Bite

by Nick Louth

  He is whispering my name. Crocodile has come for me.

  (Erica’s Diary 1992)

  I tried to shrink into the corner of my cell, but Crocodile found me. I could smell the alcohol on his breath, and as soon as I heard him speak softly I was terribly afraid. He dragged me off to his shack with a hand over my mouth. I was powerless to resist. I was taken through the living room, now brilliantly lit, and dumped in the shower. Crocodile pulled the handle, then stood watching as the warm water blasted down onto my hair and rags. A torrent of brown dirt poured off me and down the drain. He threw soap at me and demanded I wash. I did nothing. This time I knew filth was my friend and protector. The dress that he had given me weeks ago had shifted from puce with orange flowers, to a grease-shined brown. Now it was my own dress, with my filth and suffering ingrained.

  Crocodile’s eyes, bloodshot and barely focused, rolled down my body. He lunged at me, grabbing the dress. I kicked and slid into a corner on my side, as the material ripped, leaving me with only rags of underwear. ‘Stay away from me,’ I hissed, the soap like a stone in my raised hand.

  Like a powerful animal he crouched, water pouring onto his broad back and his massive squat thighs. His clothes were soaked. His jaws worked rabidly, water dripping from his chin. ‘Come on bitch, don’t make it difficult.’

  He stood to unbuckle his trousers, pulling the belt out like a whip, placed his holster on the window ledge. He undid his shirt, kicked off his flipflops and absurdly baggy underwear while I shivered. My eyes were drawn up to him, the swelling dark meat between damp caramel thighs.

  ‘Why can’t you leave me alone?’

  ‘Because I want you,’ he snarled, grabbing both my wrists in one hand. ‘And I always get what I want.’

  Though I squirmed, he knelt and forced his immense thighs between my own, guiding himself towards the target. I forced my gaze upwards and whispered to him. ‘I thought you wanted respect. Wasn’t that what you were telling me?’

  He stared at me, but said nothing.

  ‘You can’t get respect this way,’ I said. ‘And you know it.’

  He looked down at his softening penis. For a fumbling, futile minute he attempted to use it. Finally he stood, cursing me. Then he stamped on my stomach. While I retched he turned to the window ledge and pulled out his revolver. Laboriously he loaded six bullets into it from his belt, all the time muttering to himself. I curled up into a ball in the corner, sobbing.

  He knelt down and grabbed my hair in one hand. He forced the barrel of the gun hard into my mouth until I gagged. The barrel scratched the roof of my mouth, a cold sour metal like distilled fear. I watched the hammer behind the chamber ease back as he exerted pressure on the trigger. I kept as still as I could and turned my eyes up to him, silently pleading for my life. My teeth began to rattle against the barrel.

  ‘You prefer it this way?’ he whispered.

  I made no reply, but closed my eyes.

  ‘Lick the gun, I want to see your technique. Caress it with your mouth, your lips.’

  I opened my eyes, but made no move. The hammer eased back a fraction further. I had no choice. I swirled my lips and tongue, watching for signs of his approval.

  Instead I saw shame and revulsion creep onto his face, melting away the glaze of lust. ‘Don’t cry,’ he said softly, relaxing the grip on my hair, and withdrawing the gun.

  But I couldn’t help it. He stroked my face, brushing the tears from my eyelashes. ‘I got you a present,’ he whispered. ‘Would you like to see it?’

  I nodded mutely. He turned off the water and collected his clothes. He threw me a towel, but I was like a jelly. I couldn’t even reach out to grab it. I just lay sobbing and rocking, holding my knees to my chest.

  Crocodile returned a few minutes later, fully clothed and with a small bag in his hands. He walked over to me with a fresh towel and pulled me gently to my feet. He patted me dry, making little noises of encouragement as if I was a baby. Then he held me tight in his arms and took me out into his room.

  ‘I want you to know that I am no rapist.’

  I nodded, but couldn’t look at him.

  ‘Nevertheless, I apologise. I should treat you with more respect.’ He handed me a velvet pouch. ‘Open it.’

  I did nothing, so he undid the drawstring and tipped a dozen small crystalline pebbles into my hand. I looked up, perplexed.

