River of Ruin m-5

by Jack Du Brul

  The sound of pursuit reached him every time he paused for breath, neither gaining nor losing ground. He came across a narrow passage barely wide enough for him to pass sideways. The tunnel seemed to slope upward at a shallow angle. With the light off, he moved in, sweeping his feet against the dusty floor to obscure his prints. The darkness was absolute. He could taste it in his mouth and feel it clogging his ears.

  After fifty yards, his gun hand smashed into a solid wall. Not daring to turn on the light, he felt around, probing the darkness until he found where the tunnel continued to the left. Behind him he thought he saw a ghost’s glow of light from one of the gunmen, but it didn’t appear that they had found where he’d gone yet. They would, he knew. They would.

  His knees hit every irregularity in the ancient stonework as he shuffled sideways. Beginning to fear that the tunnel would pinch out, Mercer found that the claustrophobic rock suddenly began to widen. He could walk normally. He felt like he’d moved into another room and chanced flicking on his light. What he saw made him gag.

  The room was fifty or sixty feet square and the floor was a sea of carelessly strewn skeletons, like a scene from a Nazi death camp or Cambodia’s killing fields. A hole halfway up the brick wall opposite him was his only way out. To cross, Mercer had to step up onto the remains. Each lurching pace crunched into the pile, snapping the brittle bones. To keep the threads of panic from binding him, he told himself that the obscene sound was just the rustle of autumn leaves in a forest.

  His pants were torn by sharp protrusions and soon blood began to seep from shredded skin. Something snagged on his leg and he had to look down to dislodge it. His foot was ensnared in a rib cage. He kicked frantically and the bones flew apart.

  The light from his torch suddenly seemed brighter and Mercer whirled to look behind him. He saw two bright spots waving in the tunnel he’d just escaped. The gunmen had made up ground. He began running across the countless dead, desperate not to join them. A yard short of the hole, Mercer dove headlong as the beam from a flashlight swept the charnel room. The rough stone tore across his chest as he tumbled through the opening. He began rolling down a packed dirt slope with his case clutched to his chest. He heard a startled exclamation from one of the gunmen and the spit of a hastily fired shot.

  Mercer came to a stop in a shallow pool of foul-smelling water. His flashlight lay a few feet away, its glow focused on a half-submerged skull. This one was connected to the body that once carried it, a body still dressed in the remnants of jeans and a sweatshirt. It was a catophile, as illegal explorers of this underground crypt called themselves, who’d become lost and died. Judging by the decomposition, he or she had been down here for years. The empire of the dead continued to claim new members.

  He thought briefly of abandoning his sample case here. The gunmen weren’t likely to continue the chase once they had the Lepinay journal. But the idea died as soon as it formed. His anger remained stronger than any instinct of self-preservation.

  He jumped to his feet and started running. This passage wasn’t part of the Roman mines. It was a more modern, brick-lined tunnel. It took Mercer a minute to realize that he’d broken through into Paris’s extensive sewer system. Built by Napoleon III’s municipal engineer, Baron Georges Haussmann when he redesigned Paris beginning in the mid-eighteenth century, the sewers were a thousand-mile labyrinth of tunnels that exactly duplicated the streets above. Fortunately the storm runoff from the heavy rains had swept away much of the human waste generated by the millions above. Still, the stench rising from the channel in the center of the tunnel was overwhelming. Mercer’s lungs began to burn after only a few paces.

  The bottom of the tunnel had silted up with a clinging morass that sucked at his shoes. He vaulted up to the ledge that ran along the side of the passage. Overhead, he could hear raw sewage coursing through the two-foot-wide pipes that were bolted into the vaulted ceiling. Strings of offal drizzled from poorly fitted seams. At least here there was an occasional lightbulb along the roof of the tunnel.

