by David Gilman
Max Gordon was in mortal danger.
10
Bobby Morrell’s two friends straddled their boards, a hundred meters from the shore, waiting for a swell that promised a curling wave. Peaches, farther out, saw the dark rising wave and beat them to it, riding it as far as she could before cutting the board back over its crest.
Bobby shook his wet hair, reached behind him and unzipped his wet suit. It was a way of buying time. Max had just asked him for the loan of his van. Sayid had just told him that Max could drive anything, but his head was telling him that he couldn’t let an underage kid without a license loose on a French autoroute. He toweled his hair, then looked at them.
“Guys, I’m sorry. No can do.”
“Bobby, if Max says it’s urgent, I mean, I can vouch for that. He doesn’t just say things for the sake of it,” Sayid urged.
Max held up a hand to stop his friend going on. “He’s right, Sayid. It’d only take one cop pulling me over and they’d have us home on a plane and Bobby here would be dragged into it. Sorry I asked,” he said to Bobby.
“No hard feelings, Max?”
“Course not.”
Bobby looked down the coastline, glanced out at his friends. “Weather’s gonna change. Those dudes are cutting out tomorrow. Hendaye’s not great for surf, but there’s a good break out near the rocks. I wouldn’t mind going down to see how it’s doing. Me and Peaches could catch a few waves. I could drop you guys off.”
He was trying to help, and still wasn’t asking questions. Max nodded. “That’s perfect, Bobby, thanks.”
“This place mightn’t be open, y’know. It’s seasonal round here. You want me to phone and check?”
“Thanks,” Max said again, watching as Bobby reached for his cell.
Sayid caught the look in Max’s eyes. Calculating, looking through the other person, figuring out if there was another motive for helping.
“What?” he said quietly.
Max shook his head. “Nothing.”
Bobby had stepped away, one hand covering his ear against the noise of the crashing surf.
Sayid couldn’t believe it. “You don’t trust Bobby?” he said quietly.
“I don’t trust anybody, Sayid. I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“And what about me?”
“You have to ask?”
“Maybe I should. You get some pretty dark thoughts, y’know. This sort of stuff can do your head in. You’re not alone, Max. You’ve got friends.”
Sayid was right. But Max knew at the end of the day his instinct was always to go his own way. He didn’t like depending on too many people. Why? he often wondered. The answer was always simple. Because not everyone realized the importance of being reliable.
Bobby walked back to them. “I only got the caretaker, but they’re open.”
Max smiled his thanks.
Sayid hauled himself out of the wheelchair. “I’d better get rid of this thing if we’re going museum bashing.”
“No. We’re going to need it,” Max told him.
Sophie Fauvre eased the rental car into the bustling Biarritz street. Small farmers’ trucks, laden with produce, jostled to reach the unloading bays of the indoor market. Outside, other stallholders set up their tables. The cobbled street was blocked. A van pulled out and Sophie pushed the car’s nose into the space, edging backwards and forwards until it was parked. She was within sight of Simone’s Autos.
The crowd jostled her along until the archway let her sideslip the stream of people. Simone’s front office was little more than a hole in the wall. As Sophie moved round someone blocking her way, a vegetable cart jockeyed for position near the market’s main doors and a shiver of light from a car’s windshield caught her eye-a black Audi. The big man leaned against the hood, casual, hands in pockets, just watching the market crowds.
Turning her face quickly, she stepped into the shaded archway. They’d found her. How? Only Max and the people at the comtesse’s chateau knew where she was. But she’d phoned her father. Maybe someone was monitoring her calls. She stripped her cell phone of its SIM card and threw them separately into rubbish bins. She’d have to live without a phone for a while.
In a few strides she was in the office of Simone’s Autos.
“Ah, mam’selle. Ca va?” Simone Lavassor beamed at her, tugging bangles over her wrist. “A good holiday?”
Sophie nodded but glanced quickly over her shoulder, making sure that the men hadn’t spotted her and were at this minute making their way towards her.
“Something wrong?” the woman gently pressed her.
