The Devil's Breath (34 page)

But where could Max escape to? He tried to reason it out. If the fort had been built in the 1800s, then there certainly wouldn’t have been any lift shafts in place, all that came later with Shaka Chang. So, there had to be stairs, especially down to the basement area, where the original old iron grid lay across the water tank. In their day, servants might have hauled water up to the kitchens and living quarters. There must be steps going higher. If there was a way up to that hangar without using the lift, that was his best chance of getting himself and his dad out of this murderous place.

Using screwdrivers from the maintenance man’s tool belt, Max had wedged open the doors he needed to get through, but he had to make a move quickly. It seemed likely, he reasoned, that the lift shaft would have been dropped down alongside any stairwell that had been cut into the rock face a hundred-odd years ago. Max trundled his father out into the area where the lift doors opened. Somewhere on one side or the other of that modern glass cage was his way out. He gazed up into the darkening space that would swallow the lift car, letting his eyes search the cables and steel supports. It was open rock at the back of that structure, all the way up, as far as he could see.

He had missed the obvious. He must be more tired than
he realized. There was a door with a small danger sign—
HIGH VOLTAGE
. The door felt as solid as steel and it was locked. The maintenance man was still trussed up—but his work belt sat like a gunslinger’s holster around Max’s waist. His fingers searched out a screwdriver. He would use it to twist and break the lock, but then he saw the T-bar of a short metal rod, about fifty centimeters long and with a beveled base, in a small pocket of its own. It fitted perfectly between his fingers, allowing him to grip and turn the T-piece. The angled cuts at the end of the bar slid into the hexagonal lock on the door. A twist of his wrist and the door opened. Just like the gas man opening the meter box, back home.

Half a dozen stairs rose up before him and then dog-legged to the right, following a zigzag path upwards behind the lift shaft. He would never get a wheelchair up there.

A light came on above the lift door. The top floor. Shaka Chang’s private domain. Someone was in the lift and they were coming down.

Third floor.

Second.

Time had just run out.

Mr. Slye felt uneasy.

Routine was the backbone of his world. A rigid system of behavioral patterns meant people were always doing what they should be doing at the time they should be doing it. But there had been no reply when he phoned Dr. Zhernastyn.

And the tracking computer had shown that the doctor had left the medical area, gone to the hangar and returned again. That was a break in his routine. Why had he gone there? For what reason? There was nothing there that … Ah. A flush of relief soothed Mr. Slye’s anxiety. Zhernastyn was a smoker. That disgusting addiction. It added to the stench of his breath and his rotting teeth, and smoking was strictly forbidden anywhere inside the fort. Zhernastyn had gone to the maintenance area to have a cigarette. That must be the reason. No matter, he was now back where he belonged and he could begin the torture of the captured scientist.

Slye closed his eyes and breathed a meditative sigh, releasing the tension he always kept so tightly entombed inside his cadaver-like body. He caught a brief glimpse of his reflection as the lift glided downwards; the glass darkened as it slipped past the rock wall. His black hair brushed severely back from his long, gaunt face gave him the appearance of an undertaker. Caring for and burying the dead. Yes, that was appropriate, he supposed. He cleared up so many secrets and buried them so deeply, only he knew where they were. If he were less loyal, he could make a fortune. If he were less scared, he would be dead.

The lift stopped. The doors opened. The voice welcomed him.

“Basement. Hydroelectric unit to the left, seismic recording instruments straight ahead and torture cells to the right. Have a nice day.”

“Oh, do shut up,” Mr. Slye muttered.

Max had undone the tool belt, lengthened it as far as it could go, then put it around his father. Squatting in front of the wheelchair, he pulled his dad onto his back, hooking the belt’s clasp around his own chest. He heaved the weight for balance and gave the wheelchair a shove back down the corridor, then dragged himself to the stairs. There was a light switch, but he didn’t dare to use it—he needed the etched darkness to hide them for as long as possible.

