‘Can’t be long now, Charlee.’ Shtyrkov was grinning and Gibson believed that the man had finally lost his mind. ‘Not once they find Hanning has failed to deliver.’
‘I looked further down the signal, about two minutes into it, using Tom’s algorithm — and found another genome, would you believe it? Another billion bytes or so.’ Gibson was speaking without enthusiasm. ‘It doesn’t match anything in the snp database.’
‘Meaning?’ Shtyrkov asked.
‘It’s definitely non-human. Not even primate.’
‘Drosophila? Nematode?’
Gibson shook his head emphatically. ‘It’s far more complex. Whatever it is, it’s biologically more advanced than anything on Earth.’
‘More complex equals superior?’
‘Put it this way. Until I knew more about this entity, I wouldn’t want to meet it on a dark night.’
Svetlana pushed her uneaten egg away, an angry gesture. She was close to tears. Shtyrkov squeezed her hand.
Gibson said, ‘I know. Here we are, frantically working to the last minute for the good of all mankind, and mankind is about to squelch us.’
Shtyrkov asked, ‘I wonder how they’ll do it?’ He seemed detached, almost cheerful.
‘Why don’t we just open the door and run out?’ Svetlana asked.
‘Calm yourself, child.’
Gibson sipped his coffee. It was the best he had ever tasted. Every sense was tingling. He wondered if this was what Shtyrkov was feeling, or whether the temporal lobe stuff was finally getting to him, or whether it was just his impending execution. ‘They don’t give the Nobel Prize posthumously.’
‘Charlee Gibson. For once in your life forget earthly baubles. This discovery is beyond any prize.’ Shtyrkov raised his coffee cup to Gibson. ‘You are a very imperfect man, Charlee, but you have done something wonderful. Your reward is immortality.’
‘I hope Tom and Freya make it,’ said Gibson. ‘I want my immortality.’
36
Pursuit
Sibelius filling the cathedral, scattering off a million stalactites, echoing along a hundred tunnels. A pool glowing blue from hidden underwater lighting. The tour guide had stopped and was talking to his audience. Freya edged her way forwards. A mother with a child said something in German; some joke, Petrie inferred, about their sodden clothes.
And the guide was still talking, over the music.
Petrie looked behind, trying to hide the fear, make it seem like a casual glance. The path they had come down was a giant orange throat lined with needles. There was no sign of pursuit. Not yet.
And the guide was still talking.
At last there was a flurry of laughter, and a little applause, and the inspirational music had risen to a shattering climax and stopped. Now the crowd was shuffling with infinite slowness towards concrete stairs which headed up towards the roof of the cavern.
Freya was well ahead, just a few bodies behind the guide. Petrie was almost taking up the rear. In a minute she had vanished from sight. And then at last Petrie was at the top of the steps. If the Slovak army was waiting there was nothing to be done. Along a short corridor, and out, and blinking in the white glare of snow. A hairpin path plunged steeply down towards roofs far below, just glimpsed through trees. There were no soldiers to be seen. Freya was waiting, letting the crowd flow around her, wet blonde hair over her shoulders. At that moment Petrie believed she was the most beautiful woman on Earth.
The path was slippery and people linked arms or gripped the steel handrail as they started the descent.
The guide locked the exit door. It was sheet metal.
Freya put her arm in Petrie’s and they started slowly down. The snow had compacted to a shiny, hard surface. The guide and the tail-end Charlie were soon ahead of them, striding down the slope with practised ease.
And now the fugitives were alone.
‘What now?’ Freya wondered.
‘We’re alive.’
She was gripping his arm. ‘I wonder about Charlie and Vash and Svetlana.’
Petrie looked back at the door, still only metres from them. ‘It’s solid steel. The soldiers are entombed. Even if they found their way back through the Wormhole, they’d never get upstream against the Styx.’
‘They have guns. If they get through the sump they’ll shoot the lock, like they do in movies.’
Petrie looked again at it, wondering. ‘They’ll never get through the sump.’
Freya said, ‘You’re shaking. Are you cold?’ She held him. For a few glorious seconds he felt her breasts, warm and wonderful, against his chest.
Then he gently disengaged himself. ‘No, I’m terrified. Let’s clear off. By now the army have worked out that we’re either trapped inside the mountain or we’ve found a way out of it.’
They clambered down the path, gripping the handrail, and then left it, ploughing through the snow-deep woods in case of soldiers at the foot of the path. A big fluffy snowball loped down through the trees and passed them at a leisurely pace, gathering speed: a gentle warning that they were at risk from avalanche. On the flat, they crossed a wooden bridge and an icy stream. A large yellow notice told them they had left the Demänovskà Cave of Liberty. And they were now on an ice-covered road winding perilously through steep-sided mountains.
There was a general exodus in progress, cars with snow-chains and skis on their roofs moving slowly down the valley to their right, heading for home after the weekend skiing.
Right was motorway, and the road to towns like Popov and Levoce where you could lose yourself.
Right was the border with Poland, not too far to the north, with big cities like Cracow and Wroclaw in easy reach.
Right was the only sensible way to go.
They looked at each other, and without a word turned left, against the flow.
Nerves taut and chilled to the bone, they spied the land from trees at the edge of a car park. The nearest humans were two hundred metres away, but still Petrie spoke quietly. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
Freya gave a tense little nod.
Petrie watched the activity quietly. ‘Want to chance it?’
At five in the morning, the big foyer of the hotel was buzzing with life. Two blue tourist coaches stood outside the entrance, engines throbbing steadily, steam coming from their exhausts. Bleary-eyed people, dressed against the cold, were boarding them in twos and threes. The driver was heaving skis and suitcases into the bowels of the first coach, showing every sign of a short temper.
‘We can’t do this,’ Freya said.
Petrie murmured, ‘What else is there? Climb over the mountains?’
‘We have no luggage, no skis. And there’s bound to be a tour operator.’
‘We’ll just have to slip past.’
Freya shook her head. ‘Tom, that’s crazy.’
Petrie looked at the tousled blonde hair, the scratched nose and cheeks, the stained and torn jacket, the Levis stiff with ice and the heavy boots, and felt an overwhelming urge to protect this vulnerable creature while knowing that she was tougher than him. ‘We’ve no choice.’
She took Petrie’s arm, teeth chattering with cold. ‘In that case we’d better get a move on.’
The driver of the lead coach had slammed the luggage doors shut and was climbing into it. Petrie was seized with a sudden dread that they’d left it too late. They picked their way through snow-dusted cars. An overflow of weary passengers was clustered round the second coach. A few others were coming out of the hotel.
They emerged from the car park, passed the first coach; a thin-nosed elderly woman looked down and smiled wearily. Petrie smiled back.
Merge casually. Don’t be noticed.
The driver, a small, wiry man, was muttering to himself. They nudged their way through a group of young people with bags and skis and little blue boxes. Nobody was paying attention. Petrie was beginning to think they might get away with it. Freya put her foot on the coach step, gripped the rail. The driver looked up sharply, said, ‘Ne!’