Bite (33 page)

Where the transept crossed the nave stood four massive octagonal pillars. Thirty feet up the nearest one, two workmen in hardhats were sitting drinking coffee on a scaffolding platform laden with power tools. They looked at Max, but said nothing as he picked his way over the cables towards the tomb of Cornelis der Graeff, Amsterdam's first mayor, who died in 1645.

The tomb was a tiny marble chapel, entered via a barred gateway in a marble partition. Max put down his bag and looked around, inhaling the thick musty air. Apart from the workmen, making an echoing racket with their tools, he was alone. At his feet the flagstones were carved with numbers and dedications, each a lid for centuries-old bones. Max rested his forehead against the cool marble of the chapel and tried to remember what life was like before any of this happened. Just him and Erica and their dreams.

Awareness of a whining noise approaching came gradually. Max turned, one hand grasping the reassuring weight of the gun in his raincoat pocket.

Dr Grzalawicz was looking right at Max from the wheelchair. The delicate balding head rested sideways on a pillow, an egg in a nest. His emaciated arms writhed ceaselessly on a blanket, hands hooked and twisted as if all their tendons had been relentlessly tightened. The doctor's mouth was, as before, hooked up via a cable to the wheelchair's computer screen and this time to a hearing aid too. The wheelchair moved up close so Max could see the screen.

Alex sends his regards.

Max felt his mouth hanging open, so he shut it.

Yes, I'm always surprising people. Cripples don't run anything, do they? Not even in a politically correct age.

‘Why meet here?' Max whispered. ‘It's not exactly secure.'

This place is a keeper of miracles. Nowhere is safer.

‘Oh, yeah? Well, I've been having a bad month, miracle-wise.'

In 1376 not far from here, a sick man taking communion at home vomited the host, a most symbolic rejection. The host was thrown into a fire, but it would not burn. A chapel was later erected around the fire, and for decades the host remained, intact and uncharred, on the grate. Then the chapel burned down. Only the host remained unburned. The host was brought here. Pilgrims came by the thousand to see the enduring body of Christ. It was a bona fide miracle.

Max was suddenly aware of another presence. He looked up and a few yards away saw a woman in leather jacket, jeans, pink sneakers and matching baseball cap, vigorously chewing gum and scanning the church. It was Mary-Anne, Grzalawicz's wife, or the woman he had
assumed
was his wife. On his first day in Amsterdam Max had helped her carry Grzalawicz up the stairs of the Erwin Hotel. Mary-Anne looked athletic and tense now. She had a discreet secret service-style earpiece, and her right hand thrust in a bulging jacket pocket. Her tension made Max feel for his gun too.

Max tipped his head towards Mary-Anne. ‘I'm pleased to see you're hedging your bets on the miracle front, Doc.'

Absolutely. I've experienced one miracle in my lifetime, I'm not counting on another.

‘Lucky you. Lisbeth de Laan never got hers. In love with a dead man, and sleeping with his killer.'

That wasn't coincidence. D'Anville heard a lot about Lisbeth from Johnny Gee, after all they were commandos together even before the Protection Unit was formed. I imagine that to d'Anville the idea of seeking out and seducing his victim's fiancée appealed enormously.

‘I'm just glad she never knew.'

Don't be naïve. D'Anville never wastes an opportunity to inflict suffering, mental or physical. You cannot kill anyone by strangulation in less than a minute. That's plenty of time to tell her, and to feed on the reaction.

Max felt nauseous, and changed the subject. ‘There's one gap in the d'Anville story Alex told me, and that's a motive. Okay, so d'Anville's a psycho, but he had a job to do in Zaire. Why kill the ambassador?'

Ambassador Douglas resented the Belgians bringing in their guys from the start, he didn't trust them. D'Anville was sweeping the dining room for bugging devices and found one attached under the table where the two leaders were going to sit. Tensions got high. D'Anville had pocketed the device to give to the Belgians. Douglas ordered him to hand it over for the embassy to take care of. D'Anville just laughed and turned away. The ambassador felt humiliated being laughed at in front of the waiting staff and made a big mistake. He seized d'Anville's wrist, maybe trying some kind of old Marine arm lock, we'll never know.

