Sabotage (29 page)

“Who's the recipient?”

“My daughter,” Clare said. “Now go send the message.”

 

TWENTY-NINE

The main entrance was locked.

Austin ran around the cathedral trying every door. All were locked. It was how he wanted them, as long as he could find one way in.

He sidestepped a circular enclosure of gravel, wary of the jagged edges on his tender feet. He jogged to the back of the church and began banging on the wooden doors. It was past midnight. The chances were dismal, but it was worth a try.

Vasya had entered earshot. The footsteps stopped, alerting Austin to danger. It was either a reassuring sign or a foreboding one; either Vasya had lost track of him or paused to take aim. The former was unlikely. Austin was still dripping a trail of water from the canal.

Austin bolted as Vasya pulled the trigger. A bullet grazed his shoulder, slicing away the top few layers of skin. He winced, counting himself lucky. With newfound stamina he dashed around the periphery and continued pounding on doors.

Ahead, someone was leaving the Sint-Salvator. A side door pushed open, and a robed cleric crossed the threshold.

“Wait! Hold it!” Austin cried. The priest froze as Austin bounded toward him. “Keep the door open!”

He could see the cleric was debating retreat. When Austin reached the door, he grabbed the priest by the waist, pulled him inside, and slammed the door shut. The lock clinked.

“What is going on?” the priest demanded. “The cathedral is closed! You're filthy, and wearing—”

“There's a man out there. He wants to kill me,” Austin explained.

The priest flinched, the lines on his forehead drawing together in both exasperation and pity for what appeared to be a case of lunacy.

Austin brushed past rows of empty pews toward the main altar, and looked up at the organ and surrounding wall tapestries. Only hours ago the pipes' chords had filled the cavernous space. “Are you sure all the doors are securely locked?”

“Yes. I was just leaving.”

“Does the second story have windows?”

“Look around. There's plenty of stained glass.”

“I mean to the outside. Windows that open.”

“Near the back, yes, if you climb the spiral staircase to the clerestory. Please, dear boy, try to calm yourself.”

Austin caught his breath. “You can help me.”

“I'm not the right person for that.”

“It's very easy. The man outside is a trained killer. He'll follow any sound he hears. Go up to the second story, find an open window, and start throwing things into the bushes. Books, candles, whatever you can find. Don't let him see you. When he approaches, start yelling at him. If he points a gun at you—though I doubt he will—duck inside. I'll exit the cathedral from the opposite end.”

The cleric shook his head, as if his suspicions of psychosis were no longer mere suspicions.

“Your feet look terribly bloody, and you've a hurt shoulder. Please rest on a bench while I call a doctor.”

“How do you think this happened? Please do as I said! We're losing time.”

“Look, boy, I don't even know who you are. Why don't we start with that?”

“Did you not hear pistol shots?”

The priest shook his head. “I did hear
something
. I just don't see—”

Two loud bangs rang out, and a door swung open. The priest yelped, withdrawing into a transept, his sanctuary now a battleground. Austin darted to the back side of a column supporting an archway. He peeked around the edge to see Vasya entering the nave.

“Come out,” Vasya said. “Let's talk.”

It was an ultimatum, not an invitation. Austin clung to the pillar, adjusting his position as Vasya's footsteps traveled. Isolating their source in the hollow cathedral was like pinpointing a voice in a dark echo chamber. Vasya spoke again.

“I'll let you live.”

Austin dropped to his knees and crab-walked between two benches, behind Vasya, toward an exit door. He peered up every few seconds, glimpsing the silencer's muzzle.

A guest at the evening's service must have dropped loose change on the floor. Austin gathered the coins and flung them into an alcove enclosing a shrine. Vasya's ears pricked up, and he approached the recess as Austin inched toward the door.

Vasya strengthened his grip on the Makarov and leapt into the alcove, his smirk at once replaced by a look of conflict. He whirled around in time to see the far door slam. Making for the portal, he was greeted by a stiff breeze when he opened it. He looked out into the night, searching the darkness, unable to find his target.

