Ice Claw (24 page)

“I am the comtesse Alyana Isadora Villeneuve. Your son has asked me to phone, so that I can explain recent events here which might otherwise lead you to think that his actions have been dishonorable.”

Tom Gordon listened as attentively as he could. The woman sounded as though she never took a breath when she spoke, or that she had only enough breath to say something once, because then she inhaled again, rattling off another barrage of words lasting a couple of minutes. Max’s dad had no chance of asking questions. Then, minutes later, after she had told him everything, she paused and her voice lowered slightly in a more measured tone.

“It has been an honor to talk to you,” the comtesse said finally. “And your son has qualities that are amazing, and which even he does not yet comprehend. I cannot think of any reason why my call would offer you any comfort; any parent would be anxious, I know, but I believe you should have faith, that your son will survive …”

Survive? Tom Gordon blinked. What was this woman talking about? But he had no time to interrogate her.

“… and that he will find a means of contacting you himself when the occasion arises. I offer you my heartfelt sympathy. Our children. Ah. Our children … what can one say? I
urge you not to worry. He is a very capable and brave young man. Good-bye, Monsieur Gordon.”

Tom Gordon looked blankly at the receiver. Had he just imagined that conversation? It seemed unreal. He looked at Marty, who waited patiently in case he needed to do anything for him.

“Everything OK, Tom?”

“A few days ago, did you tell me Max had been involved in an avalanche?”

“That’s right. He phoned.” Tom Gordon had had one of his “bad days” and couldn’t take the call. “You were busy,” Marty said, nudging Tom to remember.

His patient nodded.

“Max was OK. No harm done. He phoned to let you know that,” Marty said, and waited. Tom Gordon was collating the information from whoever had just phoned. “Is there a problem?” Marty asked gently.

“Someone died in the avalanche and they think Max is involved. This woman, some countess, she said Max had asked her to phone. The French police are after him and he’s looking for some kind of secret that the dead man gave him.”

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 Château 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 château.

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 café 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 café. 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 café 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 château.

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.

“Who are you and what are you doing in my home?” An
imperious disdain filtered the words. She sounded just like the real comtesse used to. One of the boys took a step forward. There was no sign of any weapon, but his face was frightening.

Spittle wet the edge of his lips, which seemed like a slash, pulled back against his pointed teeth. Was he smiling or was that how he always looked? she wondered. He took a step closer and the others moved behind him out of the shadows. A phalanx of fear.

“Where’s the boy?”

“Boy? My grandson? I don’t know. He’s out. Who are you?” she demanded.

Don’t show them you’re frightened. Don’t yield to a threat. Stand your ground. Face the danger
. That was what her husband would have done.

“Not him,” Sharkface said. “Max Gordon. He phoned his father in England. From here. We know that.”

How could they know? Her mind pushed the thought away. Expressionless, she faced her inquisitor.

“I don’t know any Max Gordon. You should leave now. My grandson and his friends will be home any moment. Trust me, you would not wish to see them angry! Get out!”

They took another pace towards her; she involuntarily stepped back, touching the edge of the big old sofa for support.

“We know about your surfing dropout. He won’t be coming home.”

The flat, disinterested voice was like a slap across the face. What had they done to Bobby?

“Where is he?” she demanded.

The grin revealed jagged teeth. “Where’s Max Gordon?
He phoned his father from here. Or was that you? Where is he?”

She heard the click of the switchblade and saw the glint of moonlight on the knife one of the boys now held.

“You’ll tell us, old woman. You’ll tell us everything we need to know,” Sharkface snarled.

A small knot of warmth formed above her heart. It came, unsummoned, from somewhere deep within her and saturated her whole body. It was a longing for her husband. It was as if he held her, to protect her, an invisible shield between herself and the killers. Max Gordon would face these thugs, if he had not done so already, and he would have to fight for his life. Yes, they could hurt her and make her talk, she knew that. But she would not tell them what they wanted to know. She would not let these dogs loose after Max.

Her brave soldier husband, a hero of France, held her tightly. He embraced her, whispered his love for her, and gently, ever so gently, helped her take a step backwards onto the decayed balcony.

The moonlight filled her eyes; the crashing waves muffled the sound of splintering, shattered wood.

Her last breath was a sigh of joy.

She was dead before her body hit the ground.