His knees buckled, but the steps helped him lean forward and bear his dad’s weight. He managed to clamber up half a dozen steps before the glass box that was the lift cage slid down past him. Max saw the back of a man dressed in black, his hair swept back over his head, hands behind him, fingers clutching a personal organizer. The man stepped out into the basement area and turned right towards the medical area. Max had probably less than a minute to get as far away as possible.

Max could hardly breathe because of the belt crushing his chest; sweat greased his body and the fetid air smelled like bad drains. If the slimy-looking man found Zhernastyn, he would know Max was inside the fort. A quick search of the basement would reveal the maintenance man and Mr. Death-Warmed-Up would realize that Max could not have escaped using the lift. And he would not fail to see Max through the glass.

Alice Through the Looking Glass, more like—crazy thoughts in a crazy, unreal world—words trying to make light of his predicament.
“Malice
Through the Looking Glass” would be better.
Concentrate! Climb!

He craned his neck upwards into the reflected light from
the lift shaft. The steps went on forever. He was never going to make it. His heart sank. He’d come so far, he’d found his father and the evidence, but this last effort was going to defeat him. A dull sheen on the rock face wall, a couple of meters ahead of him, had a different texture from the rest of the stairwell. He stared at it, trying to make out what it was, and then felt a hand grip his shoulder.

Startled, he tried to turn, thinking someone had sneaked up behind him, but then his dad spoke to him quietly. “Son, it’s OK.”

Max unclasped the belt and turned so he could ease his father into a sitting position, his back against the wall. “Dad, you’re awake.” Max couldn’t keep the relief out of his voice.

His father nodded, mouth dry from all the drugs, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m gonna be OK … it’ll take time…. Don’t think there’s much of that, though, do you? Where am I?”

“Behind the lift shaft. Dad, I’ve got to get us out of here, they’re checking on you now.”

His father nodded weakly. “I don’t know how you did all this, but you’ve got to go and find the evidence. You must, son. Leave me here. It’s in the Land Rover’s …”

Max smiled. “It’s done. I found your disc; there’s a computer in a huge garage of a place. I got the password and I sent it. It’s all gone—everything. Dad, we’ve just got to hide for a while until help comes.”

“How did you manage all that? Never mind … tell me later.”

Max turned his head away, listening to a snuffling,
scratching noise somewhere behind him. He closed his eyes in concentration and let his jaw open a little, which would help him hear more clearly. His father, knowing what was happening, stayed silent.

Max touched his dad’s arm. “Dad, I’ve got to go and find out what’s up there,” he whispered.

His father nodded. Max plucked a small Maglite torch from the workman’s belt and bounded up the steps, feeling as light as air without his father’s weight on his back. As he reached the darkened patch of rock, he saw it was a natural fissure running through the sheet of rock—and something moved inside it.

Max looked up the stairs to where they disappeared around a bend. That would take them higher, so it seemed the most obvious way to go. He looked at the gap again. It was wide enough for him to walk into, and cables and air duct pipes were fastened to the ceiling. He took a chance and moved inside. After a few steps, something coiled around his ankle. Max jerked back, his heart thumping, and fumbled for the torch’s switch. A snakelike black mass encircled his ankle: electrical cable, left behind by workmen.

He swept the torch beam across the narrow passageway. There! Something moved. Something that ran away. He heard snuffling, and what sounded like a dog’s whimper. Now the passage turned a corner and ran straight for another fifty meters. At the end, there appeared to be an opening, the light barely reflecting on the rock’s curved roof. The pipes in the ceiling ran out into what looked like some kind of generator box. Maybe this was part of the electrical system, but it was completely unimportant in that instant
because, right at the edge of the passage, was the shape of a jackal.

It sat, unmoving, facing him, ears erect.

Max couldn’t see its features. He stood rooted to the spot; neither he nor the jackal moved. But there was some kind of kinetic connection between them—a wordless communication. The figure of a jackal had been with him from the beginning, but this was the closest he had ever been to it.

He went down on his knees, never taking his eyes off the dark form. Moving on all fours, he edged closer, carefully and slowly, not understanding why, but knowing he must.

