Ice Claw (20 page)

But he wasn’t ready to turn and run.
In trouble? Always do the unexpected, Max
. Dad’s voice. Max smiled. It checked them. “A length of chain and a wheel brace? Think again, porridge brains.”

Grabbing an Ethiopian shield and a set of lethal-looking antelope horns off the wall, he attacked, jumping down the top three stairs and smashing into the dumbstruck bikers. The German turned and ran, one of the bikers tumbling head over heels after him, catching the back of the man’s legs, crashing the bodies down together. The German yelled in pain and anger.

The second biker regained his balance and swung the chain hard towards Max’s head. Max ducked, turned his shoulder, raised his arm, felt and heard the power of the blow clattering across the shield, and lunged. The boy’s eyes widened as Max went for his throat. The fear served Max well; it was exactly what he wanted. The boy faltered, took a step backwards, found himself trapped against the banister—as Max drove the attack home. The horns went to each side of the boy’s neck, pinning him next to one of the monster creatures carved into the main staircase. A flicker of shadow
and light, its eyes gleamed, as if relishing the helplessness of the boy held so close to its jaws.

No sooner had the biker been pinned than a whisper of air came out of the darkness. Max spun, raised the leather shield—a knife thudded into it.

The German’s voice cried out a command from the pit of darkness below: “We need him alive!”

But the pounding of more feet told Max that kids don’t always do what they’re told by adults, no matter how much they’re being paid. The first figures moved into the light. He could see the knives in their hands now, the moonlight glinting on dull metal. Max was defenseless except for the shield. They would soon get through that. He turned to run, but a twang and a shuddering impact into the wall stopped him dead in his tracks. An arrow had pierced the half-light just in front of the attackers. Max looked up. Sayid stood awkwardly against the balustrade, a short African hunting bow in his hands—and let another arrow fly down the stairwell. It thudded into one of the silently screaming gargoyles’ heads. The bikers faltered, holding back, keeping themselves out of sight. Max seized his chance.

In a few strides he was at Sayid’s side. “That’s all the arrows there were,” Sayid said, trembling with the effort, fear and excitement.

Max was already bundling him back towards the château’s main bedroom. He had done enough to stop the savages for a few moments.

“You saved my neck there, Sayid.”

Sayid smiled. “I did?”

“Yeah. Though another couple of centimeters closer and it would have gone
through
my neck.”

“I’ve never fired a bow before,” Sayid said as Max shoved the door closed behind them.

“I’d never have guessed,” Max said through gritted teeth as he pushed a big piece of antique blackwood furniture across the door. It took all his strength to shift it, but the fear of who was coming up the stairs helped his efforts.

“There’s no reply from Bobby’s phone,” Sayid said.

“Then we’ll make it up as we go along,” Max said, but he wasn’t smiling. They were in real trouble now without any backup.

Satisfied the piece would keep anyone from forcing the door for a while, he took his bearings. Could they hide here? Heavy furniture, cabinets and tables supported by legs of twisted wood; a leopard skin on the polished floor. Latticed windows, a chaise longue, a boxed bed, the wooden sides almost touching the ground. There was nowhere they could conceal themselves and not be found in seconds. Heavy blue curtains draped the bed and windows; a door led to a dressing room. It was almost pitch-black in there.

Grunts and shouts came from the other side of the bedroom door. They were pushing hard. The furniture shifted a few centimeters.

Max gripped the lip of a big table and heaved it in place. That would buy precious minutes. All those curtains! They had to be of some help. Max snatched at the corded tiebacks, his eye catching the benevolent stare of Antoine d’Abbadie and his wife, Virginie, their gold-framed portraits gazing down above the black marble fireplace. Max felt a twinge of guilt for the ugly stench of brutality he had brought into the eccentric man’s home. The concerted effort of that brutality,
banging and shouting behind the door, that was trying to reach Max and Sayid.

“Sayid!”