Sophie shook her head, placing the car keys on the counter. “The road’s jammed. I’ve left the car opposite the market stalls.”
“But the car is fine? It is not damaged?”
“No, no. Just didn’t want to hang around, sitting in traffic.”
Something wasn’t right. Simone stared at her. “You are in trouble?”
Surprised, Sophie laughed. “No! Of course I’m not.”
Simone studied her, fussing with the collar of her flowered shirt. This young girl was lying. Good lie or bad lie?
“A man came here asking for you. Said he was a relative, heard you were visiting. Wanted to surprise you before you left for the airport.”
Fear made Sophie’s neck tingle. She had not been mistaken. It was one of the men from Mont la Croix.
“A man dressed in black, with a couple of days’ stubble. Dark hair. Good-looking.”
“That’s him.”
Sophie dropped her shoulders, sighed, shook her head, playacting despair.
“You know him, mam’selle?”
“A man I met when I was skiing. He’s been pestering me. Following me everywhere. I think he’s one of those obsessive types. You smile at them once and they think you’re offering to marry them.”
“Ha! Older men! They are all the same. You should stick to people your own age. I showed a kindness to old Monsieur Labrecht when his wife died. Some soup, some cleaning. The next thing …! I can’t bring myself to tell you.”
“The man’s out there. I saw him down the street. I don’t know what to do,” Sophie said.
“He’s stalking you!” Simone reached out a comforting hand to the troubled girl. “Don’t worry, ma cherie, you can go through the courtyard.”
She shuffled from behind the counter, took Sophie’s arm and guided her through the door to the archway, pointing to where the hire cars were untidily crammed. “On the other side of the yard, there’s a back door. Monsieur Fouche’s shop, a chocolaterie. Divine. Look at the size of me. I resist him but not his chocolates. Go. Tell him Simone has sent you. He’ll let you through the shop.”
Sophie kissed her cheek in thanks and maneuvered through the cars. Simone watched her go. There was a time when she too was slender and agile, and handsome men pursued her with a passion. Now? Ah, now she was a woman of years.
But life was not all bad. There was always Fouche and his dark chocolate crushed raspberry delights.
Corentin and Thierry were old hands at what they did. They had reconnoitered the streets around the market before Sophie arrived. They knew where she would go if she got spooked.
Corentin wanted her to see him.
When Sophie ran through Simone’s yard she failed to see Thierry waiting across the street. And despite her fast-paced escape, Thierry kept far enough behind her not to be noticed. Corentin cut and thrust the car through the congested side streets and by the time Sophie had hitched a lift in a young man’s car, Thierry had climbed into the Audi, and the two killers followed her with ease.
Max stood behind the two front seats and stared through the windshield as Bobby sped towards the Spanish border. Peaches sat in the passenger seat, knees tucked up as usual, iPod playing, eyes closed. They turned off the A63 motorway on the St. Jean de Luz south slip road onto the D912, a smaller, twisty road that would take them, hopefully, to the chateau. Max was worried. Not only was he dependent on Bobby for shelter and t
ransport, which, as grateful as he was, was irritating because he’d rather look after himself, but the young American had never asked a question about what was going on. Never since Pau, when Max had phoned him asking for help at the hospital, never once on the drive into the mountains and Zabala’s sanctuary, nor when Max and Sophie turned up late at the chateau. And this morning Bobby volunteered to drive them without question. Wouldn’t it be natural to at least ask what you might be getting into?
As they approached the outskirts of Hendaye, Bobby slowed down.
“Any idea where this place is? The caretaker guy didn’t have a clue about directions. Probably hasn’t been any farther than his local town his whole life,” he said to Max.
“The countess said there were no signs but we should look out for a hairpin bend. It’s on the right somewhere.”
Bobby winced. “I’ve got a confession to make, Max.”
Was this going to confirm Max’s doubts? He waited.
