Bite (34 page)

Max drew his weapon and squinted towards the church door. Then he addressed Grzalawicz. ‘I wanna know how you know what d'Anville is going to do, okay? Level with me right now.'

I know you are very suspicious of us, but in fact it was something you did which allowed d'Anville to find you and Lisbeth.

‘Like what?'

What did you take from his house?

‘Nothing. Only Erica's laptop.'

Does it not strike you as strange that he would leave the house because he felt vulnerable there, but would leave behind a laptop computer which he had gone to such trouble to steal?

‘Not if he's taken all the useful information from it. I can't even get it to work.'

Of course. But I notice you are still carrying it around.

‘I thought you guys might be able to hack into it.'

We could, but there would be nothing there to read. I can show you. Get it out.

Max unzipped the case and opened the laptop.

Now lever open the plastic flap between the printer and mouse ports, and turn it around so I can see.

It took Max a few moments to lever open the flap. He turned it around so Grzalawicz could see into it.

I can see he has removed the internal modem chip to create space. I would expect two tracking devices. One, a tiny beacon which once a minute beams to a satellite your exact position to an accuracy of a few hundred yards. The second will be a proximity beacon. That is a short range wave transmitter. He will have some kind of earpiece, the louder the pulse, the closer you are. It will guide him right in to wherever you are. I'm afraid the laptop was his trojan horse, and it has worked perfectly.

‘You guessed all this?'

No. We have a tiny camera planted in d'Anville's study, and we watched him work on the laptop, though of course we couldn't see exactly what he was doing to it.

‘But you guessed. And you cynical bastards, sitting safe in your offices, figured this was how you could lure d'Anville out of hiding. You sacrificed Lisbeth, your own fucking fiancée. You just used her all up, squeezed everything out of her. And now she's dead.'

Dr Grzalawicz's brown eyes were sparkling. Anger? Amusement? Max couldn't tell. The cursor blinked on his screen, but no letters emerged.

‘And now, hey. You've got a second chance. Max Carver, some leftover bait. Let's see if Anvil bites him.'

You are forgetting that I am here now. I have wanted to see d'Anville again face to face for many years. You and I will face him together.

‘Sure! Big help you'll be in hand-to-hand combat,' Max muttered, setting the laptop down across Grzalawicz's knees.

Calm down, Max. We are safe here, certainly safer than outside. As well as Mary-Anne we have agents Miller and Stevens, both former Navy Seals, posing as the workmen behind you. Agent Kuijper is on the scaffolding outside. Each of them is armed, each a marksman. It was a hurried plan, but we do intend to defend you.

‘With your record I'm better off praying for that miracle.'

The light from the stained glass window above them dimmed, the multicoloured shafts disappeared. The gloom seemed heavy and cold. In the distance thunder rumbled.

Grzalawicz's eyes turned away. Max watched the cable inside the clear tube leading to his mouth device twitching rapidly, but no letters came up on the screen. Ten yards away, Mary-Anne was nodding. The doctor was speaking to her. Must have a radio built into the chair.

Finally Grzalawicz turned back, and fresh letters flicked up, more rapidly than before.
I can understand your anger, Max, but it would be more help if you would focus it on the situation in hand. You need to prepare for d'Anville's arrival. He will be heavily armed and you are the only person he will recognise.

‘Great news, just fantastic. If you want a lure next time, try advertising.'

I apologise that we don't have any spare Kevlar vests for either of us. It is better that the marksmen have them.

Max turned away and checked over the shiny Walther, trying out the sight. ‘I'm glad I cleaned this sucker. There needs to be something around here I can rely on.'

Somewhere high up a window banged and plastic sheeting from outside flapped and crackled in the wind. Max could see Mary-Anne, grimacing and repeating herself into her collar where presumably there was a microphone. Grzalawicz's head bobbled and his computer screen folded and retracted into a box by the side of the seat. The chair turned with a hum, and moved off steadily towards Mary-Anne.

Max twirled the Walther around his trigger finger. ‘Speak to me guys. What's going on?'

