by Cathryn Hein
‘Hands out,’ ordered Gaston, pointing the gun at her chest.
Although her heart was thundering, she kept her voice calm. Surprise was her ally. All she needed was a few seconds more.
‘There’s something I need,’ she said. ‘But don’t worry. Unlike you, I don’t carry around weapons.’
Her hands closed around the bowl. She cast Raimund a last glance. He nodded and she saw a faint smile tug at his mouth, encouraging her. She smiled and took a deep breath, steeling herself for the task ahead. Then she stripped La Tasse from the case and held it up to Gaston.
‘You want Durendal? Then you’d better follow me.’
And just as Raimund had ordered, she ran.
She flew up the boulders, scraping knees and banging her shins. A chunk flew off the rim of the cup and fell between a gap in the rocks. The largest boulder, the one that had taken Raimund’s help to negotiate, posed no difficulty. She was driven by a power more formidable than anything Gaston could understand.
He was still clambering up the first boulder when she reached the entrance to the cavity and glanced behind. He hadn’t missed where she was, though, which was important. She needed him close on her heels, but not so close she was in danger of being caught. She slipped through the hole, crouched on the ledge and then jumped to the floor, her joints jarring as she landed.
Suddenly, the cavity turned dark. Gaston’s form blocked the tiny scrap of light. He was already sliding feet first through the hole. Backing into the cave entrance, she drew a Cyalume stick from her pocket.
With the stubby base of La Tasse looped between her thumb and forefinger, she dug one end of the stick into her palm and pressed her other thumb against the centre, forcing it to bend. The capsules crunched. She had her beacon.
She sprinted into the cave. From behind, Gaston let out a bellow, his feet slapping against the stone as he ran to keep up.
At the fork, Olivia veered right, dropping the Cyalume stick a few metres into the passage to indicate which path Gaston needed to take. Still running, she pulled another from her pocket and broke it, grateful for the light as she turned a sharp corner into darkness.
All the while, her brain was sifting through her memory, trying to recall how many twists and turns before the pit. Her descent was fast. The memory, though, remained elusive. Every corner forced her to slow.
And then she was on it.
She skidded to a halt, her arm outstretched for the wall. Echoing behind, she could hear Gaston’s footfalls and knew there was little time. She pressed her back against the rock and edged her way along, eyes wide as she came to the narrowest point of the pit edge. The ground felt soft, unstable, but she had to keep going. For Raimund’s sake. If she failed, he would die and she had promised she wouldn’t let that happen.
She refused to look down but her eye caught the faint green glow of the Cyalume stick Raimund had dropped earlier. Her stomach contracted with worry that this plan wouldn’t work, that Gaston would notice the glow. He must not be given the chance to see. His focus had to be elsewhere.
A piece of the pit side broke off and disappeared into that green-tinged blackness, but she kept moving. Step by determined step she eased her way along the perimeter until the rim turned away from the wall and she was on the other side.
She held up the Cyalume stick, frowning. The light was too bright. It would expose the broken lid of the pit and ruin her plan.
The pounding came closer. Gaston was almost at the turn. In a second he would be on her and her chance would be lost. She couldn’t even stuff it down her front. The light was so brilliant it would shine through the thin fabric of her bra. With no other choice, she turned and threw it as hard as she could down the passage behind her, hoping it would land far enough away to plunge the chamber into semi-darkness.
She held the cup loose in her hand and waited.
Gaston tore around the corner and halted. She raised La Tasse, holding it out like an offering.
His eyes shone in the darkness but they were locked on the cup. The corner of his mouth lifted in a snarl.
Olivia didn’t hesitate. She lobbed the cup in his direction, sending it sailing across the rotting lid of the pit.
Two steps and Gaston’s weight was enough to cause the edge of the pit to break away. Bellowing, he leapt for the side but lacked Raimund’s agility or strength to secure a hold. His fingers touched the dirt and then he was gone.
