by David Gilman
“You are all right?” Fauvre said.
Max nodded.
“Then drive. Over there.” An edge had crept into his voice.
Perhaps, Max thought, there was a darker side to this man’s personality.
Max spun the wheel, wishing he had been honest and told Fauvre that he felt too ill to go on a sightseeing tour. But then he would have missed the incredible display Sophie had just given.
They drove towards an enclosure. Fauvre pointed at different caves and pits, the subject of his daughter replaced by that of his passion for the animals.
“It is mostly the big cats the collectors and hunters seek out. We rescue many of them and reestablish them around the world. I’ve had servals, ocelots, tigers, cheetahs, jaguars, leopards … and bears as well. They’re a favorite for the scum who trap and trade them. I’ll tell you something not many people know: A European monarch, only a couple of years ago, paid a fortune to a Russian peasant so he could shoot the village bear. The bear liked to drink beer. It would sit in the square and sleep, like an old man. And one day this king, this high-and-mighty person, arrived and shot it point-blank. He needed a bear to add to his trophy collection.”
Fauvre closed his eyes for a moment, as if the pictures in his mind had hooks in his heart.
The image of the brown bear that attacked Max on the mountain leapt into his memory. The power and fury of the huge creature still awed him. More than that-it was an affinity-complete awareness of what that bear’s existence was about. Smell is a powerful association for recall, and he could almost taste the wet-fur odor at the back of his throat.
Fauvre sighed. “The Chinese torture bears, did you know that? They keep them in bamboo cages, in a space they cannot even turn around in. Barbaric. They use their gall bladders for medicine. And we call ourselves the highest of the species.”
Max glanced at the man’s face. It was twisted in disgust.
“So I found this place. It took ten years of my life to get it like this.”
Max didn’t know how intrusive he could be with his questions, but if he didn’t start being pushy with this strong-willed man, he wasn’t going to get any closer to Zabala’s secret.
“Have you always been in a wheelchair?”
That drew a sharp look from Fauvre. “No. A tiger did this to me. My favorite tiger. He is called Aladfar.”
“That sounds Arabic,” Max said.
Fauvre nodded. “It’s the name of a star. It means ‘claws.’ From Arabic astronomy. Do you know anything about astronomy?”
The question was like a hypodermic being pushed into his chest. A sharp pain that went straight to the root of the disease eating away at him-that determination to find the final pieces to Zabala’s secret. And his killer.
So, Fauvre was playing games.
“I’m learning as I go along,” Max said noncommittally. “How did the accident happen?”
Fauvre let Max sidestep his probing question. “He is the perfect tiger. Three meters long, three hundred kilos. One day he decided to show me just who was in charge. He played with me as a cat plays with a mouse. He tumbled me and clawed my back. He broke my spine.”
“Was he shot?”
“Aladfar? I would kill the man who laid a finger on him. He is magnificent-and now we understand each other.”
Max knew that Aladfar was the massive tiger he had seen when he first drove into the Angels’ Tears. And it seemed the beast’s pit was where Fauvre now guided him.
Where was the connection Max searched for? When did Fauvre first come into contact with Zabala?
“So was that when you brought your family here?” he asked.
“My animals are my family,” Fauvre said without emotion.
The blunt response silenced Max. Not much you can say to that. No wonder Sophie felt alienated.
Obeying Fauvre’s hand signals, Max pulled up next to a walled crater. Two men stood by a handcart and were unloading a basket of old vegetables and fruit.
Fauvre spoke to them in Arabic and they stopped. “Have a look,” he said to Max as he leaned across the low parapet.
The fever made Max’s legs tremble. He needed shade and water, but he wasn’t going to show Fauvre any sign of weakness if he could help it. He blinked away the sweat and carefully peered over. The crater’s walls were almost sheer. It looked like the other animal pens. The sort of place Max could imagine bears living in captivity. Plenty of space, natural water, a shelter, good daylight and keepers to supply food. But for a moment he saw nothing except the wall at the other end of the crater, where iron bars divided this pit from the next.
Max realized where he was. He’d come to the other side of the tiger’s pit. On one side of the bars the massive, hungry-looking tiger prowled backwards and forwards. It wanted whatever was in this crater below Max.
Then he saw movement along the dark side of the wall directly below him, where the sun had not yet reached. Two men stepped out and raised their hands-begging. They looked weak and unkempt. How long had they been trapped in this pit?