Now he was within arm’s reach. He could see its fur, layered into a thick mass, and the dull moisture of its nose. The jackal had not moved; it looked to be barely breathing. Max could smell its musky odor as his eyes searched its muzzle, exploring its features. There were no scars from old fights, only a gentle brush of gray fur suggesting that it was an older animal.

He was so close now, he could have moved a couple of centimeters and felt the wet nose on his forehead. The jackal opened its eyes. Max held his breath, not daring to move, mesmerized. The amber eyes drew him in, their gentleness touching something deep inside him. A rich warmth settled in his chest: a sublime sense of joy. He reached out to stroke the animal’s head.

He gasped—the jackal was gone!

Max tumbled into space. There was a drop of about twenty meters down to the floor of the hangar. He jolted to
a halt. One of the cables had snagged his ankle. Instinctively he tucked his chin in to his chest and shielded his head with his arms. His curved back slammed into the rock face and knocked the wind out of him. The agony knifed through his body, his senses swirled as he hung upside down, spread-eagled.

At the far end of the hangar, half a dozen men had gathered, their raucous voices whooping with pleasure, but he couldn’t make out what it was that held their attention.

He had to get out. Sooner or later one of those men would walk across the floor and see him swaying helplessly. Max bent his knees and crunched his stomach muscles. Rolling himself upwards, he snatched desperately at the cable. And missed! He fell back. Another thump in his back from the rock. Max held back a grunt of pain. If he made too much erratic movement, he would be noticed.

He wiped the sweat from his eyes, dried his hands on his shirt, and focused again through the throbbing blood that flooded his head. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled and lunged. His fingers touched the cable. He curled his hand, grasping the lifeline. Then, hand over hand, he heaved himself back over the ledge. Out of sight, he lay still, letting his breathing settle.

Had his imagination conjured up the jackal? Maybe it had tried to show him the way out and then sat, to stop him falling. He’d been stupid. Trying to reach out and touch it.

There was no sign of the jackal now, just as on other occasions when he had caught only a fleeting glimpse. But this was different—this was almost contact—creepy. So what?

So far as he was concerned, it was there. Max was learning not to apply logic to everything that happened. With a silent
thank you
to whoever was listening, he made his way back to his father.

Within a couple of minutes Max had secured lengths of the cable around each of them and quietly warned his father about the men at the far side of the hangar. “Can you manage to get down there?” he whispered. His father nodded.

The gap was wide enough for only one of them to climb through at a time. Max went first, then waited, feet planted firmly against the wall, to make sure his dad could follow.

With a lot of effort Tom Gordon eased himself next to his son, then together they lowered themselves, feeding out the cable as they walked backwards down the rock face. Four meters from the ground, they heard voices directly below them. They froze. Two men in mechanics’ overalls were manhandling a mobile toolbox. How long would the men stay there? Would they notice the cables? He looked at his father, who didn’t move, holding himself as still as Max, who knew he couldn’t stay like that for much longer. Max was amazed his dad had managed the descent at all, knowing he was operating on sheer willpower.

The men rumbled the toolbox away. Max waited until they were on the far side of the hangar, then he slithered down quietly. He picked up the slack from his father’s cable and reached up, his hands ready to take his weight. He kept glancing over his shoulder, but the men were out of sight now, since Max and his dad were obscured by the bulk of the Humvees. Tom Gordon was shaking from the exertion and needed time to recover. Max crept forward and put his head
over the door of one of the vehicles. The window was down and a small bottle of water nestled in a bottle-carrier between the armrests. As he reached in, he could see through the windscreen that the men were watching a big television screen secured to the wall at the end of the hangar. It sounded as though they were watching a football game because they were shouting and cheering.

Max let his father drink as they sat, huddled against the wall. The cables they had used still hung down from the crevicelike opening, but Max tied them off at the bottom, and to a casual onlooker they would look like any of the other electrical cabling around the place.

“Dad, I have to leave you here for a bit. I’ve got to try and find a way of jamming the works.”

His father looked uncertain. “Why?” And then his ravaged memory returned. “Oh yeah. My God, Max, this is crazy. You shouldn’t have come here. I don’t know how you got it all together.”