  Had his lead been greater, Mercer would have climbed one of the ladders he came across that presumably led to manhole covers on the street, but he guessed the gunmen were only a minute behind. He continued to run as hard as the fouled air would let him. He paid no attention to the dozens of rats or the jaunty porcelain street signs placed at each intersection. He simply chose a direction and continued on, realizing that the flow of water in the tunnel increased the farther downstream he ran. He rounded a sharp corner and suddenly was knee-deep in water. A snarl of tree limbs had created a dam across the tunnel, and back pressure was quickly filling the gallery.

  Mercer clambered over the pile and fell into the water that drained from between the limbs. Clearing sewage from his face, he flicked aside a dead rat that had become entangled. Through a small opening in the mound he saw the gunmen as dim shadows behind their probing lights. He was certain he could take one and hoped that he would get both. If he didn’t, the downstream side of the dam was much shallower and he would be able to gain a few minutes on the survivor. The Beretta came up and he was surprised to see that his aim held steady.

  Either alert for an ambush or extremely well trained, the gunmen split up as they approached the dam. One held far back, covering as his partner took up a position behind a huge valve. Realizing he’d never get both, Mercer concentrated on the closer assassin. The range was about twenty feet, an easy shot for him, but the gun was unfamiliar and he suddenly began to shake from the cold water.

  No sooner had the gunman started to edge from around the valve than Mercer pulled the trigger. The gun jammed and the unnatural sound carried over the liquid whir of water sieving through the dam. Mercer didn’t have time to clear the pistol’s fouled breach before return fire raked the makeshift obstruction. He wiggled out of his burrow and ran through the ankle-deep water behind the dam, his loafers kicking up small clots of unidentifiable filth.

  He reached a four-way intersection and turned the corner as a bullet destroyed a chunk of brick near his head. Dust scoured his already tearing eyes. The water grew deeper. Rather than leap onto the catwalk, Mercer pushed aside his revulsion and dove in. By feel, he cleared his jammed gun and dug his heels into the silt on the bottom of the channel. His case was wedged under his legs. Polluted water surged around him and unspeakable things brushed past him in the current. His lungs began to protest the foul air he’d drawn and he could taste the water on his lips as it tried to invade his body.

  What was that old joke Harry had mentioned once? If Moscow is full of Muscovites, wouldn’t Paris be full of Parasites? This part was, he was sure. Through force of will, Mercer remained on the bottom, waiting in an ambush the Chinese couldn’t possibly anticipate.

  His chest began to heave involuntarily as it used up the last of the oxygen, and behind his tightly closed eyes, sparks shot across his lids. Still he waited, knowing that he could draw this out for another few seconds. A gnarled branch hit his shoulder and bubbles dribbled from his lips, becoming a rush as his lungs emptied. He came to the surface, shielded partly by the few leaves remaining on the limb. His hair was plastered to his skull and the water burned his eyes before he could wipe them. One of the gunmen was ten paces ahead, cautiously stalking along the platform adjacent to the river of sewage. Mercer allowed the current to spin his body as he searched for the other.

  The second assassin was far down the tunnel, exploring a section of the sewer on the far side of the last intersection. Mercer could only see him by the play of his flashlight against the dank ceiling.

  Turning his attention to the closer man, Mercer felt no distaste at shooting him in the back. Being forced to kneel in a stream of waste precluded any thought to honor or fair play. Mercer double-checked his weapon and raised it, but realized he couldn’t fire. Son of a bitch.

  “Hey, buddy, can you spare some toilet paper?” The assassin turned faster than Mercer could have imagined. His gun was ready, twisting in an arc tighter than his body, and he
got a shot off just before his aim centered on Mercer.

  Mercer gave the Beretta a double tap. His first shot hit the gunman in the shoulder, continuing his spin, and the next blew out a chunk of bone at the top of his spine. The Chinese killer dropped even before the expended brass from Mercer’s gun pinged against the wall of the tunnel. He jumped up onto the platform, certain the unsilenced shots would draw the second assassin. So far his briefcase didn’t feel any heavier, meaning its seal was still keeping out water and protecting the old diary.

  Farther under the city he moved, jinking around corners, leaping across the torrents that rushed through the center of the larger tunnels and getting himself so thoroughly lost that if he managed to elude the last gunman, he’d never be able to retrace his steps. Every time he thought he’d finally lost the assassin, he’d see the flickering light of his dogged pursuer.