  ‘We captured the alluvial mine at Obtuvanna yesterday.’ His meaty paw grasped my hand, pointing out the biggest of the pebbles. ‘These diamonds are uncut, but this one contains a six carat gem, at least. I will have it mounted on a gold ring for you.’ He smiled and licked his lips.

  I tossed the gems on the floor. ‘You think you can just buy me, don’t you?’

  A ripple of anger swept his face, but he blinked it away and the sickly smile returned. ‘Ah, yes. Such high principles.’ He picked up the stones and counted them carefully back into the bag. Then he tossed me my torn dress. ‘You go back to your cell now. Then you can think about your choices. These diamonds mean the KPLA is much stronger, Kinshasa has to talk. So no-one is going to rescue you.’

  Crocodile took me back to my cell. Before he opened the door he pressed his face close into mine and whispered. ‘Soon you will beg me to have you, Erica, I promise you that. I will show you who you are, and no longer will you consider yourself superior to me.’

  (Erica’s Diary 1992)

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Max drew his weapon and squinted towards the church door. Then he addressed Grzalawicz. ‘I wanna know how you know what d’Anville is going to do, okay? Level with me right now.’

  I know you are very suspicious of us, but in fact it was something you did which allowed d’Anville to find you and Lisbeth.

  ‘Like what?’

  What did you take from his house?

  ‘Nothing. Only Erica’s laptop.’

  Does it not strike you as strange that he would leave the house because he felt vulnerable there, but would leave behind a laptop computer which he had gone to such trouble to steal?

  ‘Not if he’s taken all the useful information from it. I can’t even get it to work.’

  Of course. But I notice you are still carrying it around.

  ‘I thought you guys might be able to hack into it.’

  We could, but there would be nothing there to read. I can show you. Get it out.

  Max unzipped the case and opened the laptop.

  Now lever open the plastic flap between the printer and mouse ports, and turn it around so I can see.

  It took Max a few moments to lever open the flap. He turned it around so Grzalawicz could see into it.

  I can see he has removed the internal modem chip to create space. I would expect two tracking devices. One, a tiny beacon which once a minute beams to a satellite your exact position to an accuracy of a few hundred yards. The second will be a proximity beacon. That is a short range wave transmitter. He will have some kind of earpiece, the louder the pulse, the closer you are. It will guide him right in to wherever you are. I’m afraid the laptop was his trojan horse, and it has worked perfectly.

  ‘You guessed all this?’

  No. We have a tiny camera planted in d’Anville’s study, and we watched him work on the laptop, though of course we couldn’t see exactly what he was doing to it.

  ‘But you guessed. And you cynical bastards, sitting safe in your offices, figured this was how you could lure d’Anville out of hiding. You sacrificed Lisbeth, your own fucking fiancée. You just used her all up, squeezed everything out of her. And now she’s dead.’

  Dr Grzalawicz’s brown eyes were sparkling. Anger? Amusement? Max couldn’t tell. The cursor blinked on his screen, but no letters emerged.

  ‘And now, hey. You’ve got a second chance. Max Carver, some leftover bait. Let’s see if Anvil bites him.’

  You are forgetting that I am here now. I have wanted to see d’Anville again face to face for many years. You and I will face him together.


  ‘Sure! Big help you’ll be in hand-to-hand combat,’ Max muttered, setting the laptop down across Grzalawicz’s knees.

  Calm down, Max. We are safe here, certainly safer than outside. As well as Mary-Anne we have agents Miller and Stevens, both former Navy Seals, posing as the workmen behind you. Agent Kuijper is on the scaffolding outside. Each of them is armed, each a marksman. It was a hurried plan, but we do intend to defend you.

  ‘With your record I’m better off praying for that miracle.’

  The light from the stained glass window above them dimmed, the multicoloured shafts disappeared. The gloom seemed heavy and cold. In the distance thunder rumbled.

  Grzalawicz’s eyes turned away. Max watched the cable inside the clear tube leading to his mouth device twitching rapidly, but no letters came up on the screen. Ten yards away, Mary-Anne was nodding. The doctor was speaking to her. Must have a radio built into the chair.

  Finally Grzalawicz turned back, and fresh letters flicked up, more rapidly than before. I can understand your anger, Max, but it would be more help if you would focus it on the situation in hand. You need to prepare for d’Anville’s arrival. He will be heavily armed and you are the only person he will recognise.

