by David Gilman
Max’s mind raced. He had done first aid; he knew what to do. He eased Miller’s body over, tore off the man’s tie and ripped open his shirt. Anything that might help him breathe.
There was a look of fearful surprise on Miller’s face, and then the muscles relaxed and he sighed. His eyes half closed. He was dead.
Max desperately felt for a pulse in his neck, but there was nothing. Do NOT do this unless you know what you are doing, an instructor’s warning shouted in his mind. Max knew. He KNEW! He checked Dr. Miller’s mouth—there were no false teeth to worry about. He quickly wiped away the spittle that had dribbled from the corner of the old man’s lips and wiped the bubbling froth of pink blood from his nose. Max could save him. He could save him. COME ON!
He laid the heel of his hand halfway down Dr. Miller’s chest, leaned on it, felt the ribs give a little. How much? Remember? About forty millimeters. With one hand on top of the other, he quickly compressed the man’s chest. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen … He stopped, eased open the man’s jaw, pinched his nose, covered his mouth with his own and blew steadily into the man’s lungs four times. More compression. Nine, ten … thirteen … fifteen … Max covered his mouth again, blew again. Dr. Miller’s chest rose a little. Max felt a surge of hope. But there was no pulse. Compress. Breathe. Compress. Breathe.
How much time had passed? Max checked his watch. Three minutes. It felt like three hours as he made the frantic attempt to save the man. How quickly a life could slip away. Max shook from the exertion of his first aid and the nervous tension of the old man’s death. A death that would have been avoided if Max had not come here. And he had tried and failed to save him.
No!
“No!” Max screamed, and heard the echo bounce down the halls of the uncaring statues.
Feet pounded toward him. Someone shouted something. Two torch beams slashed through the darkness in the distance.
Max touched the gentle man’s clammy hand. “I’m so sorry. Forgive me,” he whispered. He reluctantly pulled the small bunch of keys off Dr. Miller’s belt clip and jumped to his feet.
For a second he stood stock-still, closed his eyes, pictured the way he had come into the building, where he had rushed through to reach the Anthropology Library, and how he had dogged Miller’s footsteps to get here. He saw the pictures in his mind’s eye—and ran. He knew where he was in relation to those doors, but he needed a map to get out, and they were only to be found on the information desk near the main entrance across that huge open space. That was just too dangerous. He would have to adapt and tackle each problem as it came. All he knew was that the main offices were east, and there were loading bays to the west. And that was how he was going to get out of the building.
Max quickly flipped open his mobile, pressed a button and ran—away from the approaching sounds of running feet. The torch beams had ducked and weaved as the men checked each side room, cabinet and cranny.
“This is Max Gordon. I need help. I’m in the British Museum.” He paused. “I don’t know where exactly. Help me!” He paused again. “Listen, I can’t talk. They’re close. I reckon there are at least three men.” He closed the phone.
Max pounded up the stairs.
A shadow gave chase.
How close?
Max could hear the man’s breathing.
Arms pumping, legs fueled with escape juice, he gained a few meters. The man gasped a breathless shout. “Here!”
Voices echoed. A beacon to another deadly night shape that came from the adjoining room from which Max had escaped. The other man came at him now. He could see his eyes and the snarl on his face. Two of them. He could beat them. He knew he could.
Running scared but running alert, Max saw a third man. Waiting. Right where Max was heading. This man seemed totally unperturbed, as if he knew his victim was being driven to him for the kill. Where to run? Central stairs curved upward, turned at the top and came down the other side. They led nowhere except to a closed restaurant. If he bounded up there, they would simply follow and box him in.
Max was trapped like a monkey being chased by lions.
Monkey see, monkey do.
Climb, Max!
On pure instinct, he ran for the looming shadow that disappeared high into the dull gloom reflecting from the glass roof. It was like a massive, limbless tree about ten or twelve meters high.