Max nodded towards the small dressing room. Sayid hesitated—they’d be found if they hid in there! But Max was already tying all the cords together, making a rope. Sayid knew Max would have a reason for his command, and he did not want to face the violence that threatened them outside the door. He did as he was told.

Once in the small room Sayid saw there were doors leading to a balcony behind the room’s heavy curtains. Max was ahead of the game—he’d already seen the terrace on the château’s plans. Sayid opened the doors while Max feverishly pressed his palms across the small room’s paneled walls. He found the latch he was searching for. A click. A narrow door creaked open, revealing a passage: a slender tunnel of blackness leading into the body of the building.

“Servants’ corridor,” Max said quickly. “Right. Get ready.”

Max joined Sayid outside, drawing the curtains and shutting the doors behind him—the German and the bikers might waste valuable seconds before they realized there was a balcony.

Sayid’s mouth was dry. His voice croaked in a worried whisper, “Ready for what?”

Max dropped a meter of the homemade rope over the edge and coaxed Sayid forward. “Dead easy,” he said. “All you have to do is clamber over the balcony, put your good foot into this loop and I lower you down. Smell that sea air? That’s freedom.”

Some of the curtain tiebacks were broad swathes of strong material and Max had fashioned a loop with one of them at
the end of the cord. He smiled. “No rush. Take your time,” he said with a comforting, though false, calmness.

A huge thump against the door convinced Sayid to clamber over the balcony. Knuckles white with tension, he nodded. Crutches gripped in one hand, the other holding the rope, he eased his good foot into the sling.

Max took the cord across his back and braced his legs for Sayid’s weight. “Step off gently. There—got you,” he whispered.

The cord bit into Max’s back, but he lengthened the rope half a meter at a time, then allowed his legs to walk forward slowly towards the balustrade, taking the strain in his thigh muscles. Sayid was still a couple of meters off the ground. The cord was too short! Max leaned his body across the balcony’s rail to try and give Sayid the extra length that his own body provided. The rope burned into his back, and it felt as though the skin on his hands would tear from his bones. Sweat ran off him, and the railing pressed against his bruised rib. He had to let go, he couldn’t hold on any longer. Sayid would smash his leg. He’d failed.

But then the weight disappeared. Max opened his eyes. Sayid was on the ground, looking up, waving. Max hauled the rope back up, looped it through the balcony’s uprights and lowered himself down. Once on the ground, he yanked the rope free and tossed it into the shadows. Even if their pursuers saw the balcony, they wouldn’t see Max and Sayid’s means of escape. That should convince them to waste time exploring the servants’ corridor.

Max immediately urged Sayid into the shadows of the tree line. “Look out for anyone coming, especially the German’s wife. I bet she’s out here with their car.”

All they had to do now was escape. How long did they have before their attackers heaved the door upstairs open and realized the boys had escaped? Max took Sayid’s weight, helping the boy to move quickly towards the trees. They reached the front of the château. Half a dozen motorbikes stood tilted on their stands. Was Sharkface here? He couldn’t be. If he were he’d have led the battle on the staircase.

Max looked out into the moving shadows. Spiderwebs of light teased the bare branches. One patch of darkness was blacker than the rest. On the left of the drive the Germans’ car sat unmoving—and facing the gates. Tucked well in, so the driver could see if the old Frenchman returned.

Max put his mouth next to Sayid’s ear. “There’s no sign of Bobby. We’re on our own. Get into those trees over there on the right. See the car? Stay on its blind side and keep out of sight. Meet me at the entrance gates.”

Sayid hesitated.

“I’ll be right behind you,” Max assured him, then turned and ran for the château’s front doors. He had to buy them time.

Max barely made it to the Frenchman’s office before he heard the German’s shouting: “Find them! Find them! Search every room!”