  Ahead, Mercer saw another of the ladders that led to the surface and judged his lead large enough to chance the unprotected climb. The steel rungs were slick with filth. He stuck his pistol into his waistband as he started up. Once he reached the top, he found that the airtight plug that kept the smells from overpowering the streets was frozen solid. He hammered at it then shimmied back down. He couldn’t waste the time. Back in the sewer, the gunman’s light was a hundred yards back. Too far for a pistol shot to be effective without a heavy dose of luck or a Hollywood scriptwriter.

  Mercer came across more and more tunnels that were relatively dry and wondered how that could be, considering the amount of rain that Jean-Paul had said had been falling. As he staggered down one, a sudden gust of foul air pressed against his back. He turned. The Chinese had yet to turn this corner, but beyond the intersection he’d just passed, a wall of water raced down the sewer carrying debris of every imaginable shape and size. The sewermen working up the line must have temporarily dammed the flow to build enough pressure to clear obstructions. It was a practice used in the city for more than a century. Mercer had also heard they used special boats equipped with sluice gates for the same purpose.

  He jumped out of the channel just as the tide swept past, its force making the entire tunnel vibrate. He lay on the slimy floor for a moment, almost at the end of his strength. His breathing was too labored to properly fill his lungs. Slowly he pushed himself to his feet and felt that his pursuer had gained a few yards on him.

  Mercer came to a junction that contained a number of valves and gates, a central area where several of the larger sewers came together. Nearly tapped out, he took cover behind an iron valve casing the size of a locomotive boiler. This was the best place he’d found to make a stand. He checked to see how many rounds remained in the Beretta and discovered that he had only one. Considering its corrosion, there was a fifty-fifty chance of the bullet firing or exploding in the pistol. He hastily searched for an exit. Just as he spotted an open hole in the floor that was usually covered by a hatch, the assassin burst into the chamber. He didn’t appear winded at all. His motions were crisp, precise, quartering the room with his eyes as his gun arm followed. Mercer couldn’t wait for the gunman’s gaze to swing toward him.

  As silently as his sodden shoes would allow, he crept forward on the man’s blind side. When they were ten feet apart, Mercer launched himself at his attacker. The gunman was quick, but not quick enough. The impact sent both men against the railing that protected three sides of the hole. The assassin’s breath exploded as his ribs were hammered by the metal railing. Mercer used this momentary advantage to smash the gun out of his grip.

  The killer had one arm free and whipped his elbow into Mercer’s chest, twisting out of reach and settling into a martial-arts pose. Mercer had learned a few basic karate moves, but considered his superior size his only weapon in this fight. When the assassin came in with a lightning kick, Mercer pushed him aside, wrapped both arms around the man, and began to squeeze. The Chinese used the back of his head as a battering ram against Mercer’s face, but Mercer lowered his own head so the two came together with a stunning crack.

  Dazed by the contact, Mercer lost his hold and the assassin moved inside his defenses, putting two punishing blows into Mercer’s chest before using the heel of his hand against Mercer’s chin.

  Mercer dropped.

  The gunman was on him like a terrier, kicking him so that he was pushed toward the open manhole in the floor. Mercer couldn’t defend himself. Instead of resisting, he clutched his briefcase with one hand, wrapped his arms around the gunman’s leg and allowed himself to fall through the hole.

  Mercer and the gunman dropped six feet into the trickle of water running along the floor of a perfectly round tunnel. It was more like an enormous pipeline than the previous tunnels, but seemed to date from the same time. A steady wind blew across the men as they lay in the water, too stunned to move for a moment.

  Gaining his feet just before the gunman, Mercer faced into the peculiar wind while the Chinese killer had his back to it. He never saw what was coming for them out of the darkness. Mercer could see it and it was like something out of a nightmare.

