David Gilman - Ice Claw

Beyond the lake and city, piranha-toothed mountain peaks raised themselves skywards, snapping at him as if he were a morsel being tossed into their jaws. Welcome to the land of cuckoo clocks, chocolate and violent death.

Corentin watched the passengers move through Geneva International Airport’s arrival hall. Max Gordon would be heading for the airport’s train station, which would take him to the center of town, six minutes away. He didn’t want to miss the boy. Trains ran every fifteen minutes, but if Max Gordon spotted him he would run-and that could ruin everything. There were other kids milling around, a damned school trip. He flipped open his mobile. Thierry was looking out for Sophie at the Gare de Cornavin-the main train station in town.

“She there yet?”

“Train’s running early. Another five minutes.”

“Damn. It’s too close, Thierry. He’s gonna miss her. Stay with her. I’ll take the kid here.”

Corentin broke cover. He had to flush Max into the open. Make him run. Scare him into panic. That was when Corentin would get him, when the boy’s head gave him wrong directions and few choices. Out the doors, into the streets-vulnerable. Traffic, and the chance that the kid didn’t know Geneva, would give Corentin the edge.

Max mingled with the school trip. The Italian youngsters chatted and shouted, excited about going to Lake Geneva; the cacophony of voices mangled any chance of the teachers’ instructions being followed. Nonetheless, their practiced herding abilities shepherded the children towards the main exit doors.

Max allowed the surge to carry him along, his eyes looking beyond them, flitting along the scattered people in the terminal. He checked a wall clock. Still time. Sophie’s trans-European train wasn’t due for another half hour. As the school tour swarmed, Max stepped out from among the confining bodies. He quickly made his way towards the escalators at the end of the terminal that would take him down to the platforms. If he could reach Sophie he’d get straight on a city train to the nuclear research center and warn them. Had Fauvre got through? Had he convinced them of anything? Or was Max going to arrive and be met with blank incomprehension-or the police?

As he passed one of the automated ticket machines he saw the dark shape of a big man in a leather jacket. And his eyes bored right into Max. It was the same hard man from Mont la Croix who had tracked him to the hospital at Pau. How had he found him? It didn’t matter, Max was already sprinting for the escalators, but he could see that the big man moved just as fast-he was fit and strong. The escalator’s grooved tongue swallowed Max downwards, but not quickly enough. Max got his backside onto the rubber handrail and slid down faster than he could run.

A train clattered away. The platform was empty except for a couple of bewildered tourists. Max sprinted towards the end of the concourse; he’d jump down and run if he had to, right between the tracks. He didn’t have to look behind him to know that the man chasing him was close. Max was younger and fitter; he would outrun him. He would make the older man suck air until his lungs couldn’t take it any longer. But that wasn’t happening. If anything, the man was gaining on him.

Max was running out of platform. The tunnels would be dangerous, but there was no choice. He had to jump onto the tracks. In the split second of his decision he saw a service door to his left. The NO ENTRY sign was for the rest of the world, not Max Gordon. Throwing his weight against the push bars, he tumbled into the corridor. Halfway up the service corridor’s walls, red, blue and green stripes ran like London’s Underground route map. If only it were-he’d know exactly which direction to take. The doors slammed open behind him.

“Max Gordon! Stop!”

Max ran on, momentarily bewildered as to why the hard man called him by name. He ran deeper into the corridor, bounced his shoulder against the end wall as he turned left, almost ricocheted off the opposite continuing wall, and saw another door, painted red, another sign-it indicated HIGH VOLTAGE DANGER. It was a T-junction. Blue line left, green line right.

He ran left, saw the flight of stairs, knew he’d made the right decision and leapt up the first four steps.

Double doors, one-way exit. Fresh air blasted his face. It was a stunning day. The cold air gave him a spurt of energy, and the brightly lit sky was a glorious cosmic arc lamp that beamed down, adding power to his legs.

Running hard along the side of the building, he saw that the area was enclosed by security fencing-access was through a manned barrier four hundred meters away. If he didn’t get out of this enclosed space, the man chasing him seemed intent on only one thing.

Max reached the fence. Coiled razor wire meant he could not go over the top. He turned, pushing his back into the mesh, using it as a springboard to push himself away again. The bulk of his pursuer loomed a meter away. How had he caught him so quickly! He anticipated Max’s dummy jig to the right, an arm caught Max around the neck, and suddenly he was smothered. But the man didn’t squeeze the life out of him, he held him, letting Max squirm and fight and yank at the encircling arm. Max kicked hard against the man’s shins. He never flinched. Max was held like a wild animal in a net, and the more he fought the quicker he weakened.

He was not going to die! Not without a fight. He slumped, let his weight fall, knowing it would take the man by surprise as the wriggling mass suddenly became limp. Then he would roll free.

It didn’t work.

The man went down on one knee, supporting Max’s weight, and twisted his arm, so that Max was turned away from him. His knee pressed into the small of Max’s back as he held him with a grip that felt like iron.

Facedown, arm behind his back, cheek pressed into the tarmac. This was the end. Max knew it. This gorilla was going to snap his neck. Dad! Help me! Max was blacking out, the air forced from his lungs. Yet still he tried to kick and squirm. A useless attempt to stave off the inevitable. The sunlight blinded him, blood pounded in his ears. He saw peaks and snow, remembered Aladfar’s warmth, smelled the mountain bear’s musty fur as the eagle’s scream echoed through his memory. But no strength came to him. No animal power surged through his body.

Max had become an endangered species.

Sayid shivered. The men searched him, ripped apart his backpack, shredding it for any evidence the boy might have about Zabala’s clues. They found nothing. They let him get dressed, but Sayid’s trembling was not due only to cold and fear; his body needed food and drink. His throbbing foot hurt, the pain robbing his nervous system of what little stamina he had left.

Tishenko knew Sayid had little value other than to entrap Max. His killer had sent word to the Moroccan girl. She would bring Max Gordon to Geneva because no one would let their friend die. Not that it mattered. In a few hours they would all die anyway.

“Get him a wheelchair,” Tishenko said to one of the men.

He sat opposite Sayid, his scaly fingers lifting Sayid’s chin so he could not avoid Tishenko’s eyes. “You are tired, boy.”

Sayid nodded. He did not want to begin any kind of conversation with this man.

“And you are in pain from your broken foot. I understand pain. It can suck the life out of you, take you to a point where you no longer care whether you live or die. Are you at that point?”

“No, no. I don’t want to die.”

“Of course you do not. There is nothing for you to be afraid of. I will not cause you any pain, I promise you. But you would like some hot food and to sleep?”

Again, Sayid nodded. The whisperlike voice was almost hypnotic.