David Gilman - The Devil's breath

“The Bushman was still at the farm?” he asked.

She nodded. “He wouldn’t leave until ‘the fair-haired boy came who was sent to be with them.’ That’s what he said. Pa, you know they have a sixth sense about these things. What could I do? Say no? Tell him to go home?”

Her father pulled up his coat collar. He hated the damp. He hated not flying. But he loved his daughter. He looked at her, the moisture from the fog clinging to his beard. Then he shook his head. “No. He sounds like a brave boy.” He kissed her cheek, turned towards the airfield’s building and pointed a finger at her. “But when this weather lifts, you fly straight back to the farm. Enough is enough. Understand?” She nodded, and he put his arm around her. “Good. Come on, buy your old man a cup of coffee. God, I hate this weather.”

Kallie returned his hug and fell into step as they set off for the airfield clubhouse. She wanted to make radio contact with Max, to see if he was all right. She was responsible for helping him, she knew that; but now she felt like a big sister towards the English boy. And, from her experience, brothers always got into trouble.

A low-pressure weather front had moved across the North Atlantic, tumbled across Ireland and then punished the Devon coast with torrential rain. Dartmoor High’s granite walls kept the elements at bay, but during storms like these, when the clouds hugged the high ground and enshrouded the school, the long, low-lit corridors and stairwells created an almost sinister atmosphere. And shadows seemed to move when they shouldn’t. It was all in the imagination, Sayid told himself as he skulked along, hugging the gloomier side of the corridor’s walls. Since he had sent the message telling Max that Peterson knew where he was, there had been no contact with his friend. And there had been no chance for Sayid to eavesdrop again on Peterson, so yesterday he had taken matters into his own hands. He needed a piece of equipment from a specialist shop in London that he could buy on the web. And for that he needed a credit card, and there was only one place where he could find one: his mother.

Sayid had been brought up with a strict code of behavior, and theft and dishonesty were considered “heinous crimes” according to his mother and his late father. But Sayid had no choice but to use his mother’s credit card illegally and order what he needed. His mother would have done anything she could to help Max, but then she would have asked why he needed this particular device, and then he would have had to explain that he wanted to bug Peterson’s phone; his mother would have thrown a wobbly, and matters would have got totally out of hand. He had four weeks before his mother would discover the item on her credit card billing, so he would worry about the consequences when the time came. By then, he hoped, Max would have returned safely. It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried another way of doing things. He had tried to hack into Peterson’s computer, but the granite walls, as well as Peterson’s firewall, stopped him. Sayid soothed away his guilt over the card. There had been no choice. Not if he was to help his friend.

He had to discover who Peterson reported to, so that he could relay that information to Max and Farentino. But how to get into Peterson’s locked room was another problem altogether.

Shaka Chang could buy anything he desired, but he could not get the information he needed from Tom Gordon. The scientist had outwitted Chang and hidden the vital evidence which could ruin Chang’s plans for good. He comforted himself with the thought that the scientist was no longer of any consequence; Tom Gordon would not be telling anyone anything. But Chang had a grudging admiration for the boy who had set out from England. Max Gordon’s determination could prove more troublesome than he expected. Once his men had driven him and the Bushman boy into the Valley of Bones, Max had held little interest for Chang; now he began to wonder if he had been too hasty in that dismissal. If by some absolute fluke the boy survived, and if, as he suspected, the boy’s father had somehow told him where to find the information that was so very damaging-then he should not underestimate the emotional strength of anyone trying to save a loved one. Not that Shaka Chang had ever been loved. Feared and loathed, yes. Love was too difficult and complex an emotion to analyze, but he did recognize it as a driving force in others.

Mr. Slye, ever aware of his master’s desire to be in total control of any given situation, muttered that perhaps it would be prudent to double-check on the boy’s survival. Chang agreed. “Send them back again. No excuses. Find either the boy’s body or, if wild animals have had him, his remains.”

“And if by any chance they track him down and he is still alive …?” Slye asked. He would never presume to offer a complete answer to any situation: suggestions were complimentary to his employer’s intelligence; a solution without one being requested, impertinent.

“Kill him on sight. Either result will be a satisfactory outcome, Mr. Slye.”

“The men who failed before? Should I order them to hunt down the boy?”

“Yes. But lessons must be learned.”

Mr. Slye dipped his head slightly in acknowledgment.

“How very wise, if I may say so, sir.”

Chang sighed. Slye’s brazen pandering was, in many ways, repulsive, but in this lay his value to Chang. Absolute obedience and a mind that Chang recognized as being one of the most devious, informed and manipulative he had ever known. Chang gazed for a moment at his weasel-like body. If only Slye’s teeth had not been so pointed and he was more photogenic, he would have made a first-class politician.

The driver who had led those failed hunters was already being taken care of, and the example made of him would be witnessed firsthand by the others. Chang believed lessons should often be taught with a sharp slap on the wrist, so to speak. A little pain never hurt anybody, was Chang’s motto.

He stood on the huge balcony. Thirty meters below him, the fort’s gates opened. This would be an excellent start to the day. A juicy slice of melon melted on his tongue. He forked another piece into his mouth from the bowl of chilled mixed fruits that he always had for breakfast and gazed indulgently at his beloved crocodiles by the river. He loved to spoil them. So much so that he had decided to give the monstrous creatures a morsel for breakfast. The driver.

He watched as the small motorboat chugged out into midstream. The crocodiles on the sandbanks lifted their snouts. Who needed guard dogs when any intruder would have to get past them? The screaming man, held firmly by the very men who had accompanied him in the pickup, was unceremoniously bundled over the side, and the vessel beat a hasty retreat. The floundering man was very much the center of attention as half a dozen crocodiles powered towards him. How nice to be wanted, Shaka Chang thought as he squelched a ripe grape between his teeth. He turned to Slye. “I do hope he doesn’t give the crocodiles indigestion-they are a protected species.”

Finally the horrifying screams stopped. The churned water settled. Chang nodded to a white-gloved servant: he would have his coffee now. A low rumble of thunder groaned across the horizon; perhaps there would be some rain in a couple of days. Either that or it was the crocodiles’ stomachs, dealing with their breakfast.

A cool breeze, or even a full-blown storm, would have been welcome so far as Max was concerned. He and!Koga had set out at dawn, heading for the distant mountains, but within a couple of hours the temperature was already over forty degrees Celsius.!Koga reckoned they could reach the foot-hills of the peaks by that night if they moved quickly enough and if they were lucky in the hunt. It was the “moving quickly” that Max was struggling with. Bushmen can chase down a wounded buck for a whole day before they finish the kill, but Max was struggling to breathe the lung-searing air after a couple of hours, and they were only walking.