Thunder God

CHAPTER TWO

Art historian Felix Hoffmann sprinted through the foot tunnel of the Kléber Metro station. The cold air burned the back of his throat as he desperately searched for a way to escape his pursuer. He had known they would come for him one day, but not like this. Not with such ferocity. Not in the middle of the night.

A moment ago he was enjoying a simple apéritif with friends in the Club Kléber, but then his world had changed forever when the stranger whispered in his ear: the God of Thunder has returned. He knew what that meant. He knew what they wanted.

Now, he stumbled down the tiled steps and ran deeper into the deserted station, straining every fiber of strength he could find in his desperate bid to outpace the much younger and stronger assailant chasing him through the Paris night.

Below in the darkness, he heard the sound of a train on the line. For the briefest of moments he thought he was going to live, to see his family again. But when he reached the platform he saw it was not an arrival, but an outbound train leaving the station.

Desperate and scared, he looked up and down the platform for someone to help him, but there was no one there — just the roving eye of a security camera fixed to the wall, cold, remote and powerless to stop his terrible fate from unfolding. Behind him he heard the footsteps again, the breathing. The assailant was getting closer.

There was only one course of action now, and he took it.

He climbed down into the tunnel and moved through the darkness. He was fearful now not only of the lethal threat behind him, but of the potentially fatal consequences of touching the third rail. He weaved as fast as he could along the guiding rails of the tracks, his feet occasionally brushing against the rubber-tired lines.

Hoffmann was a specialist in Chinese art in everything ranging from Shang Dynasty bronze work to Zhou Dynasty artwork and he was proud of his ignorance of the technical world. But he had read the signs all over the Paris Métro warning against urinating on the third rail often enough, and he needed no further explanation as to why doing such a thing would be a bad idea.

But now he was actually down on the tracks, running for his life and breathless with panic at the thought of what would happen to him if he was caught. Maybe even electrocution in this dark, cold tunnel would be preferable to that.

Now, he heard the familiar rumble of an approaching train. He strained his eyes in the low-light of the tunnel and saw something that filled him with dread. Ahead of him, one side of the tunnel was being illuminated by the ghostly yellow light of an approaching Métro train. His only chance of escaping being crushed to death by it was to turn and run back into the arms of his pursuer. As he thought about options, he watched the rats scatter in fear of the imminent danger.

Then he heard the voice. “You can’t escape, Felix!” It was cold, and emotionless, and bounced icily from the tiled walls of the grimy tunnel.

“Why can’t you people leave me alone?” he screamed, his voice hoarse with the effort of sprinting and the sheer terror he now felt coursing through his veins. “Haven’t you taken enough from me?”

“You have given us very much, yes,” said the voice. “But it is what you are keeping from us that we are more interested in. Where are the papers?”

Hoffmann’s mind raced with indecision. In one direction was certain death, brought by the crushingly heavy twin steel bogies of the Métro train now rumbling toward him with terrifying speed. In the other direction was also certain death, brought by the people he feared more than anything.

The train driver sounded the horn. It was shrill and deafening in the enclosed tunnel.

“Give us this one last thing, Felix,” the voice said, calm even in the face of the on-coming train. “Join us!”

“Never! I will never involve myself with such sacrilege!”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Felix. This is what you’ve always wanted. Now is your chance! Help us, and you will taste eternal life.”

Hoffmann stared at his pursuer’s silhouette. He looked at the train — thousands of tons of metal racing towards him. He knew what acquiescing to them would mean. It exhilarated him, but it terrified him more.

“Last chance, Felix! Give us what we need and join us. Join the Gods!”

One more look at the train and Felix Hoffmann obeyed his deepest instinct and ran away from it, sprinting closer to his pursuer with every step. He might stand a chance on the platform, but if he stayed here on the tracks his life was certain to end in seconds.

“You made the right decision, Felix.”

“Somehow I doubt that…” he said. He would live today, he thought, so he could run tomorrow.

But he didn’t have long to think about tomorrow, because then his future took a drastic change for the worse.

As he crawled up on to the edge of the platform to get out of the tunnel, he felt his assailant move quickly behind him, and then suddenly it happened.

The cord flicked around his neck and tightened, cutting an agonizing groove into the soft flesh of his throat and cutting off his air supply. In vain, he tugged at the cord, but it was too tight around his neck for him even to get his fingertips beneath it.

Behind him, the train raced past in a howling gust of grit and grime.

“Where are the Reichardt Papers, Felix?” the voice said. Cool, authoritative. In complete control.

“Please!” he croaked hoarsely.

“Where are they?”

Hoffmann flailed about in a vain attempt to free himself, but he grew weaker with every missed breath. His eyes were bulging so much he thought they might burst from his head, but he somehow managed to get the words out. “You said I could join you…”

“I lied. Give me their location or your family will die just like this.”

“They’re… they’re… here! I have them on me now. Please don’t harm my family!”

As Hoffmann felt his pursuer reach into his jacket and pull the papers from his pocket, he knew he had betrayed not only himself but the entire world. “I’ve told you now, please… please just let me breathe and let my family live!”

But the assailant didn’t let him breathe. Hoffmann struggled but there was no escape. The last thing he saw was the glowing strip lights of the Métro station through his painful, bulging eyes, and then he felt himself slip away. They had won at last, and the world would pay a terrible price for his failure.