Lightning flashed across the stained glass windows and a deep boom of thunder echoed through the church. Mary-Anne suddenly turned and gestured to the two agents on the platform, a hand flat on her head. Max recognised the command from coast guard training: cover me. The agents lay down on the aluminium platform, automatic weapons with scopes trained on the exit. She sprinted towards the door and disappeared out into the vestibule. Max knelt on the floor behind a choir pew, not to pray, but to keep the Walther trained on the door. For a minute nothing happened. The wind dropped, the plastic stopped flapping. The only sound was the soft patter of rain on the windows.

Something made Max step away from the loops of power cable on the flagstones. The hairs on his neck prickled and rose, ozone filled his nostrils. The air was charged, almost fizzing with latency. Like animals know when earthquakes are coming, Max sensed the approaching lightning crackling through the air from the gates of heaven itself.

A violet arc pierced the church and a deafening clap of thunder sounded overhead. Max saw the sizzling cables, incandescent violet snakes fanning out from the doorway and he saw Miller and Stevens hurled like dolls from the aluminium platform. Windows rattled, light bulbs exploded. The church fell into twilight as the agents crashed to earth.

Max felt his way across towards the awful sound he had heard, the crack of human head on stone. Stevens was lying face down, his skull split on the flagstones and his clothing smoking. Miller was still alive. He had fallen on the wooden roof of a box pew, his burned hands dangling over the edge and twitching. Ozone, and the taint of scorched hair and flesh hung heavy in the air. Max climbed onto the edge of the pew, worn and shiny from a million praying arms, and lifted the man down. He lowered him carefully onto the bench inside. The agent grabbed at Max's coat and his eyes flicked briefly wide as if some internal mechanism had just jammed. The eyes closed as the body relaxed. The dead hands left a pasty brown residue of burned flesh as they fell from Max's lapels.

There was the click of a door out in the vestibule and a cool gust of air entered the church. Heavy shoes moved slowly, gravel in the treads, crunching on the tiles. Not the sound of Mary-Anne's sneakers. This was another, with darker, deeper purpose.

There was no other sound except the frantic crack and flap of the plastic from outside. Max lowered himself into the stall which gave him a narrow angle onto the vestibule door. He knelt on the threadbare cushions as if in prayer, just his eyes and forehead showing over the lip, and the gun ready in his hand. Somewhere behind him, Max could hear the whine of Grzalawicz's chair. It was moving away behind the steep ranks of choir pews at the western end, out of sight of the vestibule door.

A shape flitted from the door and in one stride had jumped into cover. The only sound was a soft slap of skin on stone. The shoes must be off, no gravel sound. No chance for Max to get a clear shot. All he had seen clearly was the gun in d'Anville's hand, the silhouette recognisable from Coast Guard training. An Ingram model 11 machine pistol. On full automatic the Ingram sprays twenty bullets a second. Takes all the fun out of aiming. But then Max was being hunted by a professional.

The Belgian was behind the pillar, out of view. He knows I'm in the church, Max thought, but in this semi darkness he can't know where. And I don't have the laptop anymore to give my position away.

Then Max realised where the laptop was. Right on Grzalawicz's knees, where he couldn't get rid of it. D'Anville was being drawn right in to it. It would be as fair a fight as a timber wolf against a Thanksgiving turkey.

Max listened to the whine of the wheelchair motor and strained to hear the soft sound of bare feet above it. He rested the Walther's barrel on the stall lip and scanned the 180 degree view along the nave, and the gap to his far left between the choir stalls. A glint of metal showed the wheelchair cross the gap. It headed away north, then stopped suddenly as a silhouette followed.

A bolt of lightning lit the church brighter than day. Where d'Anville stood, leaning away over the wheelchair in that gap, was almost twenty yards. Twenty long yards when you can barely keep your hands still and when in five years you haven't shot at anything more than beer cans. Twenty long yards when there will be no second chances, when the enemy has got a Gatling gun to your peashooter.

In the next lightning flash, a millisecond later, Max saw the Belgian's gaberdine coat, soaked dark with rain, only a spear of material dry, running up the cleft of his muscled back from the hem, its tip pointing between his shoulder blades. Providence gave him the light and providence pointed out the target. Aim here, it seemed to be saying, and Max did just that. He inhaled sharply and on the exhalation squeezed the trigger.