Bobby grinned sheepishly. “My gran isn’t a countess. She was the housekeeper until the old countess died twenty years ago. She left the chateau and all its debts to my gran. She’s been selling off furniture and fighting debtors ever since. She’s a bit loopy. She thinks she is the countess now, but she has a heart of gold and I’d hate to do anything that’d cause her problems. So, this thing you’re involved in seems to be getting complicated. If there’s anything you think you should tell me, I’d like to know.”
Max’s mind raced, plucking out events from the past couple of weeks. Was this it? Had Bobby finally broken cover? Could he be involved in any of the trouble? Ez ihure ere fida-eheke hari ere. Trust no one-they will kill you. Max just didn’t believe it. Of all the danger he’d been in, he couldn’t pinpoint any in which Bobby might have been implicated. But the black Audi had arrived at the Pau hospital soon after Bobby. Coincidence? And Zabala’s mountain hut? Bobby had dropped him off in the valley that night and then …?
A gut-wrenching moment. Sophie appeared the next day-was there a chance these two could be working together? It fitted neatly enough. Max’s mind shouted back at him. No! This is stupid. It’s paranoia. Not trusting anyone was like mental quicksand. Doubt and fear smothered and drowned any rational thought. No!
He shook his head involuntarily at his own thoughts.
“That’s OK, then,” Bobby said, misunderstanding.
“That’s not what I meant. You’re right, Bobby, I shouldn’t drag anyone into this. It is serious, and the reason I don’t want to tell you is because it would make you vulnerable. Once we’ve been here to this Antoine d’Abbadie’s place, I’ll leave. Me and Sayid. All I can say is, I need to find something. Although truth is I don’t know what I’m looking for. I would never cause any harm to you or your gran, no matter who she thinks she is. I promise.”
“That’s cool,” Bobby said. He leaned across to the dashboard, took his cell phone and handed it to Max. “You might need this. I’ve got another. I’m on speed-dial one.”
“Thanks,” Max said, momentarily surprised by the generosity of the gift.
The surfer nodded. It was cool. It always was.
“There,” Max said, pointing at the bend in the road. “It’s there.”
The young driver’s dream of asking the beautiful girl for a date lasted all of five minutes when Sophie jumped out of the car, apologized and told him she was late to meet her boyfriend. The lie slipped easily from between her lips. The driver shrugged. It was life. But it could have been a more beautiful one had she stayed.
Sophie found the safest route across the barbed-wire-topped gate: she clawed her fingers around a gate post, balanced, flicked her hips across the wire, then twisted her body midair, landing with both feet together, neither on her toes, which would have pitched her forward, nor on her heels, which would have jarred her spine. It was effortless. She ran almost silently into the chateau. Where was Max?
“I cannot tell you,” Comtesse Villeneuve said as she studied the girl, who now seemed mildly agitated.
“Countess, listen to me. This is not a straightforward matter of a wayward fifteen-year-old kid on the run from going back home. He’s involved in a really dangerous situation.”
“He behaves more like an older boy. He has seen death and known loss. That can mature a boy beyond his years.” She gazed at the girl, whose light olive complexion now seemed a little flushed.
Sophie had pulled off her cap, ruffled her hair and sat down facing the elderly lady. “It’s dangerous,” she repeated helplessly.
“For whom?” No expression. No hint of suspicion or guile. A straightforward question. Would the girl answer truthfully?
“For everyone who knows him,” Sophie said.
The comtesse did not know whether she trusted Sophie or not. Those almond eyes were impenetrable, and she liked to read people through their eyes. A slab of gray cloud pushed between sea and sky, dimming the room. A contour of diffused light surrounded Sophie’s body. Invisible to the naked eye, seen only by those with the gift to see. The old lady watched the agitated flow of color-drenched energy swirl around the girl. She was distressed but hiding it extremely well. There was pain there, grief too, and fear. The fear was not of physical harm but of a young woman’s emotional uncertainty.
Where Max’s aura had been broad, unbroken, symbolizing his strength and health, this girl’s was fractured-enormous energy, screwed down tightly like a lid on a jar. Daggers of red light shot out from this quivering shadow body, like sunspots bursting from the fiery surface. The girl’s conflicting emotions made the comtesse gasp. She could not help herself.