D'Anville spun around, grabbed a dessert fork off the table and thrust it hard under the ambassador's right eye, on and up into his brain, killing him instantly. He didn't even have time to scream. Johnny Gee heard a waitress scream and rushed in from the lobby. What he saw was D'Anville pulling a funny pout. Ambassador Douglas's startled eye was staring out of his mouth.

Johnny hesitated until d'Anville spat the eyeball in his face, then he went for his weapon. D'Anville was quicker, as always. He snatched a knife from the table and thrust it into Gee's neck. The first wound penetrated between the first and second cervical vertebrae, severing the spinal cord. The second pierced the base of the brain and broke the tip off the knife.

Max stared at the screen and then at Dr Grzalawicz. The brown eyes were steady for a moment before more letters appeared on the screen.

D'Anville knew there was no going back. He jumped from a second floor window. He killed a U.S. embassy guard as he crossed the garden, climbed the wall, escaped into the city. The embassy doctor arrived just as Johnny's heart stopped beating. He was dead for two minutes while they massaged his heart, and then he breathed again. But what they got back was not the old Johnny Gee anymore. It was me.

Max stared numbly at the wreck of twisted tendons, claw-like hands and emaciated limbs. ‘You are Johnny Gee?'

Risen from the dead, yes. Johan Grzalawicz is my real name, of course. When I started boxing, my manager told me you had to have a name people could remember. Grzalawicz you couldn't even pronounce, so I became Johnny Gee. That was a long time ago.

‘Hold on. Alex told me Johnny Gee was buried, got the full state funeral, the works.'

The only thing that was buried in my coffin was the truth. The Americans needed a cover up because of who the ambassador was, and the Belgians needed one because of who killed him. Cover-ups are easier in Kinshasa than in Washington or Brussels.

The first few days were awful. All I could do was wave my tongue and twitch one eyeball. I imagine the security chiefs had mixed feelings when they figured out I wasn't in a vegetative state. Instead of shunting me off under a false name to some institution they had to persuade me to collude in my own death. But they were also desperate to debrief me, and some bright technician designed this clever little ‘mouth-mouse' for the laptop which I operate by moving a tongue stud against a touch sensitive plate. Thank God for body-piercing. I would be lost without it since it operates the wheelchair as well as the computer.

‘How do you feel about what happened? To go from being a world class athlete to…' Max rotated his hand, unable to locate suitable words.

A shrivelled cripple? I feel very little about it. The splinter of Anvil's knife still in my cerebellum began the destruction of certain nerve cells, and removed my sense of taste and smell. But other things improved, cognitive functions, the ability to think. My memory was unimpaired, but shorn of emotional value. It was as if someone had invented a past for me. Believe me, resurrection changes everything.

Max watched the brown eyes dancing. ‘After your “funeral” you couldn't go back to any of your old life, could you? No old friends, no family, no Lisbeth. Nothing that might blow the cover. Doesn't that make you a kind of prisoner?'

No. To return to my old friends would make me a prisoner, of pity. For my family I would be a burden, a stranger, disturbing the images which grief and healing need. By ceasing to exist as Johnny Gee I have become free, to start a wholly new life. I live on my own terms. Don't worry about what you see before you. I am an optimist. It's a good century to have a wrecked body so long as you also have money, and each year gets better. Radio, TV, medical advances, computing, e-mail, cyberdates. I met a lady from Minnesota in an Internet chat room who wants to test the exceptional stamina of my pierced tongue. Even I can be a stud, if you'll forgive the pun.

‘And what about Lisbeth?'

For Lisbeth, the new me would have shattered everything. Even if she did not reject me, I could not have reciprocated the love, or any of the emotions she had a right to expect.