The shot echoed with the thunder. D'Anville yelled and twisted, his mouth a slash of agony. Max dived to the floor, pulling Miller's body down in front. The Ingram roared. Splinters fizzed all around the box pew like needles off a Christmas tree. Max was tucked behind Miller, and the Navy Seal was doing a finer job of protecting him in death than he had when he was alive. Twice the body jerked as it took a slug meant for Max.

In the echoes of the shots, d'Anville fell, the clack of a gun hitting flagstones, the hissing intake of breath that registers excruciating pain.

‘Gotcha!' Max hissed, shaking his fist gleefully. He stayed down, waiting out the sounds of dying, the clattering and the grunting while the storm raged overhead.

The only worry was Grzalawicz. Max could hear the hum of the chair's electric motor, straining and whining, the motor clicking on and off. Maybe because he was blocked by d'Anville's body.

Max really wanted to take a look, see the reassuring bobble of Grzalawicz's head in that gap, but was in no hurry to be early for d'Anville's funeral. No hurry to confront the Ingram. He recalled Alex's warning: don't approach d'Anville's body, wait for us to arrive. But who was going to arrive? Miller and Stevens had been electrocuted. Mary-Anne had run out of the door and failed to return. Contact with Kuijper had been lost. How many people did Alex have?

Two minutes passed like an hour, with no sounds and no movement. Max crawled out over the lip of the pew, between the chairs until he reached the nave. Looking left into the gap below the massive pipes of the organ was a patch of darkness. It took the next lightning flash to show it as a pool of blood, spreading around a raincoated body. Max watched closely, cautiously. The head moved. D'Anville wasn't dead.

Max lay on the tiles, braced with both arms and fired at the body, watching it twitch with each slug until the gun clicked empty. He hadn't approached, he had followed Alex's rules. He had lived and d'Anville had died. He blew out a huge sigh of relief.

‘Are you okay, Doc?' Max called. There was only one reply Grzalawicz could give. Once Max heard the hum of the wheelchair's electric motor moving freely, he stood up. ‘You were right. This place does deal in miracles.'

Max could hear the wheelchair moving away from the body, behind the choir stalls. He couldn't see Grzalawicz but now he was closer he could clearly see the body on the floor. The body he had assumed was d'Anville's, because it was wearing d'Anville's bloodstained raincoat.

The raincoat was over the body, sure. But it had been draped there, not worn. And now, looking down on it, the body underneath was far too thin to be d'Anville. Max kneeled down in the spreading pool of blood and turned the head towards him, already knowing who it was.

Grzalawicz. Johnny Gee. The man who inspired Lisbeth's love. The man who had tracked Poul Stefan d'Anville for thirteen years. A man who was still alive when Max emptied the magzine into him.

Another mistake.

Max dropped to the floor. If this was Grzalawicz then there was only one man who could now be in the wheelchair. Wounded, but alive. The chair's hum sounded louder. And Max didn't have a single bullet left.

Every day they torture Jarman. Five days now. Each time the generator chugs into life soon after dawn, and he heaves and weeps with fear. Each day he has less strength to resist. The first day they came back for him it took them a minute to wrench him off the grille and out of the cell. They had almost beaten him unconscious before he released his grip.

Now all I hear is the spatter of vomit before they take him in. Then the pleas. That is the time to squeeze my hands on my ears. Even through them I hear the roof resonating with screams and cries for them to stop. His cries and mine.

Some days he is unconscious when they have finished. Yesterday he had convulsions in his cell for ten minutes afterwards, his head banging rhythmically against the cement floor.

But today was the worst day of all. When they brought Jarman back moaning, I called out to him as I always do. I put my arm through the grille to try to reach him, as I always do. This time he didn't take it. I could hear no movement, only a faint breathing. I called again, stretching my arm as far as I could to reach him.

Then Jarman spat on my hand.

(Erica's Diary 1992)

Max crawled rapidly back to the box pew where Miller's body lay. At his belt he found a Heckler and Koch VP70 automatic pistol and in a leg scabbard a slim serrated knife. He took them both.