  ‘Great news, just fantastic. If you want a lure next time, try advertising.’

  I apologise that we don’t have any spare Kevlar vests for either of us. It is better that the marksmen have them.

  Max turned away and checked over the shiny Walther, trying out the sight. ‘I’m glad I cleaned this sucker. There needs to be something around here I can rely on.’

  Somewhere high up a window banged and plastic sheeting from outside flapped and crackled in the wind. Max could see Mary-Anne, grimacing and repeating herself into her collar where presumably there was a microphone. Grzalawicz’s head bobbled and his computer screen folded and retracted into a box by the side of the seat. The chair turned with a hum, and moved off steadily towards Mary-Anne.

  Max twirled the Walther around his trigger finger. ‘Speak to me guys. What’s going on?’

  Lightning flashed across the stained glass windows and a deep boom of thunder echoed through the church. Mary-Anne suddenly turned and gestured to the two agents on the platform, a hand flat on her head. Max recognised the command from coast guard training: cover me. The agents lay down on the aluminium platform, automatic weapons with scopes trained on the exit. She sprinted towards the door and disappeared out into the vestibule. Max knelt on the floor behind a choir pew, not to pray, but to keep the Walther trained on the door. For a minute nothing happened. The wind dropped, the plastic stopped flapping. The only sound was the soft patter of rain on the windows.

  Something made Max step away from the loops of power cable on the flagstones. The hairs on his neck prickled and rose, ozone filled his nostrils. The air was charged, almost fizzing with latency. Like animals know when earthquakes are coming, Max sensed the approaching lightning crackling through the air from the gates of heaven itself.

  A violet arc pierced the church and a deafening clap of thunder sounded overhead. Max saw the sizzling cables, incandescent violet snakes fanning out from the doorway and he saw Miller and Stevens hurled like dolls from the aluminium platform. Windows rattled, light bulbs exploded. The church fell into twilight as the agents crashed to earth.

  Max felt his way across towards the awful sound he had heard, the crack of human head on stone. Stevens was lying face down, his skull split on the flagstones and his clothing smoking. Miller was still alive. He had fallen on the wooden roof of a box pew, his burned hands dangling over the edge and twitching. Ozone, and the taint of scorched hair and flesh hung heavy in the air. Max climbed onto the edge of the pew, worn and shiny from a million praying arms, and lifted the man down. He lowered him carefully onto the bench inside. The agent grabbed at Max’s coat and his eyes flicked briefly wide as if some internal mechanism had just jammed. The eyes closed as the body relaxed. The dead hands left a pasty brown residue of burned flesh as they fell from Max’s lapels.

  There was the click of a door out in the vestibule and a cool gust of air entered the church. Heavy shoes moved slowly, gravel in the treads, crunching on the tiles. Not the sound of Mary-Anne’s sneakers. This was another, with darker, deeper purpose.

  There was no other sound except the frantic crack and flap of the plastic from outside. Max lowered himself into the stall which gave him a narrow angle onto the vestibule door. He knelt on the threadbare cushions as if in prayer, just his eyes and forehead showing over the lip, and the gun ready in his hand. Somewhere behind him, Max could hear the whine of Grzalawicz’s chair. It was moving away behind the steep ranks of choir pews at the western end, out of sight of the vestibule door.

  A shape flitted from the door and in one stride had jumped into cover. The only sound was a soft slap of skin on stone. The shoes must be off, no gravel sound. No chance for Max to get a clear shot. All he had seen clearly was the gun in d’Anville’s hand, the silhouette recognisable from Coast Guard training. An Ingram model 11 machine pistol. On full automatic the Ingram sprays twenty bullets a second. Takes all the fun out of aiming. But then Max was being hunted by a professional.

  The Belgian was behind the pillar, out of view. He knows I’m in the church, Max thought, but in this semi darkness he can’t know where. And I don’t have the laptop anymore to give my position away.

  Then Max realised where the laptop was. Right on Grzalawicz’s knees, where he couldn’t get rid of it. D’Anville was being drawn right in to it. It would be as fair a fight as a timber wolf against a Thanksgiving turkey.