‘Enjoy your prize, you bastard.’
There was no triumph in her words, only relief, and once they were said her mind was filled only with Raimund. She pulled another Cyalume stick from her pocket, broke it, and for what she hoped would be the last time, crept her way past the pit then bolted for the outside.
And all the time she prayed and prayed that Raimund would still be alive when she arrived.
CHAPTER
22
The dust storm and fading sun had turned the sky a strange purple when Olivia dragged her adrenaline-charged body through the cavity, but its beauty was lost on her. She craned her neck towards Raimund. His head was turned away. He lay deathly still.
Like a corpse.
A sob choked her throat. She swallowed it down but another developed, then another, until they were multiplying, irrepressible. As she scrambled down the boulders and ran to his side, the sobs erupted in panted, throbbing wheezes that tore at her chest like lion’s claws.
His eyes were closed. His lips parted slightly. He looked strangely peaceful. She stroked his pale cheek with her knuckles, the way he used to do to her. His skin felt cold.
Cold.
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘No.’
This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. Not Raimund. Not her knight.
‘Please, Raimund. Please.’
Tears dripped from her chin and fell at the edge of his mouth. She pressed her lips against his, kissing them away, angry with herself for defiling that handsome face. Hysteria bubbled in her chest. She wanted to scream. She wanted to kill Gaston all over again. She wanted to rant and rave and screech at the world for taking Raimund away. But most of all, she wanted him back.
She touched his cheek, crying uncontrollably. ‘Don’t you dare die on me. Don’t you dare. You’re my Roland, my knight. I love you. You can’t die. You can’t.’
Then she felt it, the soft blow of a weak breath on her lips. She jerked up.
‘Raimund?’ She waited but there was nothing. ‘Raimund, please. Wake up. I’m here. I did it. Gaston’s gone.’
His eyelids twitched.
She gripped his shoulders. ‘You wake up. You hear me? You wake up right now. You’re not dying on me. You’re not.’ It took all her might to make the shake she gave him gentle. ‘Wake up!’
His lips moved. She pressed her ear against them.
‘Birao.’
That single word had her scrabbling for her backpack. She yanked the phone from the side pocket and scrolled to the number he had given her. In less than two rings, she heard a man’s voice.
‘Oui?’
‘Birao,’ she said, fingers like claws around the phone’s shell. ‘Birao!’
The man answered in Germanic-accented French. ‘Where is Captain Blancard?’
‘We’re on a property near Gailhan,’ she replied in the same language. ‘He’s been shot. In the stomach.’ She suppressed a sob, then lowered her voice so Raimund wouldn’t overhear. ‘It’s bad.’
‘Give me directions.’
She recited the location as best she could.
‘Hold on.’
As she waited for his return, she crawled to Raimund’s side and watched the shallow rise and fall of his chest. As long as he was breathing, he had a chance.
‘The shooter?’
The word came out high and tremulous. ‘Dead.’
‘Any others?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Help is coming. You will stay on the phone in case I require further directions. Understood?’
She took
a full breath, trying to calm herself. ‘Yes.’
‘Describe his wound.’
Keeping her voice down, she did as she was told, detailing the rudimentary first aid she had given and Raimund’s current condition. Her makeshift compresses were soaked, but she could see little fresh blood. Instead, everything had a dark, sticky look. The man ordered her to take his pulse. She timed it using Raimund’s father’s watch. It felt interminably slow. She recited the count.
‘Hold.’
Olivia waited with the phone pressed hard against her ear, the plastic casing digging into lobe, afraid she would miss some vital instruction.
‘I’ve told the men to hurry. You will re-count every ten minutes unless you see any change. Then you’ll do it immediately. Understood?’
‘Understood. When will they be here?’
‘Soon.’
‘How soon?’
‘Soon.’ And from that, her contact refused to be moved.
