Ice Claw (31 page)

“You’ll see,” Marty said, and opened the door.

The lion’s den.

Several hundred kilometers lay between Biarritz and Switzerland, and Sharkface’s gang took their time. They had driven Bobby’s van at exactly or just below the speed limit. They didn’t want to attract the attention of any bored traffic cops.

During the long night Sayid had lain in the back, still trussed up. Despite the cold nibbling at his fingers, he was grateful they had tied his hands in front of him. The passing glare of the yellow motorway lights was the only means by which he could see to scribble. He knew that as the tiring journey went on his mind might lose the numbers from the magic square that he had memorized. The violence and kidnapping had exhausted him and he would not be able to fight the tiredness that insisted he drift into a deep sleep. The only way he could attempt to solve the puzzle of what the numbers might mean was to write them down and play around with the sequence. If Max was correct and the boxed numbers held a secret message, there had to be something that would unlock the numbers’ mystery and meaning. But every time Sayid tried to get in a position where he could begin writing out any sequences, one of the thugs always turned and checked what he was doing. How long could he stay awake? If he slept his mind might erase the numbers like a worn-out hard drive.

He had bunched his knees, turning his back towards the two thugs in the front of the van. Bobby was wedged more than he was and seemed to slip in and out of sleep. His injuries must have taken their toll, Sayid realized. One of Bobby’s surfboards was strapped to the side of the van at floor level, and Sayid had managed, over time, to edge himself closer. Now he could use his tied hands, his back to the driver, to write, in a
tiny sequence, the numbers in his head. Sayid figured nobody would ever spot such a tiny scrawl, even in daylight, and besides, there would be no interest in surfboards. Sayid concentrated. First line across of the magic square: 11, 24, 7, 20, 3; then down the left-hand side of the square: 11, 4, 17, 10, 23. Those were Sayid’s memory triggers. Once they were in place he filled out the square.

This was his way of backing up his mental hard drive. He curled onto his arm. The numbers he’d written on his boot were there when he needed them, but for now he felt confident enough to sleep. He had to be as fresh as possible when he awoke.

Which he did after what felt like seconds, in reality an hour, when the van’s engine spluttered. The driver cursed, glanced in his wing mirror and nursed the van along a few hundred more meters. Sayid could see the dull blink of the indicator light from the dashboard. The thug in the passenger seat pointed out something to the driver and Sayid felt a rumble as the tires made contact with the verge. Less than a minute later the van slowed, then stopped. The two men got out. The side panel door slid open and one of the thugs clambered inside. Sayid looked away, not wanting to make eye contact with him. Sharkface’s henchman kicked Bobby.

“Get up! What’s wrong with this thing?”

Bobby’s eyes opened; he seemed groggy. “It’s OK. I know how to fix it. It’s a filter in the injector. Happens all the time.”

“Then get out!”

The man turned and stepped out of the van as Bobby, trussed up like Sayid, shuffled, got to his knees, braced his back against the van’s side, pushing himself onto his feet. As
he straightened upwards he whispered to Sayid. Bobby was alert, his grogginess a sham.

“Sayid, I’m gonna make a run for it if I get the chance. You OK with that?”

The thought hit Sayid like a thump on the head. To lose Bobby? To be alone? He realized that even though the American had barely moved for the last few hours, the fact that they were together meant so much to him. A desperate loneliness surged through him. But he nodded. Of course. One of them had to make a break for it if they could.

“I’ll get help, pal. I promise. And Peaches knows nothin’, so they won’t hurt her. I saw her in the other van.”

“I can help,” Sayid heard himself say, suddenly afraid of what he was about to suggest.

Bobby frowned.

“A diversion,” Sayid whispered.

“Hey! Get out now! C’mon!” the thug shouted. Some kind of Eastern European accent slowing his speech.

Bobby nodded at Sayid. “Not too soon. Gimme time,” Bobby whispered as he jumped out of the van.

“I need a loo break,” Sayid called. “It’s been hours. Please.”

He heard his captors muttering, and then the one who had clambered inside reached back in and snatched at Sayid, pulling him roughly towards the night air. He sat on the rim of the step, quickly orienting himself. They had pulled into a raised stopover area, like a picnic site—benches and tables and a small brick building that was the toilet block. At weekends this spot would have had long-distance travelers using it for a break, but now there was no one in sight except this killing crew. Their vans had pulled in behind Bobby’s. He
could see Sharkface sitting in front of one and he said something to someone behind him. The door slid open and a third man joined Bobby’s van drivers.

Bobby had already popped the hood.

“I need my hands for this, unless you want diesel all over the place,” he said, offering his bound wrists to one of the men.

The man took out a knife and cut through the tape, then stepped back, watching Bobby as he dipped his head into the engine.

“And I need light in here. C’mon, guys, we’re not all creatures of the night who can see in the dark.”

The man with the knife nodded to another, who found a flashlight in the cab and moved close to Bobby, shining it onto the engine. The other men stayed in the vans. Too many people milling around might draw attention; a broken-down van with a couple of people attending to it was less interesting.

One of the thugs hauled Sayid to his feet. His foot hurt and he hobbled. The man loosened his grip. “I’m not carrying you, so hurry up.”

Sayid limped towards the toilet block, his eyes scanning the row of vans, the black strip of tarmac and the yellow glare of motorway lights. There wasn’t much traffic, but there was a meridian barrier. Beyond that, across the other lanes, the land fell away into the darkness of trees and the countryside beyond. That was where Bobby would run, he was sure of it.