  Max listened to the whine of the wheelchair motor and strained to hear the soft sound of bare feet above it. He rested the Walther’s barrel on the stall lip and scanned the 180 degree view along the nave, and the gap to his far left between the choir stalls. A glint of metal showed the wheelchair cross the gap. It headed away north, then stopped suddenly as a silhouette followed.

  A bolt of lightning lit the church brighter than day. Where d’Anville stood, leaning away over the wheelchair in that gap, was almost twenty yards. Twenty long yards when you can barely keep your hands still and when in five years you haven’t shot at anything more than beer cans. Twenty long yards when there will be no second chances, when the enemy has got a Gatling gun to your peashooter.

  In the next lightning flash, a millisecond later, Max saw the Belgian’s gaberdine coat, soaked dark with rain, only a spear of material dry, running up the cleft of his muscled back from the hem, its tip pointing between his shoulder blades. Providence gave him the light and providence pointed out the target. Aim here, it seemed to be saying, and Max did just that. He inhaled sharply and on the exhalation squeezed the trigger.

  The shot echoed with the thunder. D’Anville yelled and twisted, his mouth a slash of agony. Max dived to the floor, pulling Miller’s body down in front. The Ingram roared. Splinters fizzed all around the box pew like needles off a Christmas tree. Max was tucked behind Miller, and the Navy Seal was doing a finer job of protecting him in death than he had when he was alive. Twice the body jerked as it took a slug meant for Max.

  In the echoes of the shots, d’Anville fell, the clack of a gun hitting flagstones, the hissing intake of breath that registers excruciating pain.

  ‘Gotcha!’ Max hissed, shaking his fist gleefully. He stayed down, waiting out the sounds of dying, the clattering and the grunting while the storm raged overhead.

  The only worry was Grzalawicz. Max could hear the hum of the chair’s electric motor, straining and whining, the motor clicking on and off. Maybe because he was blocked by d’Anville’s body.

  Max really wanted to take a look, see the reassuring bobble of Grzalawicz’s head in that gap, but was in no hurry to be early for d’Anville’s funeral. No hurry to confront the Ingram. He recalled Alex’s warning: don’t approach d’Anville’s body, wait for us to arrive. But who was going to arrive? Miller and Stevens had been electrocuted. Mary-Anne had run out of the door and
failed to return. Contact with Kuijper had been lost. How many people did Alex have?

  Two minutes passed like an hour, with no sounds and no movement. Max crawled out over the lip of the pew, between the chairs until he reached the nave. Looking left into the gap below the massive pipes of the organ was a patch of darkness. It took the next lightning flash to show it as a pool of blood, spreading around a raincoated body. Max watched closely, cautiously. The head moved. D’Anville wasn’t dead.

  Max lay on the tiles, braced with both arms and fired at the body, watching it twitch with each slug until the gun clicked empty. He hadn’t approached, he had followed Alex’s rules. He had lived and d’Anville had died. He blew out a huge sigh of relief.

  ‘Are you okay, Doc?’ Max called. There was only one reply Grzalawicz could give. Once Max heard the hum of the wheelchair’s electric motor moving freely, he stood up. ‘You were right. This place does deal in miracles.’

  Max could hear the wheelchair moving away from the body, behind the choir stalls. He couldn’t see Grzalawicz but now he was closer he could clearly see the body on the floor. The body he had assumed was d’Anville’s, because it was wearing d’Anville’s bloodstained raincoat.

  The raincoat was over the body, sure. But it had been draped there, not worn. And now, looking down on it, the body underneath was far too thin to be d’Anville. Max kneeled down in the spreading pool of blood and turned the head towards him, already knowing who it was.

  Grzalawicz. Johnny Gee. The man who inspired Lisbeth’s love. The man who had tracked Poul Stefan d’Anville for thirteen years. A man who was still alive when Max emptied the magzine into him.

  Another mistake.

  Max dropped to the floor. If this was Grzalawicz then there was only one man who could now be in the wheelchair. Wounded, but alive. The chair’s hum sounded louder. And Max didn’t have a single bullet left.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Every day they torture Jarman. Five days now. Each time the generator chugs into life soon after dawn, and he heaves and weeps with fear. Each day he has less strength to resist. The first day they came back for him it took them a minute to wrench him off the grille and out of the cell. They had almost beaten him unconscious before he released his grip.