Ice Claw (42 page)

Then he realized what the scraping sound was.

The polar bear was on its hind legs, standing full height on the other side of the ice wall—there were no cage bars between Max and the bear’s enclosure. It was scraping furiously to reach him. And those giant claws were rapidly destroying the half-meter-thick wall.

Max still lacked strength, but the urgency drove him to hit the stubborn bolt as hard as he could. The impact ran through his wrist into his forearm and shoulder, but that was the strongest way to deliver a blow.

The ice wall gave way. A hole crumbled open, big enough for the bear to get his paw and shoulder through. He grunted and snorted and seemed to relish the effort of reaching his meal. Max did his own grunting as he thumped away at the rusting bolt.

He could smell the bear now. Its breath plumed rapidly, its head forced farther through the hole. It retreated for a few seconds, scraping more ice, then, clambering like a giant teddy bear, its back claws found more purchase to force its body through.

Max felt the bolt give. He yelled as loud as he could, forcing the energy into the strike, and hit it again. It was enough. Pushing his shoulder against the cage door, he fell clear. The bear burst through the ice wall like a stuntman jumping through a fake window in a movie. Ice particles shattered; the bear stumbled, then was on all fours and came at Max.

Max shouted at the bear. “Not today!
Not today!”
And laughed crazily as the bear pressed itself against the iron-fronted gate that Max had just managed to close. He slumped barely a couple of meters from the frustrated, growling bear,
repeating this mantra the only thing his mind seemed capable of doing. “Not today. No, not today. No thanks, not today. I’m not on the menu today.”

Fear finally released its grip on him, but the cold did not. He was worn down beyond anything he had ever experienced. He shuddered and felt a wave of relief. Tears stung his eyes. He had been so frightened, so scared. There was no shame in being human. A vulnerable human being.
Dad. Oh, Dad, I was so bloody terrified
. He couldn’t stop his body racking from huge sobs. The terror needed an escape route and found its release through tears.

Max took a couple of deep breaths. He was all right now. He blew the snot and spit away. He sighed. He was OK. He was OK! What a sight he must look. Exhausted, sitting on the cold floor, his boxer shorts halfway down his backside, one shoe on, one shoe off, hair matted with bits of smelly straw, his skin blue and raised in goosebumps, and a monster of a polar bear fancying him for dinner.

His ears still hurt from the cold-water ride; the sounds of the gushing sluice and the bear’s short, sharp grunts and growls were muted. Better that way. A bit of peace and quiet was exactly what he needed right now.

Max grabbed one of the empty sacks and rubbed the coarse burlap all over his body. He had to get warm, get his core body heat back up. At last he felt the blood prickle his skin—it hurt, pins and needles—but then came the satisfying comfort and warmth as his circulation returned. In between getting dressed he shoved every bit of food he could find into his mouth. The stale crisps and bottled water from the abandoned van followed the energy bar. Now he felt alive. His
trainers were still wet but the dry socks and clothes made him feel one hundred percent better—which, given his condition, wasn’t as great as it sounded.

Max looked around him. This huge hall was more utilitarian, like a massive holding area. Empty steel cages, maybe twenty or more, lined the wall where the polar bear still paced. Lifeless machinery, wooden pallets and a forklift, sacks filled with salt. So that was why some of his cuts and bruises were stinging. They must use salt in the polar bear’s pool. And there was the way out! A mechanical hoist rose up between the empty cages, its platform open, big enough to roll a forklift onto, and obviously used for bringing anything heavy down below, like the machinery and all those sacks.

Then he heard a sound from one of the cages just beyond the hoist. It was a voice. Someone was weakly crying for help.

“Sayid?” Max called as he ran past a couple of empty cages until he came to where the whimpering emanated from.

The cage was locked and straw covered the floor. A man’s body lay curled next to the bars, his face badly bruised and covered in stubble and dirt. His eyes sought out Max’s, his hands raised, pleading for help.

“Max,” the hoarse voice whispered.