*   *   *

Austin pinched his nose and prepared to hurl. His stomach climbed into his throat, but he forced it back down again, keeping his mouth dry. The nausea gave way to a milder form of queasiness, and soon he regained control of his insides. He replaced the manhole cover above him and followed a conduit toward a sound like gurgling sludge. As if the streets aboveground weren't perplexing enough, the network of subterranean passageways wove a conundrum navigable only to travelers bearing a map. The light was no help; it was worse than dim, virtually nonexistent. He kept a hand on the walls and took careful steps to avoid tripping over pipelines.

He negotiated the underground with no particular bearing in mind. His first priority was to go far from the Sint-Salvator. The conduit brought him to a river of sewage in a vein the size of a subway tunnel, large enough to fit a raft or small boat. Keeping to a footpath, he continued straight for thirty yards, crossed the river of waste on a concrete bridge, and turned into a small offshoot. The ceiling was lower there, and he had to duck. A few more yards into the passage, he turned into another tunnel and followed a pipe as far as it took him, which must have been over a mile. He was thoroughly lost, but it didn't matter; he had shaken his tail.

He entered a cavity that housed some rusty machinery. A sliver of light shone from above, through a finger hole on the lid accessing the utility chamber. He climbed the ladder and peered through the hole, checking for passersby who might have been able to spot his ascent. He could see little as he lifted the cover, careful to place his fingers where they wouldn't get crushed by the tires of any passing vehicle. The crack afforded him a wider pan of his surroundings. He spotted a few people: a couple embracing, a haggard woman wrapped in shawls, a throng of teenage boys snickering at the lip-locked lovers, daring each other to whistle. Austin waited for them to pass, by which time the elderly woman had advanced no more than a few feet. He had to move, regardless. He popped off the manhole cover and hoisted himself onto the street. The lovers were too distracted to notice, and the old woman cast an unconcerned glance his way.

His relief was short-lived. Voices carried from behind him, harsh voices, one of them barking commands. He spun around, hearing loud steps, the boots drawing nearer, already so close he could see crisscrossing flashlight beams emanating from an alley. The priest must have called the police. What a conversation that must have been, Austin thought.
He was a lunatic, bloodied and wet, fraught with paranoia, stubbornly insistent I let him into the cathedral.… Someone followed.… There was fighting.… This is a sanctuary, not a combat zone.… Yes, a crazy man running through my church in a swimsuit, bringing a gun battle!

Immediate on his list was finding the Navarra. He studied the pattern of intersecting alleyways in an attempt to create a mental map with his place on it relative to the bell tower. This was impossible; the night shrouded all, including the landmarks he'd noted during the day. The flashlights nearly upon him, he chose a street at random and followed it to an intersection. He turned onto a boulevard snaking alongside a canal, then stopped atop a crossing marked
Bridge Langerei.

Having sprinted without a break, he leaned over the bridge rails in an effort to control a cramp in his diaphragm. It was a poor place for someone hoping to escape detection, but a good one for someone trying to breathe. He took a moment to cleanse his airway of the lingering stink of sewage. He couldn't stay long. He heard the voices again, saw the lights. They were coming from either side of the bridge. He was trapped.

He paced, and a brass-jacketed hollow point shattered the wood rail near him. The bullet hadn't come from a policeman; the police wouldn't have shot without warning. Somewhere along the canal, Vasya must have caught up to him, spotted him, and pulled the trigger—probably attracted by the authorities. Austin had no choice but to dive before the second round finished him. The channel was shallow. He made as small a splash as possible and broke the surface at a near horizontal to avoid striking the bottom. The water lit up around him, then faded to blackness again as a flashlight passed over the canal. He heard clanks on wood and scuffles of feet above. He could feel the vibrations as he braced himself under an arch of the Bridge Langerei. The police had converged on his position. They were on the crossing, probably now seeing the splintered guardrail.

