Ice Claw (41 page)

Max skittered across the gleaming black stone floor and thumped into a wall of ice. Somewhere in the background rushing water broke the silence. He got to his feet. The dull glow was emanating from very soft lights, but the blue tinge came from the ice that surrounded him. It was like being inside a glacier. But as soon as his eyes adjusted he felt a sudden panic rise in his chest. It was below freezing, his breath plumed, but it was not the sudden shock of cold that made him fearful. Dozens of eyes stared at him.

Eyes of the dead.

Tishenko had listened to Sharkface’s description of the attack in the Parc la Grange.

The death of his girl killer caused no feelings of regret. Survival depended on an individual’s skills and determination. Luck was a fickle companion.

Sharkface told him of the assault and how the tough-looking men had arrived with Max Gordon and had run over Peaches. It had not been possible to capture the English boy, but Sharkface did have what Tishenko prized most—the pendant. All Sharkface had ever wanted was to be accepted by Tishenko as a
vucari
—a wolf man, one of the chosen few.

Tishenko instructed the boy to get food; he would reward him later. He brought the stone closer. It yielded nothing to his gaze. It seemed so ordinary. His people would examine it under microscopes so powerful they could look into the eyes of microbes!

At last. The secret Zabala had hidden within the stone—the information he had died to protect. Fate had now cast the pendant into Tishenko’s hands at such a vital moment. The monk had spent more than twenty years tracking the stars, seeking out the Truth—that explosive moment when heavenly powers flung down a shattering fireball of creation. Zabala
knew
! And had tried to warn an unsuspecting world. But the scientists had ignored him. Ridiculed him. Tishenko had not. Zabala’s friend had betrayed him; told Tishenko that at last the mystic monk had found the proof of the catastrophe that had eluded him for so long. A fragment of knowledge that Tishenko yearned for. A final nudge from the gods that would confirm everything he planned tomorrow, when the lightning would be controlled. Tishenko had the power. His mother must have known when she named him. Fedir—a gift from God.

The storm was approaching. Tomorrow it was expected to be at its most violent. That he had secured the monk’s pendant only hours before he was to leave the Citadel and take himself into the desolation enforced his belief that the great mystery of the universe guided him.

Not only would he challenge the storm, he would embrace his destiny. Out of the devastation and fire he would create life.
Lux Ferre
—the bringer of light.

Max crouched like an animal ready to run, his mind racing to take in what he saw. He was in an ice cave. Specks of frost clung to the walls and roof, so everything shimmered as if some magic spell were being cast. But the creatures’ eyes that
stared back at him were unmoving. No light, no glimmer, just the vacant stare of death.

It was a natural history museum of frozen animals, teeth bared, in natural poses. A muscled silverback mountain gorilla glared; a black rhino stood full square, proud, curved horn majestic. A leopard lunged upwards at a very rare Tibetan antelope, startled but, like the others, frozen. Two lions fought, the huge male, his mane dusted with frost, poised over the female, which was twisted in a snarling defensive position. Max could almost sense the African dust rising from their scuffling paws. Orangutan, lynx, all stood as if caught by flash photography. A leatherback turtle, bigger than any Max had seen before, was suspended in an ice block, as if swimming through the ocean. There were animals Max had seen only in photographs, such as a rare snow leopard, its softly mottled coat blending into the snowbank that had been created around it.

He moved slowly among the creatures, in silent wonderment at being so close to the great beasts of the world. Then he realized that this was a very specific collection. They were mostly predators. From the big cats to wolves, hunting dogs to jackals. The jackal gazed down at Max with wise eyes, touching his memory of a jackal’s guidance when he was in Africa. A Bengal tiger, not as big as Aladfar but huge nonetheless, crouched, eyes glaring, claws gripping the ground.

This private museum belonged to the man who smuggled animals, many of them endangered. A bear, about the same size as Max, stood on its hind legs, its front paws held up defensively, as if uncertain what the human being who killed him was about to do. The look of surprise on its face was
accentuated by the black circles around its eyes. This was the small South American bear Sophie had mentioned to him when they’d first met. And this was how the poor creature had ended up.