Sophie Fauvre either was in love with Max Gordon or wanted to kill him.
The nondescript entrance to the Chateau d’Antoine d’Abbadie could easily be missed by passing motorists. There were no big signs demanding attention, and the chateau wasn’t visible from the road. Bobby drove the van slowly under the canopy of trees that lined the narrow tarmac drive. A parking area, denoted by coconut-mat fencing, was on the right-hand side after about a hundred meters. There was one other car parked, with German license plates, and Max could see a middle-aged couple, obviously tourists, waiting farther ahead, where he could just make out the edge of the gray stone building. That must be the entrance.
“Wait here. I’m going to check it out and make sure this is the right place,” Max said.
The bare branches of the tree canopy still obscured the building, but now Max could see its shape. A black slate roof capped the stone walls. The chateau wasn’t that big but it had the look of a small medieval castle, some ramparts on the one side, about three stories high, while the nearer side looked like a more typical French chateau. This d’Abbadie bloke must have had a lot of fun, Max thought, because it was all a bit nineteenth-century Disney. But there was also a creepy feeling. Chimeric gargoyles, imaginary creatures from mythology, snarling or laughing, Max couldn’t tell, glared down at him from the corners of the building. Mythical equivalents of scrapyard dogs. No entry! they snarled silently.
He stopped in his tracks. Facing him on the building’s huge stone wall was a massive snake, a giant anaconda, sculpted into the stonework. Its body squirmed, twisting in a big S; its tail curled in a figure eight, head facing upwards. Heart thumping, knowing this chateau was the key to Zabala’s death, Max walked another few meters to the front of the building. The site of the photograph he had found in Zabala’s hut was revealed. Eight front steps, broad at the base, narrowed as they ascended to the double-studded red front door. The Gothic arch, cut off in that photograph, was joined together beneath a statue of a shield and a sword. Another snake twined itself along the blade to the handle. Two palm trees shielded the entrance.
Crocodiles gazed blindly at him, one each side, straddling a low balustrade that ran down the steps. Their chiseled tails curled upwards towards the door, mouths agape, front legs gripping the stone, as if ready to strike.
Max’s jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He’d experienced crocodile attacks b
efore, and these lifelike creatures made him shudder. Max’s dad had taken him to ancient tombs in Egypt. Crocodiles were revered as part of the pantheon of gods. Max remembered that the crocodile deity was called Sobek and was believed to have emerged from the “Dark Water” to create the world. He also guarded the dead. These two crocodiles guarded the portal to a hidden world.
Max stepped between them towards the entrance, half expecting them to come to life, to whip their heads around and strike. But the creatures held within the stone sculpture lay silent as he approached the chateau and its secret.
11
“You pay extra for a guided tour, which we don’t need, and it’s about half price if you’re under thirteen,” Max told Sayid as he pushed the wheelchair towards the entrance. The van had merged into the coast-road traffic, with a promise from Bobby to return in a few hours when they called him. “So, you’re under thirteen if they ask. I can’t get away with it but you can.”
“I thought I looked older than that,” Sayid moaned.
“No. In fact, you look about ten.”
“Ten!”
Max laughed. “Well, you behave like a ten-year-old. Now shut up and look stupid if they talk to you. That shouldn’t be too difficult.”
The small window at the side of the front door showed an office, where a middle-aged man, who minutes earlier had been thinking only of going home to the fish lunch his wife had prepared, now looked with anguish at the fair-haired boy trying to pull another youngster in a wheelchair up the steps. It was not worth offering to help and risking an injury to his back, the man reasoned; besides, the boy looked strong. But how would the youngster view the chateau in a wheelchair?
“Not exactly geared for disabled access,” Sayid said, wincing, as Max jammed the wheels up another step.
“Yeah, well, I’m hoping it’ll help us fool him later. I have a plan.”
Sayid looked at his friend, who gave him an encouraging smile in return. Max’s plans usually meant trouble. Sayid had told Max he didn’t want to be left out-but he knew he needed a degree of bravado he would find difficult to muster.