by David Gilman
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?”
20
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 r
esting 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.
The tiger saw only the boy, bigger than a goat, but an easy kill. The smell of fear from the two other men held captive behind those bars had alerted his senses. And he was hungry. When the boy-creature fell he could have pounced, but a voice carried on the air. It was the old man, but Aladfar would always choose when to defer to man’s commands. He lifted his head not because of the old man’s demanding voice but because another scent filled his nostrils. Animal. A beast he had known in some previous time when he had the freedom of the mountains and jungles. Aladfar feared nothing except the violence of man, and even then he would attack if forced to. But this defenseless creature evoked energies that were beyond understanding; a time remembered from the forests and mountains; a primeval force that spoke only to Aladfar’s sixth sense.
He would wait, as his instincts told him. So he lay down.
Fauvre wasted no time. He drove his wheelchair down the ramp, opened the iron gate and went into the enclosure. He spoke softly to his tiger, soothed its passion until he was close enough to reach out and stroke its head. Aladfar knew the gentle touch and the smell of the old man. He stood up. Fauvre, sitting in his wheelchair, barely came to the tiger’s shoulder.
The privilege of being so close, so intimate, with the true king of the jungle always affected Fauvre. “I know you are the greatest beast in the world, my Aladfar, but we must not let this boy die,” he whispered, stroking the great cat’s ruff, nurturing the animal’s instincts.
Fauvre had left his fear in the circus ring all those years ago, when Aladfar punished him for his human arrogance. Now he felt only a deep love for the huge animal. Gently, ever so gently, he turned the big cat away, guiding him to the passageway that led to a locked cage.
Settled by the gentle vibrations of the old man’s voice and the uncertainty of the boy who had not yet moved, Aladfar allowed the man he had once mauled to close the gate on him. The tiger lay down and purred.
Fauvre turned back to Max, gesturing his keepers to enter what was now a safe pit and help the boy. By the time they got there Fauvre had moved closer. Max still stood, his eyes open, a look of stone-set determination on his face, as if he drew energy from some deep recess of his brain.
Once again Fauvre spoke softly, as if to a wild animal. “Max, it is all right now. You will not be harmed. I promise you. Can you hear me, boy?”
Fauvre heard the two men approach cautiously behind him and raised a hand to stop them. No one should approach a wild animal in fear of its life. For in that moment Fauvre, sensing the same energy Aladfar had, believed that was what he was witnessing.
Max blinked, looked at Fauvre, nodded and sat, slumping back into unconsciousness. At last the men could approach and lift him out of the enclosure. Abdullah and Sophie had heard the shouts of alarm and reached Aladfar’s pit as the men brought him clear. Abdullah took Max in his arms and carried him to his tent. Sophie, running ahead, gathered the medicines her father had instructed her to fetch. She returned to find her father checking Max’s pulse and Abdullah bathing the boy’s face. They had laid him in the near darkness, where the air was cooled by the layers of the tent.
“It’s more than the infection. Something else is going on inside of him. If the fever breaks in the next few hours he’ll live,” Fauvre said.
“We need a doctor,” Sophie said.
Fauvre opened the medical bag Sophie had brought him. “By the time he gets here his presence will not be required. For one reason or another,” he said, preparing another injection. “He will have recovered or he will be dead.”
“We should try!” Sophie said impatiently.
Abdullah touched her shoulder. “Sophie, there is a dust storm coming. No doctor would risk it.”
The injection administered, Fauvre had done all he could do for now. “Keep him cool, bathe his face, try and get him to drink as much water as he can. Can you do that?” he said to Sophie.
She knew her father was giving her responsibility for Max’s nursing. She nodded. Fauvre turned away, beckoning Abdullah to join him. Sophie squeezed out the wet cloth and mopped the sweat from Max’s forehead. She put her face close to his, trying to imagine what was happening inside this boy, whose lips trembled and who groaned quietly as the fever took him. Her fingers touched the knotted cord around his neck and felt the dull stone trapped in the pendant’s grip. It was only after her father and Abdullah had left that she noticed they had tied his wrists to the bed frame.
