Present Danger

53

Dave was shivering. The more he moved around to try to keep warm, the colder he got. When he was first locked in the cellar, it hadn’t seemed particularly cold. But now it felt chilly and dank. His ribs hurt a lot and his head was still throbbing. He must be running a temperature. If someone didn’t rescue him soon, it would turn to pneumonia and he’d die in this miserable place, without ever knowing where he was or why he was here.

That was if the Spaniard didn’t kill him first. There was real hatred in the man’s voice now. If Dave gave him the slightest excuse he’d put a bullet in him. Each time Gonzales unlocked the door to shove in a tray of food, he looked at him with real venom. Food, thought Dave – you could hardly call it that. He was getting less and less of it, too, hardly enough to keep a bird alive, and more and more disgusting. They must be running out, which was another reason why something had to happen soon.

There had been no further sound of helicopters since the one he’d heard the day before, but this must be a good sign. If the French were onto this bunch, they’d want to be sure not to alert them. He told himself that Liz and the team would be scouring the earth for him, helped by every foreign service they were in touch with. Sooner or later they’d find out where he was, and help would be on its way. It must be just a matter of time.

Meanwhile, he had to stay alive until they came, and be ready to help them if he could. For he had no doubt that Piggott and the Spaniard would do everything to resist the rescuers – including shooting him. It would be the worst kind of luck, Dave thought bitterly, if on the very point of liberation he were to be murdered.

Well, he wasn’t going to wait around to see that happen, and if only to keep his spirits high he decided to act. Which meant finding some sort of weapon – any sort, however primitive – which would increase his chances if the shooting started. The problem was, the cellar had been stripped clean: there was his mattress, a bucket that functioned as a disgusting toilet, two large empty wine barrels, propped on their sides on stands, and a wall of empty wine racks. That was it – except for another rack, really just a long slab of pine on the wall, with hooks that must once have been used for hanging tools. But the tools were long gone, and when Dave tried to extricate one of the hooks – a feeble weapon, but better than nothing – he found they were all immovably lodged deep in the plank.

Don’t give up, he told himself. Moving slowly, and wincing each time he took more than a tiny shallow breath, Dave systematically explored the rest of the cellar. The thin shaft of light from the slit window didn’t reach into the corners, so he had to stick his hand in and feel around, sending spiders scuttling.

After ten minutes he was exhausted and ready to give up; he’d found nothing at all. He leaned against one of the two empty barrels for support, and suddenly whatever was propping it up gave way. The barrel rolled off its stand, crashing onto the floor, and Dave fell down, landing on his damaged ribs.

The pain was colossal, and he lay on the floor winded and in agony. After a time, the agony retreated into pain and he dragged himself up onto his knees and looked at the damaged barrel. It had split apart, its ribs fanning out like an opening flower. Could he use one of the wooden ribs as a weapon? No, they were too big to conceal. What about the circular metal bands? Again they were far too big, and anyway, he had nothing to cut them with.

But as he looked at the pile of wood lying on the cellar floor, Dave saw something small and metallic glinting among the wooden staves. Ignoring the pain, he crawled over and reached out to where he’d seen the glint, only to be rewarded with a sharp prick on his finger. He’d cut himself, but he didn’t care. He gingerly felt around again for whatever it was. Got it! He looked at the object in his hand. It was some kind of blade.

Lifting it up to the light, he saw that he was holding a small knife, no more than four inches long, with a worm-eaten wooden handle and a thin rusty blade with a wickedly sharp point – blood was dripping from his finger now. The blade was sliverthin and wobbled precariously in the ancient handle. But if it had been made of the finest steel, Dave could not have admired it more. It felt wonderful in his hand and he held it lovingly. It was a weapon. He could only use it once and he’d choose his moment carefully.