David Gilman - Blood Sun

Jackson had lied; Stanton was beginning to be sure of it. He was protecting one of his pupils. Max Gordon was somewhere in that school, and if somehow Maguire had managed to get any kind of message to him, what would he do? Try to find answers.

Under cover of darkness, Stanton edged the Range Rover beneath the overhang of a hollowed-out rock face. The night shadows swallowed the 4?4 easily, and the shelter allowed a brief respite from the cutting wind. The rain had not come, but a scarring north wind had frozen the last snowfall. From their vantage point, he and a less-than-happy Drew gazed across the hills, beyond the moon-white river, toward the fortresslike Dartmoor High.

Wind crept and growled. Oak beams, hundreds of years old, creaked and twisted, moaning their discomfort like trapped ghosts. In the darkness of the school, only a couple of dim lights glowed at the end of each corridor.

Max’s headlamp cut a wedge into the blackness. Sayid followed him down the stairs, a constant whispering of apprehension, teasing Max’s ear like a draft from below the heavy-paneled doors.

Max stopped. “Sayid,” he said quietly, “shut up.”

“Sorry. But it’s two in the morning and I’ve never liked the dark. And all this creaking and groaning gives me the creeps.”

A door banged closed somewhere. Max turned off the light, grabbed his friend’s arm and pulled him into the blackness of the stairwell.

Footsteps. Leather shoes creaking. A cough. A door opening and closing. Somewhere to the left. Max whispered close to Sayid’s ear. “Probably Mr. Chaplin. He’s the only one who wears leather-soled shoes. And he fancies a hot chocolate before he goes to bed.”

“Which is where we should be,” said Sayid, grimacing.

Max led him down the corridor, eased open a set of swing doors, careful not to let the hinges squeak, and finally squatted down in front of Mr. Jackson’s door with his prized multitool pocketknife.

Metal scraped metal inside the old mortise lock. He eased the handle, the lever clicked and he scurried into Mr. Jackson’s office with a huffing and puffing Sayid behind him. He was scared and it made his breathing ragged.

Max gestured. Stay at the door. Listen. Watch . Max knelt in front of the safe. Like the granite of Dartmoor High, it looked solid. It was about the size of an undercounter fridge, had one opening lever and a combination dial. The best plan when robbing a safe is to steal the whole thing and then blow it up later, but Max couldn’t see that happening with only Sayid’s bike for transport and a few bangers from last year’s firework display. A half-empty Pot Noodle cup stood on a shelf next to the safe. Max could just see Mr. Jackson mooching around his bookshelves, putting the container down and forgetting about it.

Memory carries smells and tastes, and as Max pressed his hands against the cold steel, his mind flooded with both.

Hong Kong. Rich spicy food, the soft misty air of steaming noodles. A cacophony of sounds. A trip when he was eleven to meet his parents, who were investigating the massive contamination the Chinese government was inflicting on the rivers and coasts of China. Tom Gordon had been banned from the mainland, and what was supposed to be a few days’ holiday turned into a daily round of arguments between his parents and government officials. He didn’t know the exact details of what was going on, but his mother woke him in the early hours one morning and told him to get dressed. She was packing their holdalls. Where was his dad? he had wanted to know. In the manager’s office sorting things out, she had told him, putting a finger to her lips. The moment her back was turned, Max ran down to the darkened reception area.

A night doorman, feet propped up, snored behind the desk, and a soft glow of light crept beneath the manager’s door.

Max turned the handle and came face to face with his dad, who was kneeling in front of a safe. For a moment he thought his dad was going to strike him-he had moved so quickly. Faster than a striking cobra. It was the trigger of recognition that stopped him from finishing the attack. He quickly closed the door behind Max and eased him to the safe.

“Our passports and laptops are in here. The manager’s been told that the police are coming first thing to interview us. Which could prove awkward,” his dad said, and smiled.

Max was in awe of his father. Everything he did seemed to have such a definite purpose. He just nodded while his dad kept up a whispered running commentary as his fingers delicately tweaked the safe’s dial.

“You have to find the contact points on the lock. You listen for the click. That tells you which way the lock’s drive cams-its levers and arms-are balanced inside.” He had pulled Max’s face to the safe, turned a notch and let him hear the soft click. Max nodded enthusiastically. This was great stuff. Safecracking with his dad!

“Old hotels, old safes. Not that difficult. Look …” There were a hundred numbers on the dial, and his fingers turned the pointer to rest on the number sixty. “That’s called parking the wheels, aligning the clicks you heard, and then you have narrowed down what the combination is.”

His dad caressed the wheel with his fingertips. “Now, when I move the dial, these drive cams click out of place again, left or right. Find which way”-he listened again, head pressed against the safe door-“and you should … get in.”

Max heard a final accepting click. His dad opened the safe and hauled out their papers and their laptops, shoving them into a backpack.

“How did you learn to do that?” Max remembered asking his father when they had finally found the safety of the plane home.

“My dad taught me,” Tom Gordon said, and smiled.

“Max! How did you do that?” Sayid asked as Max opened Jackson’s safe.

“It’s a long story,” he whispered, subduing the prickling emotion he felt at his father’s memory. He found the name-tagged keys he was looking for. “Come on, let’s go.”

“What about the safe?”

“We leave it open. I’ve got to get this key back.”

“We’re coming back ?” Sayid felt the wall of his stomach twitch. His family owed so much to Max and his dad. His own father had been assassinated in the Middle East, and it was Tom Gordon who had rescued Sayid and his mother. It was Tom Gordon who’d secured a home in England for them because of the brave work his own dad had done-and because Tom Gordon was a sworn friend, almost like a brother, to his father. His mother taught Arabic at Dartmoor High, and Sayid had never felt safer. Max was his very best friend. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to help him. But he did not want to be caught and kicked out. It was not just his own life that might be ruined-it was his mother’s too.

Max saw the doubt flicker across Sayid’s eyes.

“It’s a piece of cake. You’ll see. Come on.”

But Sayid shook his head.

“Sayid!” Max insisted.

“I can’t. Anything happens and I’ve messed up Mum’s life.”

There was an uncharacteristic look of anger on Max’s face. He needed Sayid to keep watch for him. Now he was chickening out. He checked himself. Sayid was right. He had to look after his mother. He was all she had. Max nodded, patted his shoulder.

“Off you go, mate. I can do the rest and-”

Shrill, heart-stopping ringing tore through the stillness, cutting off Max’s words. An alarm? Had he triggered something? The thousandth-of-a-second thought was immediately dismissed. It was Jackson’s phone.

Sayid flinched. Max nearly dropped the keys as he scrambled to pull Sayid between the safe and office door. A light flickered on in the corridor. Mr. Jackson’s private quarters were down the hall.