‘But her whole crazy life was an attempt at laying the ghost of Johnny Gee. She died a captive to her love for you. You say you are free now. You could have freed her too, just by allowing her to know you survived.'

No. That would have been crazy. I suspected Anvil would track Lisbeth down. She would have no reason to hide the news of my survival from him, because she was in the dark about what really happened in Zaire. She thought he and I were military buddies. If Anvil knew about my survival it would have ended up a pretty short survival.

‘What she felt counted for nothing, did it? Didn't even enter the equation.'

You can project your own guilt about Lisbeth's death onto me if you want, Max. But please acknowledge that feeling for what it is. Guilt is a luxury you have and I do not. No-one in my position would jeopardise bringing a killer to justice just to make themselves feel easier about their own behaviour.

‘I'm having trouble figuring out what part of humanity was saved from the ruined body of Johnny Gee,' Max said. ‘Consciousness but not conscience. The rule book of justice is still wired in your head, but there's no trace of the kind of feelings that ever prompted mankind to draw it up in the first place.'

Your conduct with Lisbeth is hardly blame free. In any case, she's free of her past now, just as I'm free of mine. There's not much I can offer the world, but I'm giving what I can. I know the mind of Poul Stefan d'Anville better than anyone still alive. Indeed, I have a better chance of continued survival than most, precisely because he ticked me off his hit list years ago. There are great advantages to being dead.

Max sighed and looked around the church. He'd taken this argument about as far as it could go. There were still a few pieces missing from the puzzle, answers he wanted to hear. ‘Okay. How come Anvil wasn't tracked down in the first few days, in Zaire? He should have stood out like a sore thumb.'

It was unfortunate that a diplomatic row after the killing drove a wedge between Mobutu and our two countries. We got no cooperation tracing d'Anville, then we started hearing rumours that a Belgian mercenary was fighting alongside an irregular force of Zairean government troops against rebels in the north east. There were stories he was paid one carat in uncut diamonds for every rebel ear he presented. True or not, he was widely feared, and very effective.

‘He still is, Doctor. He found Lisbeth in that bar faster than a shark finds a sinking cruise liner. I've no idea how, and it scares the heck out of me.'

Then, Max, you might regard this as bad news. I'm pretty sure d'Anville knows precisely where you are now. He'll be on his way
.

It is the middle of the night and the Brigadier's generator has just started up again. I am sitting bolt upright, fear gripping my chest like a corset. I can sense Jarman's terror, can smell his sweat, hear his panicky breathing.

Is it for him or is it for me?

The door to the hut is opening, stealthily. The hinges are squealing. I can hear slow footsteps and fast breathing. Someone is in front of my cage door. My cage, not Jarman's. I can't see, but the breathing is deep and heavy. I hear keys. This is no usual guard. It took him several attempts to find the right key. Now the door is opening.

He is whispering my name. Crocodile has come for me.

(Erica's Diary 1992)

I tried to shrink into the corner of my cell, but Crocodile found me. I could smell the alcohol on his breath, and as soon as I heard him speak softly I was terribly afraid. He dragged me off to his shack with a hand over my mouth. I was powerless to resist. I was taken through the living room, now brilliantly lit, and dumped in the shower. Crocodile pulled the handle, then stood watching as the warm water blasted down onto my hair and rags. A torrent of brown dirt poured off me and down the drain. He threw soap at me and demanded I wash. I did nothing. This time I knew filth was my friend and protector. The dress that he had given me weeks ago had shifted from puce with orange flowers, to a grease-shined brown. Now it was my own dress, with my filth and suffering ingrained.

Crocodile's eyes, bloodshot and barely focused, rolled down my body. He lunged at me, grabbing the dress. I kicked and slid into a corner on my side, as the material ripped, leaving me with only rags of underwear. ‘Stay away from me,' I hissed, the soap like a stone in my raised hand.

