Max was right behind her.

It all seemed so calculated. Which is what it was, of course. Why was he thinking it was anything other than that?

She had acted on impulse to save them. A perfect ruse. An ideal smokescreen.

Why hadn’t he thought of it first?

He slammed the door behind him. She was already sitting, peering around, checking that they would have a clear view of anyone coming down the carriage. She looked at him but didn’t smile. She pulled off her coat and beret. It was hot in the carriage.

Max looked out of the door window as the train pulled away. The gendarmes had sauntered to the cafe. There was no sense of urgency about the two men. It had been a routine patrol after all.

Max pulled up the window, caught his reflection and saw he was smiling. He checked his thoughts, then glanced at a stony-faced Sophie, who barely met his gaze. Reality check.

The train pulled away.

In the cafe Corentin wiped the condensation from the window and watched the carriages disappear. Thierry splashed two lumps of brown sugar in his coffee. Corentin’s phone was at his ear.

They came like scurrying rats. Out of the darkness, a silent attack. One or two of them grunted in pain as the razor wire sliced flesh. They landed on the far side of the wall and the blackness swallowed them.

Only one light, high up, spilled out into the night, sea fog shrouding it-like a specter.

Isolation meant danger could arrive in a leisurely way, and the killers showed no sign of haste. They soon found the flimsy window catches and slipped into the silence of the old chateau.

The light from the comtesse’s bedroom sneaked into the lounge. The doors to the balcony were open, and she sat, as she did every night when alone, letting the sea breeze and crashing surf caress her tired mind and the sadness in her heart. As much as she loved her children and Bobby, her only grandchild, it was her soldier husband she longed for. How little people understood those who served their country. She sipped the rough red wine and inhaled the strong French tobacco. What no one knew was that she was dying. Too many cigarettes, not enough food, or just the hand of fate? She didn’t know. She did not care. She was old. It was her time. And for some reason she had not seen it in the cards. It had been a life well lived. She had done her duty to her family, and even though she knew she lived in a half world of fantasy, she had honored the memory of the real comtesse.

The blanket clouds slid briefly away from the moon and bathed her in magical, veiled light, and that was when she realized the creatures had slipped into her sanctuary. The lack of panic surprised her. The four young men stayed back in the corners of the room; she could barely make out their features, but she could see their eyes. Dead. Soulless. Uncaring and unflinching. These boys would kill without a second thought. She stood slowly, turning her back to the sea and moon, hoping the light behind her would mask the fear that suddenly strangled her heart. But her voice was calm.

“Who are you and what are you doing in my home?” An imperious disdain filtered the words. She sounded just like the real comtesse used to. One of the boys took a step forward. There was no sign of any weapon, but his face was frightening.

Spittle wet the edge of his lips, which seemed like a slash, pulled back against his pointed teeth. Was he smiling or was that how he always looked? she wondered. He took a step closer and the others moved behind him out of the shadows. A phalanx of fear.

“Where’s the boy?”

“Boy? My grandson? I don’t know. He’s out. Who are you?” she demanded.

Don’t show them you’re frightened. Don’t yield to a threat. Stand your ground. Face the danger. That was what her husband would have done.

“Not him,” Sharkface said. “Max Gordon. He phoned his father in England. From here. We know that.”

How could they know? Her mind pushed the thought away. Expressionless, she faced her inquisitor.

“I don’t know any Max Gordon. You should leave now. My grandson and his friends will be home any moment. Trust me, you would not wish to see them angry! Get out!”

They took another pace towards her; she involuntarily stepped back, touching the edge of the big old sofa for support.

“We know about your surfing dropout. He won’t be coming home.”

The flat, disinterested voice was like a slap across the face. What had they done to Bobby?

“Where is he?” she demanded.

The grin revealed jagged teeth. “Where’s Max Gordon? He phoned his father from here. Or was that you? Where is he?”

She heard the click of the switchblade and saw the glint of moonlight on the knife one of the boys now held.

“You’ll tell us, old woman. You’ll tell us everything we need to know,” Sharkface snarled.

A small knot of warmth formed above her heart. It came, unsummoned, from somewhere deep within her and saturated her whole body. It was a longing for her husband. It was as if he held her, to protect her, an invisible shield between herself and the killers. Max Gordon would face these thugs, if he had not done so already, and he would have to fight for his life. Yes, they could hurt her and make her talk, she knew that. But she would not tell them what they wanted to know. She would not let these dogs loose after Max.

Her brave soldier husband, a hero of France, held her tightly. He embraced her, whispered his love for her, and gently, ever so gently, helped her take a step backwards onto the decayed balcony.

The moonlight filled her eyes; the crashing waves muffled the sound of splintering, shattered wood.

Her last breath was a sigh of joy.

She was dead before her body hit the ground.