She waited, ears constantly tuned for the sound of a car or helicopter or footsteps. Anything that told her the promised help had arrived. While she waited, she talked to Raimund, telling him how much she loved him, how brave he was, how they would survive this mess and forge a new life for themselves. A life with no army or Legion to dictate his life, only love.
If the man heard her words, he didn’t comment, but every ten minutes came a barked command for her to take his pulse and give a visual appraisal of his condition. She complied, each time fearing a change, a slow in the pump of his blood, a shudder in that shallow breath. Both remained the same. Weak, excruciatingly slow, but there.
A different order had her sitting straighter. ‘Describe the turn.’
She closed her eyes, recalling the entrance. ‘It’s on the right. There’s a marker for the village about two hundred metres or so before.’ She thought hard. ‘There’s a broken tree on the corner. A branch has fallen part of the way across the lane.’
‘Hold.’ In less than ten seconds, he was back. ‘They’re at the turn. How far up?’
‘Five hundred metres. You should be able to see his Mercedes parked on a track on your right.’
‘Hold.’ This time, the wait was much longer. ‘There are two vehicles. A Mercedes and a Volkswagen Touareg. The shooter’s car?’
‘I think so.’
‘Tell me how to reach your location.’
She had to drag the information from the depths of her memory. They had walked the trail to the boulders at the most only a few hours before, but it seemed like a decade ago.
‘They’ll arrive soon.’
Even as he spoke she could hear men running through the trees. Pure relief cascaded over her, soaking her numb skin with hope. She dropped the phone and pressed her cheek against Raimund’s.
‘They’re here. Everything will be all right now. Just like I promised. I love you.’
There were five men. One carried an enormous kit with a red cross on the side. Another held what looked to Olivia like an assault rifle. Another carried an aluminium-framed stretcher. All wore civilian clothes but there was no mistaking their vocation. They were soldiers.
Within seconds of their arrival, she was pushed out of the way and left to stand on the sidelines, her arms crossed and covering her breasts, watching as they attended to Raimund with professional assurance.
A stocky, very blonde, hook-nosed man stood to one side, observing, like her. Every now and then, he would flick a look in her direction, his eyes assessing. After the fifth or so glance, he dropped his weapon and stripped off the white t-shirt he wore, then reshouldered his gun and carried the shirt over to her.
She took it gratefully, smiling her thanks.
‘You are Captain Blancard’s woman?’ he asked when she had slipped it on. He spoke in English, but his accent told her it was not his first language.
‘How did you know I spoke English?’
‘You look English.’
Olivia didn’t bother correcting him. Right now she doubted she looked anything like an Englishwoman, not a stiff-upper-lipped one anyway. Hers wouldn’t stop wobbling.
‘Where will you take him?’
‘We have doctors.’
Her eyes narrowed. She knew the army had doctors, but his reply seemed unnecessarily ambiguous. ‘A military hospital?’
He looked at the mound and then into the forest before returning his gaze to her. ‘Where is the man who shot him?’
She shrugged. ‘He’s dead. What does it matter?’
A smile lifted the corner of the hook-nosed man’s mouth but didn’t reach his pale-blue eyes. ‘Yes. What does it matter.’
The medic was holding up the exit-wound area as two men slid the aluminium stretcher halves under Raimund. As soon as they were locked in place, the medic lowered him gently. The third stood upright, a drip in his hand. The medic nodded. The four men each grabbed a side of the stretcher, then with another nod, Raimund was raised and carried away.
Forgetting the hook-nosed man, Olivia ran to catch up.
‘Will he be okay? Where are you taking him?’
No one answered her. It was as though she didn’t exist. She asked again in French, then in English, and then in awkward Catalan. Still no response. The men marched purposefully on.
No way was she going to give up so easily, not after all she’d been through, not while they had the man she loved. She turned back to Hook-nose, her hands on her hips.
‘Where are you taking him?’
‘To where he will be looked after.’
‘And where, exactly, is that?’