Carved, grimacing faces snarled at him. A gruesome mask with a whale’s tale in its mouth sat squashed at the bottom. It was a totem pole. Coarse, hacked wood, its paint long gone from a hundred years of North American weather, allowed a firm grip as his feet dug into the swirls and shapes of the carvings. Creatures of a Native American spirit world. He heard men swear below him as he clambered higher. Monkeys climb and monkeys jump, but this was so high he didn’t even want to look down into the murkiness below.
A shout: “Get after him!”
Max dared to glance down. One of the two men went higher after him, the second scorched the darkness with his torch beam, but the third just stood and watched. Silent and unmoving. Figuring out what Max could do once he reached the top of this man-made tree. There was nowhere to go.
Trembling with exertion and the fear that came from being pursued, he felt the gentle vibration through his fingertips, the urgency of the man climbing up behind him. The totem wobbled. Max was at the top.
He had expected them to chase him up here. Added weight made the pole unstable, and Max was going to make sure it became even more unsteady—he had to if he was going to survive, but if he got it wrong, the fall could kill him.
Gripping a gnarled creature’s sculptured face, he leaned backward. It didn’t give. He threw his body weight forward, hauled back again and felt a tremor of movement. It began to rock. Max grunted with effort, felt his leg muscles straining against the force needed to shift the center of balance.
“Hey! Kid! Cut it out! You’ll kill us both!” the man yelled, five meters below him. He was gaining fast, but the rocking motion made him grip the pole tightly and cling desperately.
Max was in no mood to do as he was told. “Go to hell!” he shouted back, and threw himself into the momentum. It almost tipped. Max cried out in effort. One more pull and push should do it.
Too far! The pole’s momentum was going backward. Max hugged the sharp-beaked face that glared at him. It was like embracing a monster.
“Come on!” Max yelled at the top of his lungs, forcing every fiber of his body to hurl his energy against the momentum. Like a giant, felled tree, the totem pole creaked, shuddered and fell.
The man screamed. He’d lost his foothold and grip. Bones would shatter when he hit the floor. Another agonized scream confirmed it.
But Max’s attention was fixed on the stately fall of the totem until gravity took his breath away. He would have to let go at any moment. The wall of the building loomed toward him, and then the shuddering pole slammed into it—taking the decision out of his hands, literally. The impact bounced him off the totem. Max threw out his arms, grabbing the ridge of concrete pediment that ran below the skeletal roof. Feet scrabbling, he found the edge of the totem again and used it to push upward. Then there was nothing but thin air below his feet. His weight wrenched his shoulders, but he brought his knee up onto the narrow ledge, felt the concrete dig into bone, ignored the pain and clung like a limpet. Sweat slicked his hands and face. He risked a downward glance. The dark-eyed man gazed up at Max. Then he sprinted for the hallways and stairs that would bring him up to Max’s level.
Max grunted and heaved himself along the fingertip ledge, his badly aching shoulder protesting. Pain took his mind off the fear of falling. At last he reached a small balcony, hauled himself over and tried to calm his breathing so he could hear any sounds of approaching attackers. Max held his breath. His heart would not stop banging in his ears. He couldn’t wait. He took a chance and ran down a narrow corridor.
Glass doors, chained and bolted like all the others, blocked his way. He was trapped. He saw th
e dark-eyed man reach the top of the marble staircase, turn and sprint toward him.
Max fumbled with Dr. Miller’s key ring. Don’t look at him! Concentrate! There were only three master keys on the ring. A one-in-three chance to escape. Max’s mind picked the one that looked more like a padlock key, pushed it in, turned it and felt the surge of relief as the padlock sprang open.
The man was running flat out toward him now.
Thirty meters.
Max heaved the chain free, pushed through the glass doors and shoved his hand through the handles on the other side.
Fifteen meters.
Max tightened the chain, pushed the padlock through and snapped it closed.
Bang! Max staggered back. The man had thrown his shoulder against the solid glass doors just as the padlock clicked.
