Ice Claw dz-2

by David Gilman

  Groups of four or five men, playing flutes, tin whistles and cymbals, and beating drums with curved sticks, meandered through the throng. Ganga drums and haejuj bass lutes fought for dominance. Women sat having henna tattoos daubed delicately across their faces and arms. An old man, according to his small sign a doctor, surrounded by bottles of herbs, sat cross-legged, examining a woman’s swollen hand.

  Max and Sophie visited half a dozen food stalls and ate as much as they wanted. Max loved eating with his fingers-no table manners to be concerned about. Almost as good as being out on a camping weekend, except here all the food was cooked for you.

  On the fringe of the square, cafes served mint tea and fruit juices.

  “Everyone comes to eat here. Every night. It goes on really late,” Sophie said.

  “Like a street party!” Max shouted. Conversation was always going to be a shouting match against this noise level.

  “You look good,” she said. “It suits you.”

  Max tugged at the cotton djellaba he wore. There had been a moment of panic when he realized that the riad’s staff had taken his clothes to be washed and left the djellaba in their place. Thankfully they had left his trainers, and these were now peeping out from beneath the long flowing robe. It had felt a bit like wearing a dress at first, but within moments of slipping it over his head he saw the practicality of the loose-fitting cotton. It was cool to wear and made movement relatively easy.

  Max eased his way through a knot of people, pulling Sophie behind him. She grasped his hand tightly, as if losing contact would set her adrift in the cross-currents of this human ocean.

  Max was amazed that anyone got anywhere in these crowds. Stallholders had set up their wares. Piles of oranges, heaped in pyramids, were being cut and squeezed, dancing troupes joined the musicians, and fortune-tellers waved their hands, brushing aside people’s misery.

  He stopped next to a snake-charmer sitting on a faded tribal rug as he mesmerized a cobra. Rising up, its coiled body swayed languidly to the old man’s flute-playing and the gentle teasing of his hand.

  The snake’s hood flared; its black eyes reflected the scattered fragments of light. It gazed into Max’s soul. Held him with an illusion of calmness. The snake made a languid, hypnotic movement, a deceptive seduction that lowered a victim’s defenses.

  Then the cobra struck. Its fangs bared, its hiss-like hatred.

  The gathered strength of the unfurled body propelled it straight past the old man, directly towards Max and Sophie. Max jerked back, putting a protective arm in front of her, but the wrinkled old man, who looked half blind, simply swept his hand beneath the cobra’s hood, twisted his wrist and let the snake curl about his arm. Then he raised the cobra’s flicking tongue to his own lips and kissed the snake.

  Murmurs of approval sighed from the crowd, a smattering of applause, coins tinkled into his upturned hat.

  Max gave an embarrassed smile. Perhaps he’d been too quick to react. Could you be too quick when it came to a cobra strike? Sophie touched his shoulder. She knew how fast Max had moved-a brave and instinctive gesture. An attacking cobra was an old snake-charmer’s trick. But Max wasn’t to know that.

  But those few seconds of reaction had sharpened his senses. There was another danger. His instincts bristled, the warning insistent, demanding his attention. But what was the threat? From where? Max searched the immediate crowd. Something wasn’t right. A man’s eyes held his own for the briefest of moments and then flitted away. There were two men’s faces he had seen earlier. He had been erratic in his choice of food stalls and entertainment, so it wasn’t likely that he would spot the same faces twice.

  He pointed over the heads of the crowds. “Get to the edge!” he shouted.

  She nodded. As fascinated as he was by the seething mass of people in the square, he realized he could be targeted more easily here than in the wilderness. In open space you can see your enemy; here they could be a breath away. But why would Sophie bring him here to entrap him when she could have arranged an attack at any time since they left Biarritz?

  Paranoia. Fear. Get rid of it, he told himself-these feelings were just crowd fever. This place was like Wembley Stadium and twice as noisy.