He scanned the small, tidy office.
Turn things around; make a disadvantage work for you. You’re in trouble—think. C’mon!
He grabbed a pair of desk scissors, he’d need those. Then, opening the alarm box’s front panel, he saw the row of unlit lights and the master switch. How long did he have once he activated the alarm? He tried to remember what the Frenchman had done. He’d walked out of his office, closed the door
behind him and then gone out of the front door. How long? The Frenchman was slow. Max saw him in his mind’s eye. And counted. Close the office door, one … two seconds. Turn, three … four. Three, maybe four steps to the front door, five … six. Open the door, seven … Pull on his hat and coat, eight … nine … ten … eleven …

The Frenchman had patted his pockets, twelve … thirteen. Stepped back to his office, fourteen … fifteen. Open the door, sixteen. Done what? Reached for something on his desk. What? Cigarettes. He had picked up the forgotten cigarettes, seventeen … eighteen. Repeated his movements again, out of the office, into the hall, nineteen … twenty … twenty-one. The old man had quickened his pace, twenty-two … twenty-three … twenty-four. By now, Max remembered, he would have been back at the door, which was already open. Stepped out—and closed it.

Twenty-five seconds tops. The old Frenchman might have been slow but it was a practiced pace, he did it every night of his life. To the second.

Max’s finger hovered over the master control. Was he about to throw the wrong switch? Holding his breath, he flipped the switch and began a mental count—following the same procedure as the Frenchman. Door … one second. Turn, three … four …

Footfalls pounded on the stairs. Max sneaked a peek around the office door and saw the German, grunting with exertion, reach the hallway. He ducked behind the open front door and watched through the narrow gap between wall and door as the German stopped in the archway.

Five … six … seven …

Max could have reached out from the darkness and touched him.

Eight … nine … ten …

The man gestured and yelled, “Bring the car! Bring the car! We need a flashlight! They’ve escaped! Rhona,
schnell!
Come
on!”

Eleven … twelve … thirteen … fourteen … Max hardly dared breathe. The clock was ticking; the alarm would go off unless he could get out the door and close it. That was his only chance.
Come on!
Shut up and leave!

Fifteen … sixteen. The German turned back to the stairs. Max heard a car engine start, crunching tires, a car door open and slam. No headlights.

Seventeen … eighteen … nineteen. And then the German’s wife ran into the entrance hall. She hesitated. “Ernst!”

Twenty …

The voice carried. “Up here!”

Twenty-one … twenty-two …

She ran towards her husband’s voice.

Twenty-three …

Max stepped out, grabbed the door …

Twenty-four … twenty-five!

The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence.

Max blew the air out of his lungs with a massive sigh of relief. He leapt down the steps, past the guardian crocodiles to the motorbikes, then slowly and methodically pushed the scissors’ blades into the rear tire of each motorbike. There was an even more satisfying hiss of released air.

Max’s plan had worked better than he had hoped. The
Germans’ car had stopped right outside the entrance and the keys were in the ignition. Max didn’t care about noise now.

He kicked the row of bikes. Nice to see the domino effect in action. The bikes clattered down. Handlebars snared wheels, brake and clutch levers dug into engine blocks, and headlights cracked and smashed.

Max adjusted the driver’s seat in the small Mercedes, turned the key, pulled the gear shift from park to drive and let the smooth engine glide him towards the entrance gates. He stopped the car, slid down the window and called, “Sayid, your taxi’s here.”

The boy stepped out of the shadows. “Max!” He climbed inside. “What was all that racket?”

“Fun,” Max said, smiling. “Not half the racket there’s going to be in a—”

The piercing screech of the château’s alarm siren sliced through his words. Max and Sayid turned. Figures ran down the steps. Some tried to lift their motorbikes; two bigger silhouettes pointed and shouted something.

Max laughed, pushed his arm out the window and waved.

“Auf wiedersehen
, losers.”

Sayid beat his hands on the dashboard and shouted, “We did it! We did it!”

Max turned the car towards Biarritz.

“Put your seat belt on, Sayid. What’s wrong with you? You like living dangerously?”