With grim satisfaction Max realised that d'Anville must have turfed Grzalawicz onto the floor because he needed the wheelchair. He may not be able to use his legs, and he would undoubtedly be in a lot of pain, but d'Anville's cunning and an Ingram on full automatic was still a tough proposition.

The tell-tale whine of the wheelchair showed d'Anville was moving up the north arcade, behind the pulpit and maybe fifteen yards from the box pew where Max was crouched. The storm was abating but it was now after nine and the remains of the evening light cast only the palest glow inside the church. Max stuck his head above the pew lip, then slid out. Snipers who live longest are those who fire each shot from a different place. Down on the floor he crawled through the chairs and across the nave until he reached the pulpit. The whine of the chair was heading east, towards the transept, from which it would be a right turn then straight south to the vestibule.

A trail of blood droplets between gory tyre tracks marked the Belgian's path. Crouching low, Max followed. The tyre marks veered off right, around a thick pillar. Max leaned against the cold stone and listened to the hum of the motor close by.

Time to finish the job.

Max checked the Heckler and Koch's safety was off and stepped out, behind the chair. D'Anville sensed he was there, and pressed the lever to turn the chair, the Ingram tracking round like a tank gun. Max pumped off two quick rounds, low into the back of the chair. Sparks flew as the second shot ricocheted off metal into the gloom. The motor began a high pitched whine, and whirled d'Anville around in a tight fast circle, blood dripping off the frame, the tyres making concentric red patterns on the tiles. There was a hole in the man's chest the size of a fist, but his eyes were bright and fingers tight on the Ingram. Max ducked behind a pillar just in time as d'Anville sprayed a ninety-degree arc of lead, exploding a stained glass window at the north end of the church.

D'Anville was cursing, struggling with the controls as the chair continued to waltz, turning him away from the pillar where Max was hidden. Max took his chance and stepped out. He hesitated to fire again. There were things he needed to know, things that only d'Anville could tell him. The chair was a quarter turn away, d'Anville making agonised attempts to swing his head and body back, to pivot on a shattered spine, to keep the Ingram pointing at him. Finally the Belgian yelled in frustration and jammed his fist hard between the spokes of the right wheel, where it was crushed against the frame. The chair stopped dead. Max hurled himself forward, pitching d'Anville to the floor. The Ingram clattered and slid away as Max got a firm grip on the Belgian's left arm. The other remained trapped in the wheel.

Max pressed his pistol to d'Anville's skull.

‘You have five seconds to tell me where Erica is.'

D'Anville coughed, bright blood spilling down his mouth, as he tried to laugh. ‘You can't do anything to me now but make it easier.'

Max nodded at that truth. ‘Just tell me. Quickly.'

‘I always take my time, Carver. I always have a little fun on the way.'

‘Like you did with Lisbeth de Laan? Like you did with Johnny Gee?' Max clenched his fists.

‘Johnny Gee is ancient history, Carver. Who cares?'

‘Lisbeth cared. As far as she was concerned Johnny was still alive,' Max said. ‘He was more alive for her than you ever were.'

‘I owned her too.' D'Anville coughed up more blood. ‘I've owned a lot of people, you know. Because of Erica I own you.'

‘Where is she?'

‘Hey Max! Good shooting on the cripple, by the way. You know the most difficult part of that? It wasn't hauling him out of the chair, that was easy. The toughest part was getting my coat off to lay on him. Damn, it's hard when you are missing a couple of vertebrae, when you're lying on the floor, to get those arms free.'

‘I'm happy to hear of your suffering.'

D'Anville closed his eyes, fighting back a wave of pain. He forced a smile, and fresh red blood slid down his lips. ‘Just a few seconds more, and I'm out of here.'

‘Where is Erica?'

‘My friend the malaria man is looking after her. A crazy old friend from way back. Lucky guy gets all the money to himself now.'

‘Tell me where she is!' Max grabbed hold of d'Anville's shirt, and hauled him up off the floor until they were close.

D'Anville looked up at Max and his face spread into an evil, malicious smile. ‘I win, Max. You lose.'