Max looked at Fauvre. The dispassionate expression scared him for a moment.
“Why are you doing this? Who are these men?”
“They came to steal. I have small animals worth a fortune. These creatures thought they could get away with it.”
“You’re going to feed them to the tiger?” Max said incredulously.
“They think they are going to be fed to Aladfar. When I release them they will go back to whatever stone they crawled from under and tell others that you do not enter the Angels’ Tears unless you are prepared to die.”
“That’s sadistic,” Max said.
“It would be sadistic if I took pleasure in it. Which I do not. I am virtually alone here. I fight my enemies as I see fit, by any means at my disposal. And fear is the greatest weapon I have.”
Fauvre nodded to his staff, who tipped the basket of rotting fruit. The men below scrambled for the scraps. Clearly they had not eaten for some time.
Despite his feelings, Max knew Laurent Fauvre was a vital link in helping uncover Zabala’s mystery. The information had to be dug out of this man, but he was afraid that it might prove more difficult than excavating one of these craters from the rock face. What Max needed was something explosive to tear Fauvre open.
“Did your wife die here?”
That got through, Max could see Fauvre’s jaw clench. His mouth pulled down as if he’d bitten into a sour lime.
“Is that what my daughter told you-that my wife died?”
Now it was Max’s turn to try and hide his shock. Fauvre was hitting back just as hard. Max nodded.
“My daughter lives in a fantasy world. Do not believe anything she tells you.”
Trust no one! Max’s mind yelled at him.
“My wife went off with another man when my back was broken. I lay helpless and she ran off. It’s the law of the jungle, Max. Nature always wins in the end.”
“And your son? Did he continue to run the circus?” Max was grasping for any thread of truth that might help him-anything that stopped the gnawing doubt about Sophie.
“My daughter has a deep-seated anger because I trusted a wild animal and barely escaped with my life. She blames me for everything-even for her mother’s abandoning us. So she seeks danger and, along the way, someone she can love, like a brother, and who can protect her. Perhaps you are that person.”
Max winced.
“Then Adrien is dead?”
“Sophie went to Zabala because he had information about the animal smugglers-and something else that was important, I don’t know what. I argued with her, but she was determined to go. She defied me at every turn.” Fauvre hesitated. “Do you really want to know the truth?”
Max felt a sudden desperation. The truth? That always hurts.
“I do not have a son, Max. He is a figment of Sophie’s imagination.”
Like a solid punch, the words shattered him. Everything was a lie. He felt as though he were goi
ng down. Focus! Who are these crazy people? Don’t give in! He fought the nausea, wiped the sweat from his eyes and steadied himself against the wall. If Fauvre knew about his daughter’s emotional instability, did he suspect anything worse of her? Could she have killed Zabala? Was she so determined to gain the secret information Max now held? Jumbled, erratic, nonsensical thoughts blustered through his mind like the desert sirocco wind, suffocating rational thought. Must think straight. Have to shake off this fever.
Fauvre had a mean streak in him, Max could see that. He cared little for others’ feelings, even less for anyone who got in the way of his animals’ welfare. Sympathy welled in Max. Sophie needed help. There seemed to be no doubt she had emotional problems.
“Now,” Fauvre said quietly, “why don’t we stop playing games? My daughter is only a small part of this. Arab culture demands honor from a host towards his guest. Even an enemy under your roof is accorded the privilege of safety. But I am not Moroccan.”
Max wanted to run right then. But he could feel the strength seeping out of his body. Tough it out! Fauvre stared at him, his voice somber and authoritative.
“I want to know why you are here. What it is you hope to gain. What you think is hidden here. You wear my friend’s pendant. As far as I am concerned, there is enough evidence to convince me that you could have murdered Brother Zabala.”
Max’s head spun. The fever gripped him.
Fauvre’s men had turned and stood ready to do as he commanded. Aladfar roared and the vibration shuddered through the dry, hot air. A snarl exposed the curved canines-those jaws would crush and those teeth would rip. Max glanced nervously down. It wouldn’t take much to be thrown over the edge. The tiger would kill him in seconds.
Fauvre stared hard at Max. “You have already absolved me of my debt. So why should I not avenge my friend and let nature take its course?”