Max stood at the bars, the shock rendering him helpless for a moment. The man lying in tattered clothing encrusted with dried blood was Angelo Farentino.

Tishenko had never needed to attack anyone physically. There were always others to do his bidding. Within the caverns and hallways of the Citadel mountain he had a core
group of armed guards. They were mostly from his home area and they sought refuge in Tishenko’s power. Like their fathers before them, these killers were part of the
vucari
—the tribe of men who invoked fear, not only through simple people’s superstition but also because of the clan’s taste for violence. For the privilege of being part of a group that was virtually a small private army, they did as they were told without question. And one of them had just slammed the butt of a sub machine gun into Sharkface’s stomach.

Sharkface thudded across the floor. Bewildered and in pain, he lay crumpled against a wall. He had served Tishenko loyally for years, ever since the burned man had picked him and his gang up from the streets in East Berlin nearly eight years ago. Kids into killers. Sharkface had earned his coldhearted reputation, but now tougher, meaner men were going to hurt him.

“The pendant is worthless! A stone, a common stone! Zabala did not die because of a trinket!” Tishenko hissed.

“That’s what I took off the girl. That was all she had,” Sharkface said, his mind desperately racing, trying to figure out how it had all gone so horribly wrong. He was only seconds away from death—but then Max Gordon inadvertently saved his life. One of Tishenko’s scientists came into the room.

“Someone was in the ice cave. Thermal imaging shows he came through a ventilation shaft,” the man said.

Tishenko touched a button on a control panel, the screen flared into life and the red glow of a body came into view. The blurred shape moved slowly, the hot areas of the body glowing—head, eyes and stomach. Set against the ice cave’s
frozen blue atmosphere, the liquid red ghost was an unmistakable intruder.

“And now?” Tishenko asked the scientist as the red blip merged and disappeared into the surroundings.

“He went into the water.”

It was unbelievable that anyone would choose to do that, and Tishenko had no clear thought for a moment. Then it made sense.

“He’s in the cages.”

The statement was a command. Armed men ran from the room. There were no thermographic detectors down there, there was no need. It was only the preservation of his private collection that needed a constant freezing temperature.

One of the armed guards remained standing over Sharkface, the submachine gun leveled for a quick, killing burst.

“Don’t kill him,” Tishenko ordered. “Not yet.”

Max stepped back in shock. It couldn’t be the man he and his father had once entrusted with their lives.

“Max, please help me. There’s not much time,” Farentino muttered. “I know you must hate me. But Tishenko is going to—”

“Shut up!” Max said harshly, his mind jumbling a dozen questions to ask and knowing there was insufficient time to ask them.
Concentrate! Think of what you’re doing here!
“Where’s Sayid? Where’s my friend?”

Farentino shook his head, as if trying to clear his mind. “Who? I don’t know him.”

“He’s fourteen. My mate. He’s injured. They brought him here.”

“How would I know? Max, never mind him. There’s going to be a terrible disaster.”

Max turned away. Farentino thrust his arms through the cage, desperately begging.

“Max, listen to me, please … listen … I saw your father!”

Max spun on his heel, reached through the metal bars and grabbed the pathetic man by his shirtfront, pulling his face close. Farentino winced in pain.

“Liar! My dad would’ve clobbered you. He’d have
killed
you!” he shouted, throwing the man back into the stinking straw.

Max trembled with rage. This was insane. Whatever Farentino had got himself into was his own problem. Max had to find Sayid.

“The man who’s doing all this, he sent me to him. He thought you were working for your father, ever since you were in the Pyrenees. I
had
to go and see him. To make sure you weren’t working for him.”

Max was rooted to the spot. Fists clenched, legs trembling with adrenaline, wanting to punish the wretched Farentino. But he was in a pitiful state, beyond contempt, and Max knew he couldn’t inflict violence on him. If he did, what would that make Max? A thug? A mindless attacker overtaken by revenge? The conflict in his mind fought him for seconds that felt like minutes. He
did
want to punish Farentino. Maybe Max’s instincts were that basic. He shook his head.