  The stifling mass now seemed impenetrable. Max pulled Sophie closer. He wanted her right there, at his shoulder, no more than a step away. A ripple of energy shuddered through the pressed bodies; hands reached out, clawing at him. Max felt the torsion on his skin as someone twisted his wrist. Sophie was at arm’s length. Two men were between them, the back of their heads momentarily obscuring her face. Sophie’s grip still held but he could feel it slipping. Images of Zabala falling from his grasp flashed across his mind. Sophie mouthed his name. Shouted it. One of the men turned. Same face as before. Dull eyes, uncaring, probably doped up on something. The man made a sudden grab at the pendant. Max blocked the move but the action forced him to lose his grip on Sophie.

  Other hands scratched at his face. Screaming and chattering as they raked their fingers across his head. Someone had thrown a chained monkey onto his shoulder, its tiny nails scrabbling at his face and hair, and then Max felt it tug on the leather thong that held the pendant.

  He swept his arm up, caught the monkey by its soft fur, but then yelped as it bit into his forearm. He threw the monkey away from him and lunged at its chain. He wanted the man at the end of it, but someone kicked his legs from beneath him and he went down hard onto the ground. Sandals and dirty feet, rubbish and bits of food swirled around his face. Max rolled, tumbled, struggled to get back on his feet. It was like another avalanche.

  “Sophie!” he yelled, his elbows pushing against anyone trying to hold him.

  Someone grunted; a man shouted in agony as Max’s blow caught his cheekbone. He was being wrenched from side to side, unable to defend himself. Half a dozen smaller boys, ten- or eleven-year-olds who looked like street urchins, were attacking him now, but they too were hampered by the weight of the crowd.

  A crushing fear-was Sharkface here? Max looked around desperately, but there was no sign of the ragged-mouthed teenager.

  Bodies scattered and fell. Max saw Sophie throw a man twice her weight to the ground. This was close-quarter fighting. Her eyes darted across the swirling mass, seeking out his. But before she could speak another arm went around her neck. She twisted and was obscured from view as Max yelled. He hadn’t noticed that a different energy now took control of the crowd. A surge went through it, like a shock wave. Voices were raised in protest, but then subsided. Max burrowed beneath the sea of legs, scrambling in Sophie’s direction. The boys snatched at him, but he was scurrying fast, as in a body-jumbling fight for a rugby ball.

  Five meters farther on he pushed himself to the surface. People buffeted each other as a great battleship of a man bellied his way through the crowd. Abdullah. And behind him, like two escort destroyers in battle formation, came the two men from the riad. They made no sound, shouted no threats, just cleaved through the sweltering mass. Each of the two men carried lanterns, so Abdullah appeared to have two mighty wings of light behind him.

  An angel of the night.

  Max gaped for a moment.

  “Abdullah!” Sophie cried, and the man’s bulk turned, angling directly towards her.

  He had struck out with a sturdy-looking stick and one of the attackers went down. Abdullah and his light-carriers walked right over him. That was probably worth a couple of broken ribs, Max thought. The urchins scattered as the second assailant foolishly tried to raise a hand against the unstoppable momentum. One light-carrier dipped the lantern over Abdullah’s shoulder; the man shielded his eyes momentarily and Abdullah’s fist struck him across the head like a mallet blow. Down he went.

  Max reached Sophie at almost the same time as Abdullah. The big man didn’t smile and spoke only to issue a command.

  “We must go!” he said.

  He turned. Sophie and Max fell in behind him, and the crowd opened like the Red Sea in front of Moses. They were safe
for now.

  But Max knew that the killers had found him.

  18

  Angelo Farentino had once known courage. He had worn it as lightly as one of his expensive suits. For countless years he had championed and supported those who roamed the world reporting dangerous practices that could wreak havoc with the environment.

  And then one night he awoke-a frightened man. He could no longer endure the intimidation and threats of the destroyers. The realization came that he could survive, be protected and become wealthy. All he had to do was betray those who trusted him implicitly.

  Like a deep-seated disease, the seeds of deception had started months, perhaps even years, earlier. It was caused, he realized some time later, by pain and jealousy. Of being denied something he could not have. A woman. His anger, like the claws of a beast, had torn something from his heart. And weakened him.

  His courage had never truly returned, but his sense of survival was intact. Which was why he had argued with Tishenko. Less an argument, perhaps, more an impassioned plea. What Tishenko wanted could cost Farentino his life.