The man gave her that enigmatic smile but didn’t answer. Olivia dropped her hands and ran at him, pushing him hard in the chest.
‘You tell me!’
There was no smile this time. Hook-nose turned glacial eyes on her. ‘Stay away. This is Legion business now.’
She shoved him again. ‘Yeah, and Raimund’s my business, you bastard.’
Olivia didn’t see the tackle that floored her coming. One moment she was standing in front of the hook-nosed man fighting for information and the next she was facedown in the dirt with a gun held to the back of her skull.
‘You will not follow.’
She tried to scramble up. The barrel butted against her head.
‘Do not force me to hurt you.’
The ice in his voice sent a prickle of goosebumps over her skin. Ignoring the gun barrel, she turned her gaze towards Raimund. The men had moved swiftly. Soon he would be lost in the trees.
Perhaps forever.
‘But I love him,’ she whispered.
The barrel fell away. Hook-nose took two steps back, that horrible smile quirking his lips again. ‘That is your problem.’
Olivia wanted to punch his smile into the lining of his skull, but then Hook-nose turned his back on her and began to jog through the forest towards the other men.
Furious, she scurried to her feet and sprinted after him.
In one movement he stopped, twisted and fired into the dirt half a metre from her feet. Olivia let out a shriek.
‘Stay where you are, woman! That is an order.’
‘I’m not in your godforsaken army,’ she yelled, but already he was gone.
She stood in the darkening forest with her hands on her thighs, chest heaving, breath coming in sobs and her head filled with fear for Raimund. She had done what he’d asked. She had obeyed. She had called the number, said the code word and now she had lost him. She didn’t even know if he would live.
But one thing she knew: she would never find out if she stood there feeling sorry for herself.
Straightening, she marched on with shoulders back and head up, and a mouth fixed in a determined line. Hook-nose was gone, as were the others and Raimund. They had probably reached their vehicle and were readying to leave. She would follow. Find out where they went. Bang on doors and yell at people until she learned Raimund’s fate.
Lengthening shadows made it easier for her to hide, although she didn’t kid
herself that this would keep her out of their sight. These men were trained. She was a boring historian who spent most of her time in lecture rooms or libraries, her nose in books and journals or hunched over her desk marking student papers. They could have her surrounded without her realising.
The danger didn’t stop her. Nothing would.
A large blue van was reversing down the track when she reached the forest edge. An older model Renault Laguna waited in the lane, Hook-nose at its wheel. His head was turned in her direction. Apprehension snaked up her spine. Despite the shadows and the thick trunk she stood behind, she was sure he could see her.
The van veered into the lane, then straightened and drove on, its brake lights flickering in the dusk as the driver took care over the rough ground. The Laguna moved off and then stopped at the track entrance.
Hook-nose smiled her way. Then he slowly raised his forefinger and waggled it from side to side. The meaning was clear. She was not to follow.
But that didn’t stop her sprinting for the Mercedes the moment the Laguna left the gate.
She tore at the handle, only to howl in frustration when she found it locked. The keys were in Raimund’s rucksack. She couldn’t recall anyone retrieving it which meant it was still back at the mound. And no help to her.
She ran for Gaston’s Touareg. It was unlocked but no keys dangled in the ignition. Swearing loudly, she raised the centre console lid but the hollow was empty. So, she discovered after several frustrating minutes searching, was the glove box and any other conceivable place keys could be hidden.
Then she remembered her phone.
She ripped it from her pocket and dialled.
‘Oui.’
‘Where have you taken him?’
The anonymous German-accented man didn’t answer.
‘Where? You have to tell me. Where have you taken Captain Blancard? I need to know.’
Still he said nothing.
‘Birao!’ She almost screamed the word at him. ‘Birao!’
‘The Birao debt has been repaid.’
‘What? ’
‘I can no longer help you.’
‘You have to. You’re my only hope!’ But it was too late. The man was gone.