Max felt something touch his side and he dropped d'Anville like a hot potato. He had forgotten Alex's rules, he'd been stupid. Miller's knife was gone from Max's waistband. The Belgian's eyes were closed and he was pressing his left fist into the hole in his chest. Max grabbed the hand and tried to pull it away. Even as he was dying, d'Anville retained the strength of an ox. Max braced a foot on his chest and still needed both hands to do it. When the fist came away, clasped in it was Miller's knife, red to the hilt. D'Anville was dead.

Today when they came for Jarman he fought like a madman. I soon realised it wasn't hatred of them that had inspired this fury. It was hatred of me.

‘You bitch!' he bellowed as they tried to pull him from the grille. ‘I can't take any more. Are you just going to let me die for your precious honour?'

‘No. Jarman, Jarman, please! It's not like that.'

‘Of course it is! He's testing you, don't you see? He told me yesterday. It's always been your choice, you just close your eyes to it.'

The truth of his words struck home. In my pain I lashed out.

‘If you hadn't tried to escape this would never have happened!'

‘I beg you, Erica…'

They dragged him out of the cell, beating him as they went.

‘If you have any heart left…'

The door to the torture room banged closed and Jarman's torment began. I screamed Crocodile's name, again and again. Immediately I felt a shadow in my cell, a brooding darkness, and looked up. Crocodile stood above me, near the grille, staring down at the animal in her cage.

‘Is it true?' I asked.

He shook his head slowly, just watching me. A filthy girl, barely this side of insanity, hunched into a corner, rocking backwards and forwards, hands on her ears.

I snarled at him, and pulled the rag of a dress over my head, so he could see the raw sewer creature he had made of me. ‘Is this about me? Is all this about this little place?' I pointed at my sex. ‘If this what you want? Is it?'

He looked disgusted, but said nothing. I grabbed the bars above me, my filthy hands, fingernails like claws.

‘If that is what you want, you can have it. It isn't mine anymore, none of me is. So why not take what you want. But leave him alone! It's nothing to do with him.'

‘Do you really want to save him?' Crocodile asked, peeling a mango above me.

‘Of course. I'll do anything you say. You can have me, willingly.'

‘Ah!' Crocodile said, popping a slice of mango in his mouth. ‘But that's not enough any more.'

‘What do you mean?'

He pointed his knife towards the sound of screaming. ‘So very principled, aren't you?' He dropping the peel into my cage and walked away, leaving me the jagged metallic echoes of Jarman's torment.

(Erica's Diary 1992)

Max could hear sirens outside the church. He stepped away from d'Anville's corpse and headed towards the entrance. Through the partly-open door he could see squad cars, armed cops in helmets hiding behind the vehicles and further back a press of bystanders in the rain. On the ground between two cars were two groups of crouching paramedics. One group was working frantically around a blanketed figure. The second group was lifting someone on a stretcher, covered by a blanket strapped carefully from head to mid calf, leaving only the tips of blue jeans and a pair of pink sneakers visible. Mary-Anne's sneakers.

One more thing to do. Max took out the mobile phone and punched up Alex's number. It rang and rang before the answer machine kicked in.

‘Hi Alex, it's Max. I'm the only one left. D'Anville's dead, Grzalawicz, Miller and Stevens too. Mary-Anne is under a blanket, I don't know what happened and the other guy, Kuijper, I never saw him at all. I don't know what your plans are now, but I would sure appreciate any help you could give me to find that barge you mentioned. I'm going out to the cops now.'

Max hung up. He took a deep breath, held his hands in the air and walked out into the lights. Five seconds later two burly policeman had him on the ground with his arm so far up his back he was seeing stars. Handcuffed and roughed up he was being bundled into an armoured police van when he saw Stokenbrand. The detective nodded at him and rubbed his hands, anticipating pleasures to come.

As the van raced away, Max scanned the stony faces of the three cops opposite him and tried to put himself in Alex's shoes. Alex had no reason to lift a finger to help, now d'Anville was dead. The job was done, at a heck of a price, but it was done. The ex-president could grow old knowing that retribution had been exacted for the death of his boy, the ambassador.

Against that Max was just the lure, a cheap piece of meat, hung up ready to take the rap for all the carnage. His prints were on two guns and a knife. His bullets in Grzalawicz. Lisbeth's blood all over him. That is what cheap meat is for. To be thrown to the sharks.