  “You want me to go to England and speak to Tom Gordon?”

  Tishenko had no lips-they had been scorched from him when the lightning struck him as a boy-but the gap that was his mouth widened into a grin. “We know where he is. And we know his mind is as fragile as a kite in a storm.”

  Farentino sipped the drink Tishenko had put into his hand. Drinking and listening allowed him to avert his eyes as often as possible. Tishenko’s appearance had always given him a shudder of revulsion. For a man who cherished art and beauty as much as Farentino, the grotesque Tishenko was an affront.

  Tishenko took his drink through a straw. “You know his boy, Max. He has become involved in something quite extraordinary. He has slipped past my people, and he has discovered information that could cause me damage if anyone had the understanding and the knowledge to study it carefully,” Tishenko said quietly.

  Farentino had once tried to have Tom Gordon killed and Max had been caught up in that assault as well. He knew the boy, all right.

  “Why is Max Gordon involved?” Farentino asked.

  “I am uncertain whether he stumbled upon the information I need by accident or his father has something to do with it.”

  “Tom Gordon would never deliberately send his son into anything dangerous. That’s ridiculous,” Farentino protested.

  “There has been contact between father and son. If Tom Gordon knows anything about my plans he could cause me trouble. He could stop everything. My destiny will not be thwarted by a teenage boy and a man who has lost his mind.”

  “And I am supposed to walk in on Tom Gordon and ask him if he is involved? He would kill me. On the spot. He would kill me!”

  Tishenko watched the sun rise across the Alps. The ball of fire threw spears of light through the jagged peaks. The fiery orb gave life, but it would pale into insignificance if his plans succeeded.

  He kept his gaze on the sunrise, its warmth lighting the sky. “Tom Gordon does not know who he is most of the time. He has only fragments of memory. But if he has instigated an investigation, using his son as an unofficial source of information, then he would be in command of his faculties-at least for these recent events. I don’t care how you do it, Farentino. Go and speak to him. Convince him you are still his friend.” Tishenko turned and stared at the subdued Farentino. The disfigured face smiled. “And then you can enjoy the act of betrayal yet again.”

  After an hour’s driving, while Max slept, Abdullah had pulled into the crease of a hillside, the darkness cloaking the Land Cruiser’s bulk. He wanted to make sure they were not being followed. If word of their escape had somehow got out of the city there might also be ambushes in place. To learn patience was to survive. Besides, Sophie’s friend was sick. Abdullah had stopped twice to allow Max to vomit. It was the monkey bite. Now he lay in a deep sleep, sweat dappling his face. But Abdullah didn’t want to wait too long-the boy would need medical attention.

  While Max slept, Sophie clambered into the backseat and used the vehicle’s first-aid kit to clean and dress the bite on Max’s arm. As the desert’s night chill penetrated the Land Cruiser, she pulled a rug across them both. Abdullah and his man would stay on guard.

  Max felt marginally better when daylight came. He had barely moved all night. It seemed obvious that all his recent exertions had been responsible for accelerating the infection from the bite. The glands in his neck and under his arm were swollen, and his stomach muscles still hurt, but the giddiness had gone. His arm, though, was stiff and felt numb. Once he’d checked the dressing he realized it must have been Sophie who had cared for him. She lay curled across his lap, still sleeping. He gulped from the bottle of water Abdullah’s man offered him to ward off dehydration from vomiting. The day was going to be hot, so he needed liquid more than food right now.

  Sophie moved slightly. Uncertain what to do about the sleeping girl, he decided to leave her undisturbed.

  As the sun threw its light across the landscape, the richness and beauty of the mountains and valleys surprised him. In the distance, to the west and south, a rugged, stone-flecked desert leveled out across the horizon-a shimmering warning that a harsher terrain was not far away. The Land Cruiser gripped the dirt track that led through the mountains and their snow-capped peaks that sucked in the orange warmth.

  The 4?4 hit a deep rut, jolted and righted itself. Sophie was wide awake in an instant. She looked at Max, gazed through the windshield, then licked the dryness from her lips. Max gave her the bottle of water. She drank thirstily and handed it back.

  “Are you all right?” she asked Max.

