David Gilman - The Devil's breath

“It’s a heck of a tidy place, sir.”

“I suppose it is. I don’t see it that way. To me it’s … ordered. When you’re climbing, you need to know where every bit of kit is, sometimes in a hurry. It’s less stressful knowing where things are, as I learned when I was in the army.”

“I didn’t know you were in the army, sir. I thought you climbed mountains before you became a teacher.”

Sayid’s brain was racing. If Peterson had been in the army, was he still connected somehow? He had read that some ex-soldiers worked in security or as mercenaries. What if someone had paid Peterson to arrange the attempt on Max’s life? Sayid had to work hard to keep his imagination under control. He was in the room, and that was all that mattered. Now he had to keep things rolling until he could find a way of getting the small transmitter into Peterson’s phone. He edged around the room. A cordless phone sat on one corner of the desk. The slide-off battery compartment on the handset might not offer enough room for the bugging device, but the base unit would serve just as well. Better, in fact, because the phone signal would go through there from the handset.

While he tried to think how to pull it off, he studied some watercolors on the wall, which weren’t badly executed. One of them held Sayid’s attention. It was of a mighty snow-covered peak-higher than those surrounding it. The setting sun bruised the sky, absorbed by the snow. Peterson noticed his interest. “Mount McKinley,” the teacher told him.

“Alaska,” Sayid answered.

Peterson smiled and nodded. His geography teaching hadn’t fallen completely on deaf ears then. He poured water into a kettle. There were two mugs, two spoons, sugar and milk.

“Did you climb it?”

“Yes.”

“How high is it?” Sayid said, buying time.

“Twenty thousand three hundred and twenty feet-the north peak is a few hundred less. I still think in feet when it comes to mountains.” Peterson was making coffee for them both without asking if Sayid wanted any.

“Why not take pictures, sir? Why paint them?”

“Ah, well. Anyone can take a photo. Painting requires a certain eye, a certain attitude. I suppose it’s almost a kind of meditation. You sit there, get absorbed by the subject … it’s a skill I don’t have.”

“Then you didn’t paint these?”

Peterson handed Sayid the mug of coffee, studied the map on his desk for a moment, and turned it slightly so that Sayid could see it more clearly. It was a map of Namibia.

“No, I didn’t. Max’s father did.”

Max’s father! Max had never mentioned to Sayid that Peterson knew his dad, and Sayid was certain that, if it was true, then Max certainly didn’t know about it. And if that was the case, why wouldn’t Max’s dad have told him? Peterson had to be lying, trying to draw Sayid into giving information. It was sinister. Peterson was studying him closely and Sayid suddenly felt that his geography teacher was a lot more than he seemed.

“Max never went to Canada.”

“He didn’t?” Sayid hoped his look of surprise was convincing.

“Has he contacted you?”

“No, I thought he was just getting over everything.

Y’know, the attack and his dad …” He shrugged, there was nothing more to add.

Peterson tapped the map. “I know he’s in Namibia.”

Sayid gazed at the outline. It looked huge and empty- Blimey, Max, where are you? Sayid had to string this out as long as he could. “Namibia,” he muttered as if he weren’t sure where it was.

Peterson smiled. “Namibia. You know where I mean.”

“Oh yes, sir. I just can’t believe he’s there. I mean, why Namibia?”

Peterson watched him for a moment. Sayid felt as though he was being scanned by a magnetic resonance-imaging machine. Peterson’s eyes seemed to go right through him. Sayid felt his stomach quiver. Peterson was starting to scare him, yet he had said nothing threatening or ominous.

“I want to find Max,” Peterson finally said. “I want to help him. I believe he’s in grave danger and I know people who can get to him, who might just save his life. He’s out there in the wilderness and he’s not equipped to survive. Whatever you can tell me will help him. Do you understand?”

Sayid nodded. These “people” were probably the ones hunting Max right now. Sayid remembered the last text message Max had sent him. Don’t trust Peterson. “I wish I could tell you something, sir. Max is my mate, but … well, I just don’t know anything.”

Before Mr. Peterson could ask any further questions a sudden commotion exploded in the corridor. Two boys ran past at full tilt, yelling, followed by a terrific bang as they knocked over a bench and a picture above it. Baskins and Hoggart, the two boys who were always scrapping.

Peterson strode to the door and shouted: “You boys! Stop that! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Baskins and Hoggart had given Sayid the chance he needed. He grabbed the phone’s cradle and turned it over. The base had four small screws holding it together; although he had come prepared with a watchmaker’s screwdriver, there was no time to undo them and slip in the tiny transmitter which now stubbornly refused to be held by his fingers as he searched for it in his pocket. The shouting outside stopped, there was a muted apology from the two boys, and Peterson told them to get back to their dorm. He was only a couple of dozen paces away now and heading back in. Sayid saw there was a small gap in the base beneath a plastic hook which the thin transformer cable could be wound around for storage. He finally teased the elusive bug from his pocket and dropped it into the hole. He would just have to hope that it would work.

No sooner had he turned the phone right side up and pretended to turn his attention back to the map of Namibia than his cell phone rang, making his already-stretched nerves jump. He flipped it open as Peterson came back into the room. Sayid couldn’t take his eyes off the words on the blue screen.

“Something important?” Peterson asked. It sounded innocent, but Sayid knew it was a shorthand way of asking if the call had anything to do with what they had been discussing.

“Oh, er … just my mother … she’s trying to find me. I was supposed to have extra lessons.”

Peterson seemed to accept the inevitable. “All right, Sayid, get going. But if you hear from Max, I’d like to know. We’ll talk again later.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sayid got out as fast as he could and ran for his room. Peterson had already picked up the handset and was about to make a call. Now that the bug was in place, Sayid needed to get his computer up and running to organize the trace.

And there was another reason for hurry. The text message was from Kallie. Only six words, but they meant that Max was in a much more dangerous game than Sayid had realized. He had to erase the message in case Peterson appeared like a ghost and snatched the phone from him. He looked at the text again: Leopold dead. Peterson knows. Max missing.

Three points on the compass-Max, Sayid and Kallie.

And none of them could know that Max was only hours away from death.

The night brought ghosts.

Silver shadows flickered through the bony limbs of trees, making the dry grass flicker like will-o’-the-wisps. The moonlight played with the breeze, teasing Max’s imagination as he sat diligently on guard duty. The boys were vulnerable to night predators, so while one slept the other kept watch. Max yawned, opening his eyes as wide as he could, and stretched away the fatigue that clawed at him. The moving shadows were enough to frighten him into wake-fulness for a while, but even fear must ultimately yield to exhaustion. However, his drooping eyelids flew open again when a jackal’s high-pitched, wavering call came from somewhere nearby. The slight breeze brought the twittering cries of a distant pack of wild hunting dogs. Perhaps they had made a kill somewhere.