Running hard along the side of the building, he saw that the area was enclosed by security fencing-access was through a manned barrier four hundred meters away. If he didn’t get out of this enclosed space, the man chasing him seemed intent on only one thing.
Max reached the fence. Coiled razor wire meant he could not go over the top. He turned, pushing his back into the mesh, using it as a springboard to push himself away again. The bulk of his pursuer loomed a meter away. How had he caught him so quickly! He anticipated Max’s dummy jig to the right, an arm caught Max around the neck, and suddenly he was smothered. But the man didn’t squeeze the life out of him, he held him, letting Max squirm and fight and yank at the encircling arm. Max kicked hard against the man’s shins. He never flinched. Max was held like a wild animal in a net, and the more he fought the quicker he weakened.
He was not going to die! Not without a fight. He slumped, let his weight fall, knowing it would take the man by surprise as the wriggling mass suddenly became limp. Then he would roll free.
It didn’t work.
The man went down on one knee, supporting Max’s weight, and twisted his arm, so that Max was turned away from him. His knee pressed into the small of Max’s back as he held him with a grip that felt like iron.
Facedown, arm behind his back, cheek pressed into the tarmac. This was the end. Max knew it. This gorilla was going to snap his neck. Dad! Help me! Max was blacking out, the air forced from his lungs. Yet still he tried to kick and squirm. A useless attempt to stave off the inevitable. The sunlight blinded him, blood pounded in his ears. He saw peaks and snow, remembered Aladfar’s warmth, smelled the mountain bear’s musty fur as the eagle’s scream echoed through his memory. But no strength came to him. No animal power surged through his body.
Max had become an endangered species.
Sayid shivered. The men searched him, ripped apart his backpack, shredding it for any evidence the boy might have about Zabala’s clues. They found nothing. They let him get dressed, but Sayid’s trembling was not due only to cold and fear; his body needed food and drink. His throbbing foot hurt, the pain robbing his nervous system of what little stamina he had left.
Tishenko knew Sayid had little value other than to entrap Max. His killer had sent word to the Moroccan girl. She would bring Max Gordon to Geneva because no one would let their friend die. Not that it mattered. In a few hours they would all die anyway.
“Get him a wheelchair,” Tishenko said to one of the men.
He sat opposite Sayid, his scaly fingers lifting Sayid’s chin so he could not avoid Tishenko’s eyes. “You are tired, boy.”
Sayid nodded. He did not want to begin any kind of conversation with this man.
“And you are in pain from your broken foot. I understand pain. It can suck the life out of you, take you to a point where you no longer care whether you live or die. Are you at that point?”
“No, no. I don’t want to die.”
“Of course you do not. There is nothing for you to be afraid of. I will not cause you any pain, I promise you. But you would like some hot food and to sleep?”
Again, Sayid nodded. The whisperlike voice was almost hypnotic.
Tishenko turned to the men. “Bring him,” he said as he stepped towards the lift’s doors.
They plummeted silently to below ground level. This was a different area from any that Sayid had seen before. The glistening machinery, pristine in its technologically sophisticated environment, hummed with subdued power. A fanlike structure towered above him; it had to be at least sixty meters high, taller than a cathedral. Sayid felt the size of an ant as Tishenko walked across the vast floor. Immense cables encased in copper-colored bindings, conduits thicker than a bus, snaked away from the machine’s rim and disappeared back into the rock face. Tishenko watched Sayid’s amazement.
“You like science?”
Sayid could only nod. The complexity of what he was looking at was beyond his comprehension.
“Twelve years, thirty-seven billion dollars, fourteen inter-locking tunnels with a twenty-one-kilometer particle accelerator circuit, one hundred and fifty meters below ground-and the best brains money could buy. Each scientist completed his area of speciality and then left. Only I and a chosen few understand the importance of what we shall achieve here.”
“Which is what?” Sayid said, hoping the man’s ego would allow him to give away vital information.
“An energy source the likes of which no one has dared contemplate. That capacitor you are looking at weighs nineteen thousand tons. It will store energy for a microsecond, then blast it to the heart of the mountain, where …”
Sayid watched the man’s barely moving features, the skin destroyed so long ago it was like a mask. But the eyes sparkled from a mind’s-eye vision of something beyond imagination. Tishenko had stopped short, allowed his secret to remain buried, and looked again at Sayid.
“I don’t want to bore you with the details. You need your sleep.”
Sayid felt tears of fear well up again. There was something final in those last few words.
They went deeper into the tunnels, the colder air creating plumes of breath, sapping the last of his strength. Even the men shivered, but Tishenko showed no signs of discomfort. Sayid could stay awake no longer. His head dropped onto his chest. He snapped it up again. He must be hallucinating. Blurred figures behind a wall of ice moved away, the colors from their clothing seeping into nothingness. He was in a chamber like the inside of an ice cube. Moist air flowed around him and froze. Forcing his mind to beat the exhaustion, he opened his eyes. They hurt. Frost stung them. He tried to lift his arm and wipe away the frozen tears, but something held him. He was pressing against an invisible wall. His body was restrained. What little warmth remained in it retreated under the onslaught of the freezing air.
Starlight glistened, the sky so black it was impenetrable. Shooting stars flickered across his eyes; surging waves of deep blue, purple and whiter-than-white light stole his consciousness. A small whisper took perverse pleasure in telling him that his core body heat should not fall below thirty-seven degrees centigrade, that when it reached thirty-five degrees hypothermia set in; below thirty-three death was likely.
Sayid’s mind teased him with numbers that meant death. He was already much colder than that.
He held one last breath in his lungs.
His final thought before the swirling stars turned to dark matter and nothingness was how to get the decoded message to Max.
Max sat strapped into the front seat of the black Audi. The big man had scared the life out of him less than ten minutes ago, but now he was more relieved than he could imagine. The hard man’s name was Corentin, and ever since Sophie Fauvre had run away from her father to seek out Zabala, Corentin and his partner, Thierry, had been paid to shadow her. To make sure she didn’t get into trouble. They didn’t know at the start how Max was involved, but when they lost her at Oloron, they traced him to the hospital. Find Max Gordon, find Sophie Fauvre; but Max had given them the slip. They thought they’d succeeded in scaring Sophie home when they finally caught up with her at Biarritz and let her see them. They followed her to the old chateau, kept track of the two of them down to the station and watched them get on the train. Corentin’s job was done. Fauvre was a dear friend-from the old days when Corentin lived in Paris. Fauvre had phoned again, when Sophie ran from Morocco to Geneva, and asked him to protect both her and Max.
The ex-Legionnaire kept the car in low gear as he cut and thrust through the traffic, his cell phone attached to the dashboard. Thierry’s voice gave a nonstop commentary.