The cold air carpeted the floor with a thin crust of ice, so that Max’s steps crunched. He moved quickly to the other end of the hall, forcing himself not to look over his shoulder—in case the dead came back to life. They all looked ravenous.

A double stainless-steel door barred his exit. There was no sign of a handle, a switch or a code box. Nothing. It had to be a remotely operated door. Farther along the wall a hole gave a brief glimpse of a spurting torrent of water. It was no larger than the ice tunnel he had just slid down, and the water gushed white with the tremendous power of a waterfall before disappearing into the blackness below. The volume of water told Max it came from somewhere higher in the mountain—runoff from melting snow.

He stuck his face closer to the pounding water, pushing his shoulders into the hollow wall. Wasp stings of spray pricked his face; the roaring water deafened him, but there was a different sound in the background. It was barely distinguishable, but it was of water splashing, falling into other water. This was some kind of sluice, a natural underground stream. How far down was it before the water tumbled into deeper water? Was it a lake? A pond? Whatever it was, it was below the level of this ice cave.

It might be the lower-level chamber beneath the air-vent chimney that was too small to crawl down. The water chute was the only way out.

This was extremely dangerous. In fact, “extreme” didn’t quite cover it. But it was a risk he had to take. He opened his backpack, pulled out a garbage bag and began stripping. As each layer came off, the freezing air snared itself around him, barbed-wire sharp. He knew he couldn’t hang around too long or it would freeze him into submission. With all his clothing stuffed into the plastic bag in his backpack, except his boxer shorts and trainers—whose tough soles might help deflect any sharp-edged rocks on the way down the waterfall—he was already relishing the thought of dry clothing at the end of this nightmare plunge. He was shivering violently. You had to know what freezing-cold water would do to you in order to survive it. Cold water strips away body heat twenty-five times faster than cold air does. The moment Max got into that sluice his blood pressure would rise and he would start hyperventilating—and that was dangerous. The sudden shock would stop him from holding his breath. Even strong swimmers have drowned in cold water. Knowing what to expect would help him survive, but not knowing how long he might be in the water was the frightening part. After three minutes his body temperature would drop, hypothermia would set in, his muscles and limbs would be unable to keep him going.

Experts called it sudden cold water death.

Max pulled his backpack on across his chest—this would stop it snagging and also give him a buoyancy aid. He clambered onto the rock sill, tried to stop his teeth chattering and took a deep breath, mentally locking it into his lungs. He needed that air as long as possible.

He pushed into the tongue of water and immediately
gasped, losing vital oxygen. Water spilled across his head, his neck felt as though someone had pinioned him with icicles, and his throat constricted with the cold.
Control it! CONTROL IT!
his mind shouted at him. He suppressed an urgent desire to yell as he felt the water-smooth rocks disappear from below him. He plunged from darkness to dim, glowing light in the space of twenty seconds. His stinging eyes saw the drop—only three or four meters—before he splashed into a pool of water.

It felt as though broken glass pulsed through his veins. The cold was shutting him down—rapidly. He couldn’t function; his arms were useless, his mind unable to grasp the deep sleep that threatened to suffocate him. Images danced across his vision. Snow and ice packed the edges of the pool below, and the remains of something dark and bloody stained the smudged snow. This was the end. He had gambled and lost and now the dark ice would take him. A deep instinct for survival, a small glimmer in his brain, told him there was time for one more gulp of air. And then he went down into the water.

The impact, the resistance of the water and then a floating sensation. Downwards.
Out of your depth. Too far down
. The cold left him. That meant he was either unaware of the terrible effect the temperature was having on his body and he was slipping into deep unconsciousness, or he had warmth and protection, like a young polar bear.

The pool’s water was marginally warmer, not by much, and its salty content stung his eyes. At first it seemed as though daylight streamed down into the depths, but then his achingly cold mind told him that it couldn’t be. These were
artificial lights allowing something to see beneath the water. What something?