  This tunnel was one of the main feeds of the entire system and had been designed so that cleaning it didn’t require men to go into the channel with boats and their special shovels, called rabots. Here, whenever silt and debris clogged the conduit, they introduced a huge wooden ball exactly nine-tenths the diameter of the tunnel. The pressure of water behind it forced it down the pipe like a rolling plug.

  Mercer now understood what Jean-Paul had meant when he said the street department was dropping the ball all over the city. He wasn’t using the American expression for a screwup. They were literally dropping a one-thousand-pound wooden ball into the storm drains to clear them of the trash washed in by the constant rains.

  The ball rolled at them with unimaginable force, pressed forward by tons of water on its upstream side. Water jetted from the gaps between it and the tunnel’s lining. Mercer turned and ran, snapping on the spare flashlight he’d taken at the entrance to the catacombs. He looked back once to see the assassin limping after him. The man had injured his leg during the fall into the drain. His pace nowhere near matched that of the huge sphere.

  The gunman must have known it too because a moment before he was overwhelmed, he stopped to face the ball. He screamed once, a high keen that carried over the thunder of so much pressure, and then he fell under the revolving weight. Without pause, the ball’s remorseless motion crushed him flat as though he’d never existed. Mercer dredged up the last of his reserves, running harder than he’d ever moved, his light licking at the smooth tunnel walls searching for an escape.

  Ahead, he saw a pile of sand that blocked half the tunnel and dove over its crest in a flying leap. He rolled down its far slope, regained his feet and continued on. He glanced over his shoulder to see the ball hit the sand, hoping it would give him a moment’s reprieve. The ball was stopped for just a second before hydraulic forces dissolved the shoal. It continued its inexorable journey, mindlessly chasing Mercer down the tunnel.

  The drain swept through a couple of gentle turns, Mercer maximizing his angle at each so as not to lose one inch to the wooden globe. He could feel its presence no more than a dozen paces back. An occasional drop of water hit his head and neck. He knew if he looked at it, it would fill his vision. He pushed himself even harder.

  And just as he began to lose strength once again, his light flashed across a niche in the wall, a portal of some sort that protected a metal door. The surge of adrenaline carried him out of the spray that geysered from around the ball. He reached the niche just yards ahead of the ball and pressed the door’s lever handle. The metal shrieked as it opened and Mercer stepped into a smaller tunnel that ran parallel to the main trunk line. The ball passed the open door before Mercer could reseal it. A solid wall of water hit him full in the chest, knocking him back against the far wall, pinning him until the pressure dropped. He fell back to the floor, gagging on the sewer water that had filled his mouth.

  After several m
inutes of coughing and vomiting, Mercer staggered to his feet and returned to the main drain line. The tunnel had been scoured clean, and a smooth stream of water coursed down its center. Mercer continued to follow it, knowing that eventually he’d come to an outlet where sanitation workers would be waiting to recover the ball. Fifteen minutes later he heard voices echoing in the humid tunnel.

  The tension of the past two hours washed out of him. He had to brace himself to keep from collapsing. He touched the side of his sample case, wondering again what exactly he’d been lured into. Later, he knew, his desire to find the truth would build, but for now all he wanted was out of this reeking labyrinth.

  Mercer staggered into the light cast by the sanitation workers’ mining helmets as they maneuvered one of their special boats into the stream from a side tunnel. They all wore tall rubber waders and thick gloves. They were as startled to see a filthy man blunder out of the gloom as Mercer was relieved to see them.

  The crew leader finally found his voice, and called out in French, “How did you get down here?”

  Mercer gave him an exhausted smile. “Let’s just say that Parisian toilets have one hell of a flush.”

  After improvising a story about being mugged earlier in the day and dumped down a manhole, Mercer convinced the work crew to take him back to the surface, allow him to use their locker room for a long, long shower and even lend him some clothes. Mercer had no intention of fulfilling his promise to go to the police with his tale. The last thing he needed was an official investigation into what had happened outside the catacombs. He recalled that he hadn’t given the taxi driver the name of his hotel and there was nothing in his abandoned luggage that gave away his identity. If the police did manage to connect him to what had happened, he’d be halfway to Panama.