Like a powerful animal he crouched, water pouring onto his broad back and his massive squat thighs. His clothes were soaked. His jaws worked rabidly, water dripping from his chin. ‘Come on bitch, don't make it difficult.'

He stood to unbuckle his trousers, pulling the belt out like a whip, placed his holster on the window ledge. He undid his shirt, kicked off his flipflops and absurdly baggy underwear while I shivered. My eyes were drawn up to him, the swelling dark meat between damp caramel thighs.

‘Why can't you leave me alone?'

‘Because I want you,' he snarled, grabbing both my wrists in one hand. ‘And I always get what I want.'

Though I squirmed, he knelt and forced his immense thighs between my own, guiding himself towards the target. I forced my gaze upwards and whispered to him. ‘I thought you wanted respect. Wasn't that what you were telling me?'

He stared at me, but said nothing.

‘You can't get respect this way,' I said. ‘And you know it.'

He looked down at his softening penis. For a fumbling, futile minute he attempted to use it. Finally he stood, cursing me. Then he stamped on my stomach. While I retched he turned to the window ledge and pulled out his revolver. Laboriously he loaded six bullets into it from his belt, all the time muttering to himself. I curled up into a ball in the corner, sobbing.

He knelt down and grabbed my hair in one hand. He forced the barrel of the gun hard into my mouth until I gagged. The barrel scratched the roof of my mouth, a cold sour metal like distilled fear. I watched the hammer behind the chamber ease back as he exerted pressure on the trigger. I kept as still as I could and turned my eyes up to him, silently pleading for my life. My teeth began to rattle against the barrel.

‘You prefer it this way?' he whispered.

I made no reply, but closed my eyes.

‘Lick the gun, I want to see your technique. Caress it with your mouth, your lips.'

I opened my eyes, but made no move. The hammer eased back a fraction further. I had no choice. I swirled my lips and tongue, watching for signs of his approval.

Instead I saw shame and revulsion creep onto his face, melting away the glaze of lust. ‘Don't cry,' he said softly, relaxing the grip on my hair, and withdrawing the gun.

But I couldn't help it. He stroked my face, brushing the tears from my eyelashes. ‘I got you a present,' he whispered. ‘Would you like to see it?'

I nodded mutely. He turned off the water and collected his clothes. He threw me a towel, but I was like a jelly. I couldn't even reach out to grab it. I just lay sobbing and rocking, holding my knees to my chest.

Crocodile returned a few minutes later, fully clothed and with a small bag in his hands. He walked over to me with a fresh towel and pulled me gently to my feet. He patted me dry, making little noises of encouragement as if I was a baby. Then he held me tight in his arms and took me out into his room.

‘I want you to know that I am no rapist.'

I nodded, but couldn't look at him.

‘Nevertheless, I apologise. I should treat you with more respect.' He handed me a velvet pouch. ‘Open it.'

I did nothing, so he undid the drawstring and tipped a dozen small crystalline pebbles into my hand. I looked up, perplexed.

‘We captured the alluvial mine at Obtuvanna yesterday.' His meaty paw grasped my hand, pointing out the biggest of the pebbles. ‘These diamonds are uncut, but this one contains a six carat gem, at least. I will have it mounted on a gold ring for you.' He smiled and licked his lips.

I tossed the gems on the floor. ‘You think you can just buy me, don't you?'

A ripple of anger swept his face, but he blinked it away and the sickly smile returned. ‘Ah, yes. Such high principles.' He picked up the stones and counted them carefully back into the bag. Then he tossed me my torn dress. ‘You go back to your cell now. Then you can think about your choices. These diamonds mean the KPLA is much stronger, Kinshasa has to talk. So no-one is going to rescue you.'

Crocodile took me back to my cell. Before he opened the door he pressed his face close into mine and whispered. ‘Soon you will beg me to have you, Erica, I promise you that. I will show you who you are, and no longer will you consider yourself superior to me.'

(Erica's Diary 1992)