A white monster smashed into the water. A mature polar bear, its huge paws, thirty centimeters across, scooped away water.
This
was the something.

Fear-generated strength gushed through Max. An unusual feeling of clumsiness encumbered his body. He was dogpaddling, pulling water beneath his body, legs kicking awkwardly, bubbles streaming from his nostrils as he peered through the gloom. White turbulence from the surging water came into view as it coursed through the pool and escaped onwards over a lip of rock.

He dared a look behind him. The polar bear was striking up from the deep pool, broad paws swatting away water in an almost lazy fashion, as if in slow motion. It was an illusion. The bear was so strong it made his power seem effortless. The fury and violence if he caught the intruder in his territory would be terrifying.

The watercourse was the escape route. Max didn’t know how he had stayed under the surface for so long, or how his body had coped with the heart-stopping cold, but he went as fast as he could, broke the surface, reached up onto the packed ice on top of the rock ledge and tried to haul himself out of the water. The backpack strapped to his chest made it impossible. The horror of having his legs dangling in the water with the predator less than a couple of meters below spurred the strength back into his limbs. Twisting his body, he levered himself ashore using an elbow and the biceps of one arm.

On all fours he clambered across the rock, through the bloody remains of a seal, heading for the sluice that funneled
the water away. To his left an ice wall blocked his escape—but the slushing sound of water behind him told him the bear had hauled itself clear and was within lunging distance. Max dived into the sluice and sensed rather than felt the power of the polar bear as he heard it bellow, its paw slashing through the air, missing Max but connecting with the ice wall. It sounded like someone scraping their fingernails down a blackboard.

He had missed savage injury and certain death by seconds, but if he stayed in this fast-moving watercourse he would be swept away into the plunging water that disappeared at the end of the rock cave, forty meters away. He flung out his arm, caught hold of something cold and hard. Steel. The edge of a steel cage.

There was no more strength in him. To hold fast against that flow and haul himself over the rim of the channel into the cage was beyond him. Better to die now. Just let go and die. It was so easy.

Sayid’s face looked up at him from the back of the taxi taking him to the airport at Biarritz. That was the last time he had seen his friend. It was like being punched in the stomach—his friend needed him. That was why Max was here! Right now he didn’t care about a crazy man causing devastation. He wanted to save his friend. But first he had to survive.

Max tightened his grip. He wouldn’t give up, but the effort needed was still too much—and then nature took a hand. The water twisted him; he floundered, kept his grip on the steel bar, but he was now belly down, facing the surging water. He couldn’t breathe.

It happened so quickly that the thoughts were barely formed when the force of the water slammed against his backpack, still strapped on his chest, and threw him upwards with the force of the current. It gave him an instant to twist and fall onto the straw floor of the cage whose steel bars he had clung to.

He lay still, the prickly straw making no impression on his frozen body. A blue tinge covered his skin, like the beginning of a bruise. But he was alive. The white noise of the sloshing water seemed like a lullaby. No longer a threat, it offered a soothing comfort to his battered body. The other sound he did not understand—a persistent, desperate scratching.

The alarm bell that rang loud and clear was in his head. He needed warmth and food. His body was desperate for sugar and carbohydrates. The deep straw stank of stale animal smells but he would have happily burrowed deeply and slept. Instead he forced his painful, trembling limbs to stand and undo his backpack. Everything was still dry. He plunged his arms down into the bag, fingers searching for the energy and chocolate bar he knew he had tucked away. He tore off the wrapper with his teeth and shoved the contents into his mouth. He pulled out the dry clothes, but he needed to get his circulation going first, to rub warmth into his skin. There was a pile of sacks tacked against the far wall beyond the cage doors. He pushed. The cage was bolted. Max reached through the bars. The bolt was jammed; the damp air had set it fast. He tried to wriggle the bolt’s handle but it barely moved. If he tried to hammer it with the heel of his hand he’d cause damage to himself. Removing one of his sodden trainers, he slipped his hand inside and used it as a buffer for his fist.