Hands of the Traitor (27 page)

"Take it easy, Jason." Frank twisted
the DCI ring round on his middle finger. There was no glamour
attached to wearing it. When his father had worn both signet rings,
and he'd impatiently awaited his twenty-first birthday in 1944, it
had been a magnificent object. An obsession. It was the promise of
this ring a month before his birthday that had lured him to wartime
France.

He stared at his hands, noticing the
ugly lines and folds in the skin. The green stone in the signet
ring glinted up at him. He turned it so he could no longer see the
eye. The English soldier had destroyed his life in '44.

"Are you sure you want to go on the pike?
We have to pay tolls." Jason overtook the hippie wagon on a
downhill section, but had to slow as they approached a large rotary
traffic island.

"They call their pikes
autoroute
s, and they're fast. Paris, then Geneva."

"The French cops could be looking for
us. They wait at the toll booths."

Frank continued to look at his hands,
saying nothing.

"Make up your mind, you old fool,"
snapped Jason. "I have to turn off. There's the sign."

"Go round once more. I'll take another
look at the route map."

The brakes came on hard.

"What the hell are you playing at,
boy?" Frank was flung forward against the seat belt. "You nearly
put me through the windshield, you son of a bitch!"

Jason was already out of the car. "Did
you see that? A chopper, twisting round in the air. It came down
over there!"

A ball of flame rose from beyond the
fields, forming a bright orange cloud against the morning
sky.

Frank clambered from the car to join
his son. "We can't afford to be witnesses. Let's get out of here."
He heard tires sliding on the highway, followed by the deafening
sound of crushing metal and breaking glass. He turned to see the
old hippie truck embedded in the back of their Citroen. "We sure as
dammit aren't going to get to Geneva in that," he
muttered.

A family of dirt-ingrained travelers
tumbled from the cab. A man with long greasy hair, and tattoos on
his bare arms and chest, started to jabber something in French.
Frank found it impossible to make out whether the man was angry or
apologetic, but his conversation involved plenty of arm waving. A
pregnant woman, in a red dress stained with food, joined the man
while the three children waited by the side of the rotary,
wailing.

A silver Audi sedan came down the hill
and stopped behind the truck. The occupants seemed more interested
in the large plume of smoke than the wrecked Citroen, and they ran
across the field towards the smoke, followed by the
hippy.

"Now what?" Frank needed his son's
help at times like this.

"We get another car. The Audi's
unlocked. We'll be gone before they get back."

As Jason jerked the driver's door
open, a shout came from the field. The driver of the Audi had seen
them and was now running back.

"We'll take the truck." Jason slammed
the door of the Audi.

The three children stood in the way,
clinging tearfully to their mother. Frank pushed them aside. The
front of the truck was crumpled, with jagged edges of bare metal
around the radiator grill. He could see a pool of black liquid
forming under the front wheels, but the engine was still
running.

"Jason! Where the hell are you now,
boy?"

Jason emerged from the wrecked Citroen
with their bags. "I'm not leaving these as evidence. And I had to
get the..." He hesitated.

Frank grabbed the bags as his son
threw them up into the cab. "Had to get the what?"

"It's okay, I'm coming."

However, Frank could see it was not
okay. The woman let out a wild yell and began to tear at Jason's
pants, pulling him from the open door as he climbed into the high
cab. She was frantic, terrifyingly frantic. Jason kicked her
sharply in the face and she fell backwards onto the
highway.

The three kids clung to each other and
made stupid whimpering noises. The man from the silver Audi was
clearly alarmed by the angry confrontation. He shouted something
abusive in German and drove off.

The black smoke rose more densely from
the far end of the field, darkening the sky. Frank sat anxiously as
Jason wrenched the truck into reverse. It juddered as it started to
move, accompanied by a loud tearing noise as it ripped itself free
from the wreck of the Citroen.

The long-haired traveler raced back
across the field. By the time Jason managed to select forward gear,
the man was ahead of the vehicle. He turned, his eyes wild as Jason
swung the wheel right, onto the first exit from the rotary. The man
leapt in front of the truck to block the way.

Frank reached over and grabbed at the
wheel. "Look out, Jason, he's crazy."

Jason kept his foot hard on the gas
pedal. The truck was slow but it managed to gather some
speed.

The man, his face twisted in fury,
leapt up and clung onto the tangled metal on the front grill. As he
did so, a jagged bar of chrome stuck into his chest. His hands
clawed for grip as he looked into the cab, shrieking something
unheard above the thunder of the engine.

Frank watched as the man's fingers
failed to find a firm hold and he slid relentlessly downwards, the
sharp metal ripping a path up his bare skin until it reached his
throat. As the metal dug deeper into his flesh the man flung his
hands upwards and the chrome strip took his whole
weight.

Then he was gone.

A knocking noise from the small window
behind the cab made Frank Heinman turn in panic. Fists pounded on
the glass. He'd not considered the possibility of other travelers
being on board.

Chapter
21

HE HAD BEEN known as Sadique
for at least fifteen of his twenty-nine years. The sadistic one.
Even at primary school he'd earned the nickname
La Bête
, The Beast. Sometimes it was
La Bête
Sauvage
, but
the word Sadique said it all. He wore chains. He'd worn heavy steel
chains for as long as he could remember. The drugs prevented his
memory going back too far.

Convinced by a fellow esoteric
traveler that he was a reincarnation of Attila the Hun, chains had
quickly become an essential part of his image. Chains put fear into
the public, and provided a ready weapon for defense and attack.
Mostly attack. Sadique took pride in being the reincarnation of
several barbaric historical figures. His mystical companion had
been very persuasive. Friends told him his shaved head allowed him
to take on the mantra of anyone he chose.