  He nodded. “Thanks for doing my arm.”

  She shrugged. “It needs attention. My father will look at you. He knows about these things.”

  “If it lives on the face of the earth it has probably bitten Laurent Fauvre,” Abdullah said.

  They could see from his eyes in the rearview mirror that he was smiling.

  “And probably died from blood poisoning as a result,” Sophie said as she pulled her fingers through her hair.

  “Sophie, go easy on your father. Show some respect, yes? He lives a hard life,” Abdullah said gently.

  “And it takes a hard man to live it,” she said to no one in particular.

  Abdullah shrugged. He knew about the friction between father and child. Max felt the tension. Sophie and her dad clearly had problems. What was he getting into?

  “Is it much farther?” he asked.

  Sophie nodded towards the front of the vehicle. “It’s there.”

  Max squinted through the dust-smeared windshield. The low morning light gave a distorted reflection on the dirty glass. Across the distant, bare valley were what looked to be rows of hewn sandstone boulders, standing rigidly together like dominoes. They were almost indistinguishable from the mountains rising behind them, whose torn skirts of rock diffused the land’s harshness with light and shadow.

  Once Max focused more clearly he could see the tips of date palms, and for a brief moment the glint of reflection as the low sun caught a slick of water tumbling down the mountainside.

  “It looks like a town,” Max said.

  “You’re right. It’s called Les Larmes des Anges,” Abdullah said. “It was once the toughest Berber stronghold in these mountains. Then, when we fought the French, they held it for years-I’m talking back between the world wars, 1920s. There was vicious fighting here. Neither side would think of surrender. It’s the only walled town around here. During the final battle a rainstorm swept across the mountain between the sun and desert. The raindrops were lit by the sun’s rays. Les Larmes des Anges-‘the Tears of the Angels.’ They blinded the defenders. The French garrison died where they stood. Now, when the wind comes down from the mountains, it is said you can hear the cries of the dying.”

  The Land Cruiser left a wisp of dust behind it as Abdullah accelerated towards the ancient town. Sophie fell silent, gazing straight
ahead at the crumbling walls and the place where her father waited.

  Once they were closer the size of the walled town became more apparent. The walls had to be thirty, forty meters high. Two huge, iron-studded doors began to swing open as the Land Cruiser approached. Max wondered what was waiting for him as they drove beneath the entrance arch into the town the French had named the Angels’ Tears.

  There was in fact very little left of the town; it was mostly perimeter walls and a few other buildings that remained. The whole inside area was like a massive zoo. Huge, scooped-out troughs of earth, some filled with water, served as drinking holes for the animals. Others were natural enclosures for the assorted creatures. The thick walls stretched for as far as he could see, until they buttressed the mountain’s skeleton fingers that stretched down to touch the fortress town.

  Towards one side of the wall Max could see cavelike openings, beneath which some craters dropped away. Twisting in his seat, he looked back as he caught a glimpse of deep orange and dark stripes. A tiger was climbing an old tree trunk conveniently laid against the face of the rock, allowing access to its lair. Fur and muscle glistened, rippling like oil on water as the huge cat, carrying a dead goat in its jaws, sprang and disappeared into the darkness of its lair. But more awesome was the tiger that watched it. A big male reclined on a rock ledge, indifferent to the female’s activities. The massive head turned its attention towards Max. Amber eyes, impassive but watchful, followed him.

  “Did you see the tiger?” Max blurted out. “It was huge. What is this place? It’s like a safari park.”

  Abdullah swung the Land Cruiser around the edge of another crater. Manmade obstacles, like an assault course, mixed with boulders and dead trees created a perfect haven for monkeys.

  “That’s the best way to describe it, Master Gordon,” Abdullah said, easing the big 4?4 towards a more open area where a gantry of iron platforms broke the skyline. “Those big holes? They’re bomb craters. They’re perfect for a lot of the animals here. Don’t forget, many of these are protected and endangered species. By good fortune, war and destruction gave these animals the chance to survive. The town was flattened, but they could not breach the walls. Sophie’s father redirected the water from the mountains and created natural watering holes. The animals are as safe as they can be. Ah! There’s Laurent.”