David Gilman - Ice Claw

Marty was never too surprised at some of the people who visited the patients at St. Christopher’s, or about some of the phone calls they received. “So where is Max?” he asked.

Tom Gordon pushed compacted dirt off the trowel with his thumb, rubbed his fingers together to disperse the soil. He seemed deep in thought. Then he looked up and shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Max and Sophie reached the main road. He wished he could just climb into the Mercedes he had taken from the Germans at the Chateau d’Abbadie, but it was parked a couple of kilometers away in a high-rise apartments’ car park. Max hadn’t wanted anyone tracing the stolen car to the comtesse’s chateau.

His plan now was to be as low-key as he could. An edgy certainty tugged at him. All his instincts said that going to Morocco was a huge step towards uncovering Zabala’s secret. He would let Sophie lead the way. If she was his enemy he would soon know, as he was putting himself right on the line being with her. The sea fog comforted him, blurring shapes, then revealed a bus gliding almost silently out of the white mist.

When the bus pulled in he let Sophie board first. He kept his ski beanie low across his forehead and ducked his face when he followed her inside. She slotted the money into the small machine that curled out a ticket, and then he nudged her into a seat a couple of rows behind it, on the opposite side of the driver.

He sat upright, face turned, looking out of the window. Act natural, be natural. Two kids on a bus.

“I don’t have enough money to get to Morocco,” he had told Sophie. She didn’t think twice. She had a credit card and she would book everything. All they had to do was get out of Biarritz, down to St. Jean de Luz, forty minutes away near the Spanish border. Trains ran regularly to the Spanish town of Bilbao and from that old industrial town they could get a cheap flight into Morocco. The Spanish wouldn’t be looking for him-not yet, at least.

St. Jean de Luz, a smart seaside town, still drew tourists even at this time of year, but compared to the bigger city of Biarritz, it felt like a crossroads between the Atlantic slamming against the sea wall and the Basque Pyrenees guarding its people and secrets. Sea mist still clawed across the coast road and railway line, and the damp night chill settled like dew on Max’s jacket.

The railway station was almost deserted, the sea fog adding to his sense of vulnerability-an enemy could be on him before he saw them. He and Sophie had barely spoken a word since they left the comtesse, and they now sat hunched on a station bench against the increasingly cold mist. Better to be in the open than caught inside. Small places meant an easier chance of being identified, and the station cafe had a television on the wall. He didn’t know how often French television had a news broadcast, but he didn’t want to be in there when it came on.

The train was late. Two dark-coated figures walked slowly towards them from the end of the platform. Each carried a submachine gun slung around his chest, hands resting deceptively casually on the butt. Their slow, steady pace showed their authority. They were gendarmes, and they were walking towards Max and Sophie.

Stay or run?

There were half a dozen rail tracks to get across before the road. To the right the river’s inlet meant an exposed footbridge.

The lazy grinding of the approaching train’s wheels and the air-shuddering engine noise caused one of the gendarmes to turn. If Max was going to run, it had to be now. He looked at Sophie, whose eyes looked past his face, then quickly glanced back. A barely perceptible shake of her head.

His mind raced. Were they on to him or was this a routine patrol?

One of the gendarmes shifted the weight of the submachine gun. For comfort? Or readying for action?

Sociopathic killer! Max’s brain screamed at him. That was who they were looking for.

Cops-five meters away.

The train-twenty meters.

Sophie smiled.

Her hands cupped his face and her lips covered his. Her hand dropped and pulled his arm around her in a quick, easy motion, taking care of his dumbfounded surprise and his slow response.

He closed his eyes, caught between fear of the gendarmes, now standing almost next to them, and the warmth and safety of Sophie’s embrace. Somewhere in the background, muted by his pounding heart and the blood that stormed around his body like water through bad plumbing, the heavy metal wheels screeched and ground to a halt. Doors slammed open. A scratched and incomprehensible voice blared through the station’s public-address system.

Max opened an eye.

The cops had moved on. One of them smiled-or was that a smirk? — to the other.

Without another look, or another word, Sophie was off the bench and within four or five strides stepped into the train.

Max was right behind her.

It all seemed so calculated. Which is what it was, of course. Why was he thinking it was anything other than that?

She had acted on impulse to save them. A perfect ruse. An ideal smokescreen.

Why hadn’t he thought of it first?

He slammed the door behind him. She was already sitting, peering around, checking that they would have a clear view of anyone coming down the carriage. She looked at him but didn’t smile. She pulled off her coat and beret. It was hot in the carriage.

Max looked out of the door window as the train pulled away. The gendarmes had sauntered to the cafe. There was no sense of urgency about the two men. It had been a routine patrol after all.

Max pulled up the window, caught his reflection and saw he was smiling. He checked his thoughts, then glanced at a stony-faced Sophie, who barely met his gaze. Reality check.

The train pulled away.

In the cafe Corentin wiped the condensation from the window and watched the carriages disappear. Thierry splashed two lumps of brown sugar in his coffee. Corentin’s phone was at his ear.

They came like scurrying rats. Out of the darkness, a silent attack. One or two of them grunted in pain as the razor wire sliced flesh. They landed on the far side of the wall and the blackness swallowed them.

Only one light, high up, spilled out into the night, sea fog shrouding it-like a specter.

Isolation meant danger could arrive in a leisurely way, and the killers showed no sign of haste. They soon found the flimsy window catches and slipped into the silence of the old chateau.

The light from the comtesse’s bedroom sneaked into the lounge. The doors to the balcony were open, and she sat, as she did every night when alone, letting the sea breeze and crashing surf caress her tired mind and the sadness in her heart. As much as she loved her children and Bobby, her only grandchild, it was her soldier husband she longed for. How little people understood those who served their country. She sipped the rough red wine and inhaled the strong French tobacco. What no one knew was that she was dying. Too many cigarettes, not enough food, or just the hand of fate? She didn’t know. She did not care. She was old. It was her time. And for some reason she had not seen it in the cards. It had been a life well lived. She had done her duty to her family, and even though she knew she lived in a half world of fantasy, she had honored the memory of the real comtesse.

The blanket clouds slid briefly away from the moon and bathed her in magical, veiled light, and that was when she realized the creatures had slipped into her sanctuary. The lack of panic surprised her. The four young men stayed back in the corners of the room; she could barely make out their features, but she could see their eyes. Dead. Soulless. Uncaring and unflinching. These boys would kill without a second thought. She stood slowly, turning her back to the sea and moon, hoping the light behind her would mask the fear that suddenly strangled her heart. But her voice was calm.