Over the next few hours, as Sophie sat with Max, Fauvre nursed his own thoughts. Months ago Zabala had entrusted a package to him, to be opened only when another was delivered. Or when-as Zabala believed to be inevitable-he was killed. Fauvre had followed his friend’s instructions, but the drawings in the thick brown envelope showed nothing more than an astrologer’s prediction twenty-odd years ago-the very thing that had caused Zabala’s downfall. Old business that had cursed a man’s life. Why the hell hadn’t Zabala forgotten all this nonsense? It had been such a waste of his abilities.
Fauvre sipped a cognac, his old friend on his mind. The ridicule Zabala had faced all those years ago had sent him on another of life’s journeys, a passage of time dedicated to two things: helping Fauvre relocate some of the endangered animals and uncovering the Truth. That word, that deceptive, irritating word, which held so many meanings to different people, was always written by Zabala with a capital T. Exposing the Truth was the monk’s ultimate aim, because it would vindicate his theories and-as he had always insisted-stop a massive disaster from striking Europe. Madness. An incomprehensible event dreamed up by a discredited scientist.
When Zabala had sent word those few weeks ago that he had information about the animal smugglers, the “Truth,” this secret, was never disclosed.
Fauvre could not go to the Pyrenees himself, but Zabala had insisted that this information was crucial; it had to be put together with those documents Fauvre already held. The monk had planned to bring it to Fauvre himself, but he was convinced he was being watched. Zabala feared for his life. Only months ago a friend had betrayed him. The killers were closing in.
Fauvre wanted that secret. He wanted to grasp the madness that had driven his friend for so many years. And now Max Gordon had appeared-the messenger delivering the package? Which was what? What had Zabala told him? Somehow the boy had been given enough information to reach the very place Zabala had intended-
here. The old monk had given him the ultimate warning in a language so few could speak. There was no doubt, Max Gordon held the key to the Truth.
The weight of the sickness drifted away from Max’s body; his youthful strength had fought and won, but the healing sleep kept him locked deep in darkness. More time was needed before his body would be capable of following commands from his mind.
Sophie had left when his fever broke; now she returned, slipping quietly between the wind-flapping folds of the tent. Checking his temperature, she laid a hand on his cool forehead. Her father could return at any moment to see his patient, and with the leading edge of the dust storm splattering sand against the walls, it would be sooner rather than later. It was time to do what she must.
She gazed at Max for a second longer, a look of both regret and tenderness. “It’s almost over,” she whispered.
With almost surgical skill she laid a razor-sharp knife next to the slowly pulsing jugular vein that carried his life’s vital blood supply.
She kissed his forehead.
The blade cut.
Sayid knew Bobby would make his break for freedom at any moment. The American had taken his time stripping out the diesel van’s faulty injector, and their captors had relaxed their guard. Earlier, one of the older men whom Sayid had seen fixing the damaged bikes at the industrial estate nodded as he checked Bobby’s progress. The kid knew what he was doing, so why should he do the job? he had asked Sharkface. The broken-toothed killer turned to Peaches, said something to her, and she climbed into the back of the van. Then he got back into the passenger seat. Sayid didn’t want to look too long at the killer in case those dead eyes read his thoughts.
The others had found somewhere to sit. One of them had clambered back into Bobby’s van. Sayid had begged to be allowed to sit out at the picnic table bench, wanting the cold night air rather than the confined box of the van-besides, he was hardly going to escape, was he?
Sayid couldn’t concentrate on the numbers in his head, his heart beat too quickly as he anticipated the moment Bobby might make his break. Sayid had worked out that if he stumbled and fell down the grassy incline from where he now sat, that might distract a couple of the thugs. One might even run towards him, away from Bobby, though he hoped it wouldn’t earn him a beating.