You had to turn the emotionally draining negativity into action, he would quietly tell the injured men who were brought to St. Christopher’s. He didn’t ask them any questions about why they could barely speak, why some of them just started crying for no reason at all, why others just gazed at a picture on the wall for hours on end. Sooner or later these damaged men would find a way out of the tunnel they were trapped in. And then they’d nod, or smile, and maybe even begin to talk. Until then Marty, and others like him who knew what damage combat can do to men, would care for them. No one else would.
One of his charges was unique. A long time ago this man had worked in Special Forces, became a well-known mountaineer, then used his education, his courage and his skills to rove the world searching out potential, or inevitable, ecological disasters. Working for a privately funded organization had made him a lot of enemies, everyone from governments to powerful corporations, but Tom Gordon’s actions had averted many environmental catastrophes before they happened, long before climate change became such a hot topic. Marty smiled. Hot topic. He liked that. He’d try that on as a joke, even though it was a lame one.
Marty and the other staff knew what had happened to Tom Gordon out in Africa, how a corrupt doctor had tortured him, screwing up his mind with toxic chemicals, trying to get vital information from him. Well, he hadn’t, and Gordon’s son, Max, had defied incredible odds and led the rescue of his father. Like father, like son, maybe.
It was humid in the vast greenhouse, and if some of the overhead vents hadn’t been slightly open, it would have been hotter than the jungles of Borneo. He approached the man bent over the waist-high flower bed, digging around a brightly colored plant. Marty stopped. It was never a good idea to approach men such as Tom Gordon from behind, particularly when they had something like a trowel in their hand. It could suddenly, and unexpectedly, become a deadly weapon for someone caught unawares and whose instincts were still frighteningly fast. He coughed. The man turned. A moment of doubt clouded Gordon’s eyes. He knew this man. He saw him every day. What was his name? What was …?
He remembered. “Marty. Hello.”
“Hi, Tom. Switchboard says there’s a telephone call from France. I think it’s Max.”
There were days Tom Gordon could not remember his son. He knew the boy phoned regularly, because Marty told him, but there were days when nothing made any sense.
“Max?”
“Yeah. Y’know …”
“Don’t worry, Marty. Today’s a good day.” Tom Gordon smiled. He looked at the big man’s face. “He’s in trouble, isn’t he?”
“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 Chateau 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 chateau.
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 cafe 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.