Sadique had three followers, three
fellow mercenaries fighting for the devastation of European culture
and the devastation of Western materialistic society. They enjoyed
the destruction. Frustrated. Caged in the truck like tigers in a
traveling circus. Performing tigers. Wild beasts.

The travelers were good to them. Jean
Paul the driver was like a brother. Drugs; drink; food. Never
enough, but sufficient to get through each day. And the family
always there for support and comfort. Sadique loved the children.
The family was like his own. Marie and Jean Paul gave him shelter
and safety. They were good people. Good friends.

The sudden jolt had thrown him across
the truck where he landed heavily on his three companions; and his
companions were furious. They tried to hurt him. Sadique found it
hard to hurt his friends. Sometimes the thought gave him pleasure,
but it was a wrong thing to do. He often wondered about things
being right and wrong. Marie and Jean Paul were right. Of all
people, Marie and Jean Paul were the most right. And so were the
three children.

Two strangers climbed into the cab. He
pressed his face close to the thick glass. The men were going to
steal his friend's wagon.

Mirage or reality? Was it important
anyway? He stared as Jean Paul climbed on the front of the moving
truck. It was difficult to sort out reality from the pleasure of
fantasy.

The metal spike burst out through the
top of his friend's head. Sensational. Unreal. Fantastic. Tonight
he and Jean Paul would sit in the camp and talk about it. Share the
experience. Share the drugs and the drink. Life was rich with
rewarding events like this.

Jean Paul fell out of sight leaving a
splash of blood across the windshield. Jean Paul's blood. The blood
of a good friend. The blood of death. He shouted angrily and
pointed through the window into the cab. Still dazed from their
excess of dreams, his friends were unable to grasp the significance
of the men in the cab. Then, prompted by his violent reaction, they
joined in by hitting the glass.

Sadique unwound a length of chain from his
black leather jacket. One blow and the glass would shatter, then he
could reach in and wrap the chain round the neck of the man at the
wheel. The tall man with the pony tail and the beard.

The chain would go all the way round
the man's neck. Then he would pull it tight.

*

JASON TURNED
in panic as the
glass broke, and his action made the truck swerve. If his father
hadn't grabbed the wheel they would have been in the
ditch.

"Keep your eyes on the highway,
boy."

Two hands came through the jagged
glass, a length of chain held firmly between them. He watched his
father reach down and pick up a jack handle from the filthy floor,
then swing it up and over his shoulder, smashing the end into the
tattooed knuckles. Blood oozed from the broken skin.

One more blow and the hands disappeared
leaving the chain draped across Jason's shoulders. His father
grabbed the chain, pulling it away from other hands that now
reached through the glass -- bloodstained hands stretching out in
an attempt to make contact.

"We need a hand-grenade to toss in
there, Jason. Do you still have that Glock?"

"It's in the ditch at the missile
site. Hell, Father, the French cops were coming."

The hands pushed a new length of
polished chain through the broken rear window. His father struck at
them again with the jack handle, leaving streaks of black grease
and blood on the fingers.

"I told you not to go back to the
site. This is your fault, boy."

Jason made the truck swerve sharply
across the highway in an attempt to throw the occupants in the back
off balance. The hands disappeared. "I can do better than a
grenade," he muttered. "There's some Berlitzan oil in my jacket.
Quick!"

The hands came through again, blood
pouring from where the sharp splinters of glass had gashed the
skin.

"Berlitzan oil? You've got Berlitzan
oil?" His father hit at the hands savagely.

"Take the top off and throw it into
the back." The chain flicked over his head, and strong hands
started pulling it back until the links dug deeply into his
windpipe. "Help me, damn you!"

He could say no more. Jason stamped
hard on the brake pedal and the hands came forward, releasing the
pressure of the chain on his throat. But the brakes were uneven,
and the truck lurched to the left and crossed the highway, smashing
into a tree. The small gold cylinder fell from his father's lap
onto the floor.

Jason pushed the chain up over his
head. "Hold your breath!" He snatched the cylinder from the floor
and unscrewed the lid. For a moment he choked on the smell before
tossing it backwards through the broken window into the rear of the
truck. Then he joined his father out on the grass. He kicked the
side of the old wagon. The paint scheme was ridiculous. Orange and
green? What sort of fool painted a vehicle in such lurid
colors?

From the inside came sounds of aggression,
sounds like wild beasts tearing each other apart. Grunting,
yelling, howling. Savage shrieks of terror. In blind fury Jason
ripped at the side panels, filled with frustration at being
deprived of the pleasure of fighting his enemy.

He turned as his father pulled at his
shoulder. The stupid old man had asked for trouble all through his
life. He bent down to pick up the jack handle that had fallen from
the cab, ready to smash his father's skull.

A sudden pain exploded across the back
of his head and he fell forward onto the long grass.

*

CAPTAIN LACOSTE
flung open the door
of the detention room and shouted at Matt to wake up.

Matt turned over on the narrow
bed and looked at his watch. It was nearly nine o'clock. He'd
managed two hours' sleep since being locked up separately from Zoé.
He guessed that Lacoste hadn't even managed an hour. From the
senior
gendarme's
mood, it was clear that an hour was considerably less sleep
than he needed. Zoé stood with Lacoste, no longer wearing
handcuffs. She looked relieved to see Matt and ran forward to hug
him.

"Last night, I did not know if you
were guilty of murder," said Lacoste. "But now the charges are
extremely serious. Stand up!"

"You won't let me phone
for
un
avocat
,"
complained Matt, sitting on the edge of the narrow bed hardly
awake. "So I am not saying anything." He stood up slowly and held
Zoé tightly.