Ice Claw (32 page)

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.

Watch Bobby
.

Wait for a glance. A nod. Anything
.

Peaches stepped out of Sharkface’s van again. She had a cell phone. Why? Sharkface must have given her instructions to phone someone. Who? It had to be Sophie. That was it. Sharkface had told her to phone Sophie, pretending everything was all right, and if Sophie answered they might find
out where she was in Morocco—and where Sophie was, so too was Max. No. That didn’t add up. Sophie had told him that she had dumped her cell after those men in Biarritz had followed her. He watched Peaches. Now she thumbed a text message. For all Sayid knew, she had convinced Sharkface that she had wealthy parents who would pay a ransom for her. Or maybe Bobby’s family. Whatever the reason, it made no difference now. Bobby was bent over the engine, his right hand reaching for a wrench. It fell from the van’s bodywork. Bobby’s head was still looking down into the engine when Sayid heard him mutter.

“Damn. Get that for me, would you?”

Without thinking, the thug who held the flashlight did the most natural thing in the world and bent down. And that was when Sayid cried out and threw himself down the slope—the second before Bobby lashed out and kicked the thug flying.

As Sayid rolled and tumbled, kaleidoscope images blurred his vision.

Bobby ran, the kicked boy staggered, van doors yanked open and Sharkface screamed commands, spittle flying from his mouth. He pointed at Bobby’s dark form as it ran beneath the lights’ yellow glare, and then at Sayid, who was now almost at the end of his fall. One man ran towards him; others burst away from the vans, scattering like a net cast outwards from a fisherman’s hands to snare the escaping prey.

Peaches ran towards Sayid.

“Don’t! Leave me! Run!” Sayid screamed.

But it was too late. The man got to him first, yanked him to his feet and slapped him hard across the back of his head.
The impact sent Sayid spinning. Flashes of light and dark scattered across his eyes. The blow momentarily deafened him. He saw Peaches shout at the man and then she ran for the road.

Go for it, Peaches!

Cotton-wool silence in his ears suddenly popped clear as the thugs screamed instructions to each other. The last glimpse he had of Bobby was of the wet-suited figure limping from his previous injuries but running as hard as he could for the possible safety of the tree line across the road.

Then a sickening sound came out of the night. Car tires locked in a terrifying skid. Tortured rubber compound tore from the treads. Shouts mingled, headlights skewered the night with yellow glare—a car spun out of control, its driver attempting to avoid Sharkface’s men on the road.

Moments later a stomach-churning thump.

A body was hit.

Metal screamed. Glass smashed.

Silence.

Sayid watched as some of the gang ran to the damaged car. Sharkface ignored the slumped driver behind the wheel and ran back twenty meters. Peaches leaned into the wreck as two of Sharkface’s men helped ease the driver to his feet. The man was alive, groggy on his feet; then he collapsed.

Sayid’s eyes picked out Sharkface and the others. They bent over a body on the grassy verge. A black-clad body.

And then they turned away.

“Bobby!” Sayid screamed into the night.

Sullen faces turned towards him. Sharkface and his men ran back towards the vans. Sayid was thrown into the surfer’s van. The door slammed closed. The thugs were back in charge.

The van rumbled across the verge, rolling Sayid against the walls. Fear coiled around him—a snake squeezing the life from his lungs.

Max. Help me. Please
.

Think, Sayid! Think!
Another part of his brain shouted back, ridiculing his silent cries for help.

What was it? What didn’t fit? What had he seen?

The car’s lights—whipping out of control.

The gut-churning impact.

The crash—slow motion.

Bobby lying dead or injured. Sharkface shouting to the others. Everyone running back to the vans. The gang running back to the vans … the gang running … the gang and Peaches running back to the van.

And that was when Sayid knew what was so terribly wrong.