With a tilt of his nose toward the surface, Austin took advantage of one last breath before using the Langerei's brickwork as a springboard and jetting himself downstream. The natural current carried him in part, while his own kick carried him farther. When the impetus of his launch diminished, he turned his palms out and thrust the water back in a breaststroke. The conditions were poor to travel far without breathing. Adrenaline, together with his lengthy sprint, had already elevated his pulse. Not ten seconds passed before he felt the urge to resurface and hyperventilate. Twenty seconds, and the inclination verged on uncontrollable, but he knew breathing was suicide. He was still too close to the bridge. The police were on the lookout, and Vasya would be skimming the water to see how far he'd traveled.

Bubbles seeped from his lips, not large enough to be seen from the surface, yet significant by implication, he realized. His body was warning him he'd have to breathe soon. Forty seconds, fifty seconds, one minute … starting from rest, holding in the lungful would be easy until now; as a swimmer, he had a developed lung capacity. But he'd been out of breath from the beginning, and a rocketing heartbeat didn't help. He kept swimming, tracking fractional seconds, each one a feat of endurance. When the initial stages of blackout crept into his vision, he knew it was time. He expelled a stream of bubbles. Then he rolled onto his back, pushed his lips forward, and inhaled, temporarily exposing himself.

He went under again, and after five minutes of rationed breathing he left the canal and followed another boulevard. The police were far behind, though he wasn't sure about Vasya. He read the street name:
Carmersstraat
. From here he could see the bell tower—finally a landmark. He followed the street toward the central market square, now dimly certain of a route to his hotel. Two policemen stood watch in the square, facing opposite directions, each on horseback. Given the modest number of people moving through the square, he thought about walking straight to the other side. But he was dripping again, his clothing scant, and he stood out.

Clicks and clacks caught his attention—wooden wheels rolling over uneven ground, and hooves meeting cobbles. A horse and carriage approached along the vein that would feed into the market. Austin stepped up on the ledge and took a seat within the canvas-covered compartment. There were two passengers inside, a man and a woman, young and dressed to the nines, holding hands, her head wrapped in the hood of a shearling toggle coat and leaning on his shoulder. Honeymooners, Austin suspected. They shrank away when he entered. The woman looked as if she might have screamed had her husband not drawn her closer and tightened his grip on her hand.

“I am Valentino Strongbottom, and I am ready to please,” Austin said. He ran five fingers through his hair and let his hand follow down to the nape of his neck before gliding to rest on his upper chest. “Which one of you frisky newlyweds rang for a three-way?”

The couple eyed their hop-on with apparent despair. Neither answered, perhaps afraid he might be dangerous or deranged, and seemed mystified by the accent he had affected—an impromtu potpourri of European articulations.

“Don't be timid,” he said. “There's nothing you can say I haven't heard before.”

Obviously more than apprehensive, the husband and wife looked at each other, then back at Austin, who was barely paying attention to them; he was busy calculating the number of seconds needed to reach the other end of the square. Now sheltered from the police as they passed through the marketplace, he estimated the crossing would take thirty seconds. Thirty seconds under the protection of the canvas were all he needed. He had little confidence in his own ploy, but figured it sounded better than
Don't let the police find me
or
There's a man out there trying to kill me.

He glanced at the woman's watch, a mother-of-pearl face set in a golden rectangle. He synchronized his mental count to the movement of the watch's second hand, his fascination with her jewelry causing the woman apparent anguish. With her eyes, she seemed to be pleading with him not to steal. She jerked her wrist away and hid the watch under her coat. Aware of her distress, he redirected his gaze, continuing the countdown.

“There's no need to be bashful,” Austin said. “I go by the hour. The longer we wait before someone fesses to their whimsies, the lighter your pockets, and the less fun we share.”

“Please, don't harm us,” whispered the man. His cheeks twitched, and there was no mistaking the tremble in his Mancunian dialect. “Is it money you're after?”

“Not until we've had a good time. I wouldn't try to cheat you.”

The woman spoke next. Her accent was the same as her husband's, the vowels over-enunciated, a few glottal consonants colored with non-rhotic
R
's.