The man seemed unhurt and never took his eyes off Max. There was less than an arm’s length between them. Max looked at Riga and their gaze held for a moment. In that split second, both recognized the other from that night on Dartmoor. Max saw the man’s jaw muscles clenching. He was really fired up.
Being scared gives a high-octane boost, and Max was about to take off, but so was the other man. He could run through the next corridor and corner Max. To hell with him. Max smiled and raised his middle finger.
Then ran like the devil was after him.
There were stairs at the end. A narrow lift door tempted him, but going inside there would be like handing himself over. Nonetheless, it might help to cause a brief diversion. He pressed the button to summon the lift, turned and ran. And stopped. Now he could hear the sound of pounding feet. He ducked into an alcove. This area behind the exhibit’s glass was boxed, creating a false wall.
Max heard the lift doors ping open in the background.
He slid to his haunches—keep a low profile—eyes scanning every shade of light. Someone had run past the end of the corridor, heading toward the lift. Max’s fingers had already slid out the SIM card from his phone. He reckoned there were only seconds left now.
He was heading the right way: west. There were the stairs. The final exhibit at the end of the corridor was of a cave, with two skeletons lying in the dust—the Jericho Tombs, a sign told him. Max unhooked a fire extinguisher and placed it in position where the glass case ended and the wall started. He was out of sight from each end of the corridor.
He pressed a button on his mobile and slid the phone across the floor. It skittered like an ice-hockey puck.
He could just about balance one foot on top of the fire extinguisher, enough for him to reach up and grasp the top of the exhibit’s roof. He heard his own voice echoing across the halls from the message he had recorded. “This is Max Gordon. I need help. I’m in the British Museum.” There was a pause as if he were listening. Then, “I don’t know where exactly. Help me!”
Max was on the roof. He risked a peek over the rim. The man who’d almost had him at the glass doors now held a short stabbing knife. As his jacket flapped, the butt of a chromed semiautomatic pistol glinted in the half-light. He ran past the tomb toward the sound of Max’s voice. “Listen, I can’t talk. They’re close. I reckon there are at least three men.”
The dark-eyed man looked this way and that, then bent down, found the phone and turned. Max ducked. It was as if his pursuer’s instincts told him exactly where Max was hiding. He held his breath. Would the fire extinguisher on the floor arouse any suspicions?
Max heard someone call from below. “Riga!”
Riga. Was that the man’s name or some kind of warning in a foreign language?
“Riga!” the voice demanded. “Police. C’mon! We gotta get outta here!”
Max dared not move. He lay as flat as he could on the exhibit’s roof and hoped it would bear his weight; otherwise he would fall into the Tomb of Jericho and end up dead—just like the skeletons.
“I’ll find you, Max Gordon!” Riga called.
Max’s blood froze. His throat dried. The man knew his name and was cool enough to take his time and issue the warning.
“You’re a smart kid. But I’ll find you. Don’t think I won’t. You can’t get away. Not from me. You remember that.”
Footfalls pounded into the distance. Unintelligible voices, scrambled words filtered up from downstairs somewhere; then it was silent. Blue light twirled across the walls. The police. What were they doing here? Had a passerby seen something? Had a security guard got free and phoned them? Max heard the throaty growl of a motorbike. Its engine was cut. Doors banged open. And a woman’s voice took command of the darkness.
“Search the place! See if the boy’s here!”
Uniformed cops ran up the stairs.
Unbelievable. Now Max had to escape from the police.
The paramedics covered Dr. Miller’s body with a blanket and eased the stretcher out through the doors. Charlotte Morgan stood in the room. There was no doubt that there had been intruders in the British Museum or that the man had had a heart attack. And there was evidence that someone had tried to save him. Who? She did not believe for one moment that the vandalism was caused by these ACT people. Not after being told of Riga’s involvement at Dartmoor High.