“You’re not worth it, Angelo. You can stay here till you rot.”

Farentino had to break through Max’s anger. He whispered
hurriedly, as if confiding a great secret, forcing Max to listen, demanding he concentrate, in case he missed any vital information. “Your father, years ago, before you were born, he knew about this area, he was part of a team—listen to me, Max, listen to me, you have to, because your father told me. He
told
me.”

Max hesitated, surprised. “Told you what?” he said, seeing Farentino’s shoulders slump with relief, having hooked Max’s attention.

Farentino’s words tumbled, hissing like the fast-flowing sluice. “Telluric currents, natural electromagnetic waves, grids of energy that lie below the earth’s surface. Like hairline fractures in the earth’s crust.”

Max understood. His dad had explained it once when their compasses went haywire. These electromagnetic currents could be measured at different points in the world. Companies used the data from the energy flows for prospecting, to identify electrical changes in the earth and locate petroleum reservoirs, fault zones—anything from geothermal water supplies to underground volcanoes. The intensity of these currents influenced weather patterns, created atmospheric electricity and huge thunderstorms. The Americans had even harnessed them back in the nineteenth century for their telegraph system.

So what?

“I don’t care, Angelo. This is too big. I can’t save this place, or you. But I can save my mate.”

Max turned away again. Somewhere in this mountain kingdom Sayid Khalif was being held, and every ounce of Max’s energy was going to be spent in saving him.

Farentino shouted after him, “This madman’s going to create a blast that’ll destroy Geneva! It’ll crack the lake! It will destroy the nuclear research center! Max! Stop! The shock wave and water will cut a swathe from here to Paris! This mountain and half the Alps won’t be here in a few hours!”

Farentino was right. There were only a few hours left. Max knew that. Time had slipped away from him. He was leaving everything too late. He didn’t even know where Sayid was, never mind how to get him out.

As far as he was concerned, Angelo Farentino was on his own. Max felt a ripple of uncertainty at his own cold-bloodedness. He was leaving the man to die.

The hoist’s platform hummed into life. Someone on one of the upper levels had pressed the call button. Max ran for the slow-rising platform. He was within a meter of grabbing the platform’s substructure. He would ride up undetected.

And then Farentino’s desperate shout pierced him like a spear.

“Your mother! I know how she died. How she
really
died!”

Farentino’s words captured Max. He’d left his escape too late. The platform eased down and four men came into view, each leveling a machine pistol. There was nowhere to run, but Angelo had stunned him and momentarily taken the fight out of him. Max’s mother had died in the Central American rain forest during a research trip when he was eleven. Maybe Farentino was playing games, saying anything to get Max’s help and escape.

Tishenko’s guards kept a firm grip on him as the hoist climbed upwards. Max stayed alert, searching for anything that might come to his aid when he escaped, because escape he would—he needed to be certain Angelo Farentino wasn’t lying.

Max figured the hoist was a crude lift mechanism used only for these lower levels. Tunnels hewn from the rock face went off in different directions on each floor they passed.
Generators, power plants and general storage would be down here.

The hoist stopped and the men pushed him off the platform, across a more cared-for area and into a sleek, modern lift. Moments later Fedir Tishenko turned to face him when the express lift’s doors opened. Max’s stomach lurched. A stocky man with skin like a lizard’s looked at him. Half his face was covered in hair as dense as fur. It was fur, Max realized, trimmed close to the puckered skin. Max kept his reaction under control.

An armed guard stood over Sharkface. Max hadn’t seen the sky in hours, but now he looked through the massive window cut in the rock face. This must be three thousand meters high. A blue velvet sky shimmered with stars. You could almost reach out and take a handful, but what held Max’s attention was the cloud base a thousand or more meters below. The black carpet would cut out the night if he were on the ground, but from up here it swirled, in a conflicting tide, and small lightning flashes ricocheted through the dense cover.