19
In the Bible, Daniel went into the lions’ den and calmed the beasts by his faith. Angelo Farentino had been told that story as a child, but every time his mother took him to the zoo he would look at those ferocious animals and know in his heart he would end up in their stomachs. He would have liked to think that she would die of grief because he had been eaten by lions, but remembering his mother and the stick she beat him with, he knew it would be shame that killed her. Her son was eaten because he had insufficient faith!
Thankfully, Farentino had never had to put himself to the test, and his mother was now an old crone who sat outside her house in the Italian village where she was born, shouting at stray dogs. She also moaned continually to the neighbors about how her son had abandoned her. They would commiserate. Children of today, what do you do with them? they would say, shaking their heads and occasionally spitting into the gutter to express their disapproval.
Farentino did not care. Filial love was not an obligation he felt inclined to acknowledge. He had made a modest living as a successful publisher, he had spent his money on property and he had prospered. And he had his own faith-in himself and what he could achieve. He knew he had done some good. He had been a good man. Had been.
Helping the environmentalists over the years, he had glowed like an angel. He was righteous. A defender of the Earth’s fragile balance. Scientists acknowledged the importance of his publishing house, and those who cared about the world flocked to him to write about how this beautiful planet was being ripped apart by carnivorous men who had their eyes only on power, profit and sometimes madness.
And then he stopped being good.
He had taken the other side’s money. Now he drove a Ferrari, had a villa on Lake Geneva, hideaway homes around the world and-most preciously-he had anonymity. False identities were bought and wealth was his joy. He had been safe. Until Fedir Tishenko summoned him. Now Angelo Farentino was stepping into the lion’s den.
And Max Gordon’s father was the lion.
The receptionist at St. Christopher’s made a phone call, then smiled and asked him to wait a few moments. He waited, nerves jangling. He calmed himself. Always find the positives, Farentino told himself. In less than fifteen or so minutes after seeing Tom Gordon he would get back in the car, return to Switzerland, report to the man who had threatened to expose him to his enemies and then slip away into anonymity again. Who cared what his visit might do to Tom Gordon’s mind, or whether his son was targeted by Tishenko? The wonderful thing about being corrupt is that it takes away any sense of guilt. You are wicked and you know it. You have no morals and you don’t care. You can cause grief and misery and turn a blind eye.
It was a lifestyle choice, Farentino decided.
“Mr. Aldo, would you like to come this way?”
It took Farentino a second to respond to the false name he had given. A big man stood in the doorway; it was he who had spoken.
“I’m Marty Kiernan. I work on Mr. Gordon’s wing.” He extended his left hand.
Farentino hesitated, his right hand already reaching forward. He quickly corrected himself, but felt embarrassed by his social clumsiness. He should have noticed the man’s disability, anticipated the gesture and reacted accordingly. He must be more rattled than he realized.
Marty’s strides were twice those of most men, and Farentino found himself awkwardly trying to keep up. Was there any way Tom Gordon could have seen through his request for an interview and his claim to be working for an Italian newspaper? Could he have known that Aldo was a false name and told this giant? Humiliation of an enemy is an old trick. Rattle your opponent’s composure, put him on his back foot, take the advantage. This was a very bad idea, coming here. Angelo Farentino was not someone who should be placed under such duress. He craved a cigar. He could smell the delicate aroma of the Cuban Monte Cristo in the case tucked into his inside pocket. But regulations meant he could not smoke inside St. Christopher’s.
“How is Mr. Gordon?” he asked Marty, anxious to stem his nervousness.
Marty opened a swing door and guided Farentino into a corridor where white-painted, solid-wood doors bearing small brass name plates lined their route. The names gave no clue to the rank or status of the patients in each of those rooms.
“If you don’t mind my saying so-I don’t think it was a good idea you coming here,” Marty said quietly.
Farentino’s heart sank. They knew! They knew! He looked for a fire exit. His step faltered, he wanted to run, was ready to surrender every last vestige of dignity. Farentino had always had a plan B. There was always a way of avoiding the net of authority-or the threat of personal revenge. Not this time. Tishenko had placed him squarely in harm’s way. Thoughts flitted through his mind. The public humiliation of a trial, the stench of a British jail-the prison uniform! Where was it written that men incarcerated should have to wear such ill-fitting clothes?
With amazing calmness, Farentino looked into Marty’s eyes. “Why do you say that, Mr. Kiernan?”
The big man had stopped outside one of the doors. The small brass plate had Tom Gordon’s name inscribed on it. Marty’s hand was on the doorknob.
“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 n
umbers 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?”