She studied the room carefully, walking around the exhibits behind the glass. There was no evidence of any connection with Peru or South America. Light caught the glass and she saw the smudges. They were fingerprints, plenty of them. Most were low down. She imagined small children pressing their hands against the invisible wall.
Higher up were other prints. She stepped back, checked the maps behind the glass that showed the history of the Toltecs, Aztecs and Mayas. Why had Dr. Miller been in here? It seemed obvious that it must have been with Max. In Oxford, Professor Blacker had told her that there were two other experts who could understand khipus. One was in Edinburgh, the other at the British Museum. Max Gordon could go to either. Charlie Morgan had mentally tossed a coin. Heads or tails? Heads. London.
Her eyes scanned the glass. Among all the smudges was a full handprint at shoulder height, as if someone had wanted to touch the very place shown on the map. She opened a small pack of what looked like cellophane peel-offs, pressed one against the glass and lifted the fingerprints. If these prints were by any chance Max Gordon’s, then she knew he was not going to Peru, where Danny Maguire had been working, but to Central America. Why? What was there?
“Officer Morgan!” The irate voice echoed down the corridor into the room.
Charlie looked up, annoyed to have her chain of thought broken, but by the look of the wildly beckoning figure marching back outside, it looked like she was going to have to do even more thinking. And fast.
Four police cars, lights flashing, stood guard over the museum’s main entrance gates. Uniformed officers were coming and going, still searching the grounds and buildings for Max. Paramedics attended to the security staff. Charlie Morgan walked out into the courtyard. Crowds of faces pressed against the gold-tipped iron gates. There were always so many people on the streets even at this time of night.
“Who’s paying for all of this?” the red-faced inspector demanded.
“What?”
“Police time! You’ve pulled four area patrol cars and a dozen of my officers off the streets. This is not a major incident. A half-baked bunch of activists making fools of the security here is not worth my people’s time! I’m leaving one officer to take statements.” He turned on his heel.
Damn. Charlie needed these people for another few hours, but he was right—she had no authority to use his officers, and there was always the question of who paid for what in this bureaucratic world. How far could she go before this was blown out of all proportion? There was only one way to find out. “Inspector! This comes from the top. The Home Office. We think it might have been a practice run by terrorists. We have good information. They’re using a boy to get past security,” she lied. “We think he’s still inside.”
Mention the word terrorist and the world freezes. At least the inspector’s did. Was he going
to take responsibility for letting an extremist escape?
“Is he dangerous? Do we need an armed team here?”
This was where it got tricky. Just how far could she go? Fear is a wonderful instrument to control people. She didn’t hesitate. “That would be a very good idea. Thank you.”
Now the inspector felt important. He was part of a bigger, more dangerous picture. He nodded. “I’ll bring sniffer dogs in as well. You can have them till the morning.”
He turned away. Charlie sighed. Whoever had caused havoc in the museum was already gone. Eyewitnesses had seen a car with four men inside pull away from the side entrance just before the police arrived. Two of the men were injured. There was little point in tracing the number plate; it would be false. Perhaps CCTV could track where it went.
But those were men. Where was the boy? Where was Max Gordon? All her instincts told her he was still inside.
Max waited until the initial shouts, lights and the sound of running feet had faded into a more industrious and less frenetic pace. The voices were more measured now, and it was obvious they were searching for someone. It did not take a great leap of imagination to guess who.
The false wall behind the exhibit case of the Tomb of Jericho was a space for pipework, most of which was as thick as his forearm. Old, solid, Victorian-era conduits. The gap was narrow, but if he held his backpack in one hand and a pipe with another, he could ease himself down. By the time he reached the bottom, he was in a network of underground pipes and cables. A service tunnel. Max knew he had been close to the west stairs when he hid but had no idea where he was now. It was almost pitch-black down here. Max did not like dark, enclosed spaces. He could feel it close around him, like an invisible night monster suffocating him.