Sayid looked back to the vans. They had let Peaches out to stretch her legs. She wore jeans and a ski jacket, and hugged herself against the damp chill. Coldness or fear? Sayid stopped, leaned against a table to rest his leg, his guard a few
paces away. Would Peaches run for it with Bobby when she saw him make his bid for freedom? Between the three of them maybe they could stop a car, or at least cause enough fuss to raise the alarm.

If only he could catch her eye. He would just nod. A simple nod and a smile, maybe. Just to let her know she mustn’t be afraid.

Not as afraid as Sayid felt.

The room was large and comfortably furnished, like an old country hotel. There was a single bed, an en-suite bathroom, a desk scattered with papers and notebooks, and through the French windows that led to a patio, Farentino could see the parkland gardens extending as far as the walled estate permitted.

Tom Gordon sat on a wooden patio chair. He was dressed as Farentino had often seen him—beige trousers, long-sleeved heavy cotton shirt and boots. Even now the man did not seem to mind the chilled air. Farentino did not move, because Tom Gordon had not broken his gaze. His eyes held him. This was the moment of recognition when Gordon would be on him like an unleashed animal. He doubted that even the big man next to him would be quick enough to prevent the serious injury that seemed about to be inflicted.

Tom Gordon stood and took the few strides towards him. He extended his hand. “Mr. Aldo, I hope you’ll forgive me, but I can’t remember your newspaper.”

Relief swept through Farentino. He sat close to Tom Gordon on the patio and looked into his eyes, searching for the most fleeting recognition. “Do you not remember me, Tom?”

Tom Gordon waited a moment. The man looked familiar. Yes, he did know him. But from where and when? He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Aldo, my memory plays tricks on me.”

“That’s all right. We used to work together.” Farentino felt a twinge of regret as he heard his own words. “We were very close friends.”

He looked at the man he’d once considered as close as a brother, but who had become someone he bitterly resented. All because a woman came between them.

Tom Gordon nodded. “I’m sure it’ll come back to me. So, you wanted to ask me some questions for your newspaper. I’ll do my best to help answer them for you.”

Farentino settled in his chair, relaxed, in control again. He would find out whatever he could and then report to Tishenko. Life was on an even keel again. He need not waste money on the charity after all, nor go and see his pinch-faced mother.

He smiled. “Tom, would you mind if I smoked a cigar?”

The power of a tiger’s roar stuns its victim, shocking it into immobility, allowing the biggest feline predator in the world vital seconds to attack. Max saw the snarl and felt the air tremble. He faltered, his legs gave way beneath him and he slumped against the low parapet as the fever leached his energy.

How could he defend himself? The men could kill him right now.

He was losing consciousness, the force of it drowning him in a flood of helplessness.

“Ez ihure ere fida—eheke hari ere,”
he said, as quickly as reciting a mantra. A desperate means of reaching out to the old monk’s friend.

Fauvre realized in that instant that Max had uttered words only Zabala could have willingly given him. Max fell to
the ground. The men reached forward to help him in response to Fauvre’s shouted commands.

Max tumbled into darkness. Tendrils of fear and pain snagged him, prickling like a thousand scorpion stings. His mind plummeted down a heat-enraged tunnel.

“Careful!” Fauvre shouted at the men.

The boy was having some kind of fit; they couldn’t hold him. The monkey bite must have been infected, the injections given too late. Max was thrashing around like a madman. But his eyes were wide open and his lips pulled back in a terrifying silent scream.

Sweat poured off him, his shirt clinging to his body as if he’d just dragged himself out of a river—a river of turmoil. From the shadows of his mind, Fauvre appeared, a giant of strength, not the old man in a wheelchair. He was reaching for Max. His voice did not match the image. “Let me help you, boy. Let me help you!”

And like a child lost in a violent sea, Max knew he wanted to be helped. But not by the man who had threatened to take his life. He twisted and rolled, falling away from the outstretched hands.

“My God!” Fauvre cried.

Max tumbled over the low parapet. Slithering down the smooth-edged walls, his unconscious body flopped and rolled until it finally slumped onto the ground. That final impact penetrated his mind. He groaned.

Someone was shouting in the background. Where? He opened his eyes. The back of his head was resting against the sloping pit. Faces peered over, mouthing words in Arabic.
He heard a few of them, understood none, except one—
Aladfar!

Pushing through his grogginess Max managed to roll onto his knees and tried to find the energy to push himself up. Half turning, he saw the slow, deliberate tread of the tiger, its paws the size of dinner plates, its head slung low, its unwavering gaze locked on its prey as it stalked forward.

Fauvre looked on in horror. The tiger would strike any second. The boy would be torn apart and he would be responsible. The boy had been sent by Zabala—that was now obvious—but his only chance for survival was if the male tiger responded to Fauvre’s commands.

“Aladfar! Back!
Ecoutez-vous!
Listen to me!
Ecoutez!”

What happened next was uncertain. Fauvre believed the animal stopped, gazed up into his face and lay down submissively, keeping its eyes on Max. The Berber keepers later told Abdullah another story. They were looking down into the unlit shadows of the pit and could see the boy. He had rolled clear, was half obscured by a jagged tongue of rock face, but stood up. His hands opened like claws at waist height, the sunlight changed, the shadows moved. The one man swore Max’s body curved like an animal’s, his teeth bared, and his body became bigger—on the grave of his beloved mother, he swore to Abdullah that he had witnessed
djinn
, an earthbound spirit that can assume animal form. The other argued it was a shadow that loomed up near the boy when the sun caught the old rooftops, and that was when Aladfar lay down. The size of the shadow and the fact the boy took a step towards him made the big cat cautious. No one, not
even Fauvre, had ever challenged Aladfar in a direct confrontation.