“It’s Monday, late afternoon.”
They sat on the cold earth floor. He told her all about Eleni’s death, Jerome’s disappearance, the policeman who’d told him about the work at the cathedral. They figured out that it was the same man that Isabel had spoken to.
A mile-deep silence descended around them, whenever they stopped talking.
Neither of them sounded desperate any more, as if they were both trying to reassure the other. But the silence came back every time they stopped talking.
“We’re dead if they leave us here, aren’t we?” she said.
“There’s no way they’ll leave us.”
She shivered again. It went right through her body like a wave.
He held her tight. “Maybe you can pick the lock.”
“I don’t have any tools.”
“Let’s find the door.”
They sat facing each other with their shoulders rubbing up against the door.
“There’s a breeze coming from the bottom,” said Sean.
Isabel put her hand down. There was a small breeze. Then a noise, a soft thunk, echoed in the room beyond. Isabel felt her heart stop.
Someone was dragging something heavy across the floor.
46
Xena stood at the top of the stairs. She looked at her hand. There was a faint pink stain on her fingers. She put them to her lips. There was no smell of blood anymore and no iron taste.
She listened again, then went down the stairs. She had her knife in the palm of her hand, not visible, so anyone who came upon her wouldn’t be alerted to any danger, but it was ready to slash across an unwary throat. She stopped after a while, listened again.
Nothing. Only the sound of dripping.
The next time she stopped it was because of another sound, the faint buzz of a motor running.
She paused, looked around for the haze of light that would tell her someone with a torch was following her. The gloom was intense. She waited, counted to ten, then lit her cigarette lighter, and examined the walls for wires. No doubt the people who Vanessa had employed to set up this dig had many ways to protect their presence, but perhaps they might be less vigilant than they might have been, with the need for haste.
She kept the lighter on as she went. When she reached the end of the stone corridor she went right, found a locked door, then an arch which led to another corridor. There was a faint light in the distance. She turned off her lighter.
The light was coming from a doorway. It was open a little. Then she heard a noise. The sound of whistling.
She put her eye to the edge of the doorway, looked into the room. A black- suited man was on his knees, mixing a tray with a mound of gray concrete powder on it. Beside him there was a pile of dusty red bricks. In front of him was an old wooden door. It looked as if he was about to brick it up.
There was another man. He was taller, with greasy black hair, tied back in a ponytail. He handed the first man a silver flask.
Xena moved her head back. Should she interrupt them? She smiled. Why not? She pulled one sleeve up, dragged her black jacket off one shoulder, then rubbed her hand against the slime near the bottom of the wall and spread some across her cheek. Then she groaned and shuffled her feet.
Nothing happened. She groaned louder, slumped against the wall and let her mouth open and her eyes half roll into her head. She turned away from the doorway, a grim determination, a steel wire of resolve, pushing away all doubts.
“Wer ist das?” a man’s voice echoed.
A bright light struck her face. She blinked, half opened her eyes, rolled her head. The greasy-haired guard who held the torch had a stubby black Heckler & Koch MP5 in his other hand. The rounded safety button on the side was off. The other man had left his brickwork and was standing to the side, also pointing an MP5 at her. She rolled her eyes back up in her head.
“Wer sind sie?” shouted the first man. He wanted to know who she was.
She groaned in response, got a hard poke in the shoulder from the barrel of a gun in reply. She restrained herself from slashing at him straight away, but her knife was tight in her palm behind her, its blade touching her skin reassuringly.
She had to put them properly off guard first.
She turned her face to the light, contorted it into an appeal, the sort of look they would expect from a refugee, sleeping rough. She put her left hand out, as if looking for money.
The second guard spat out the word “Flüchtling”, refugee. The first aimed a kick at her, and shouted, “Raus!”
She fell sideways onto the stone floor, groaned, as if she was drunk. The greasy-haired guard laughed. She was drooling now, her mouth half open. She touched her chest, as if she was offering herself to them.
The greasy-haired guard said something fast. He reached down towards her. His gloves were thick, red and dirty with cement powder. She could see the white of his neck.
She slashed at his wind pipe, cutting it fast from side to side an inch deep. She continued moving the knife forward as she came to her feet.
The other guard’s gun was coming up. Bullets were popping from it in a deafening burst. She twisted, lunged, jabbed with her knife at his throat. The tip went in only a half an inch, but it was enough. He lost focus on hitting her with the spray of bullets he had unleashed, and instinctively raised his hands to protect himself. She felt a bullet tug at her outspread jacket.
Anger surged through her. It was good to see blood flowing, to feel the strength of her rage, unfettered.
As he stepped back she jabbed twice. At his cheek bone, then slicing neatly into his pot belly. As she expected, his hands went in different directions, leaving his throat wide open again. She took a step closer to him, whispered, as she slashed the knife at his windpipe, feeling a grating reverberation as the blade sliced to his neck bone. It would take more than a slash to cut through the bone. But the man was dead already.
She turned. The guard who had kicked at her was holding his throat. His torch was rolling down the passage, casting shadows and waves of light as it spun. There was a coppery smell in the air. Blood was seeping through his hands, in gentle pulses. His eyes were wide. She could see the whites, like marble balls, staring at her. His legs were moving. He was pushing himself back against the wall, probably hoping to rise to his feet.
She would enjoy finishing this one.
She glanced around, saw no one, no other lights, stepped close to him, kneeled, leaned into his face.
He stopped moving. His eyes were pleading now. She kept her expression still. Then spat in his eye. As the phlegm landed she moved her fingers back along the handle of the knife, so that the maximum possible length of blade would enter the next wound.
She slammed the blade deep and hard into the man’s groin. His knees bent and a scream blubbered out of him, as the knife cut up through cloth and entered soft, yielding, flesh. It went so far, it probably entered his bladder, possibly it nicked his prostrate, which was good, and the reaction was exactly what she expected. He groaned, moved his hands from his throat. They shook wildly. Blood pumped down his chest, as if a tap had been opened.
She looked into his eyes, saw despair in all its weeping glory. The knowledge of approaching death, which no one can imitate, was in them. They bulged as the dying man gurgled again, suffering as he went.
She watched as his life force dimmed.
Thick gobs of blood, thrown around by his last twisting gasps, landed all over his face. She felt pure cold satisfaction. She’d been raped many times by men like this, lumbering brutes, who slapped and bruised and laughed, as they forced themselves into her.
Now it was her turn to laugh.
She did so, softly mocking as she stood up, then raised her fists in the air, tasting her moment of victory.
There was no doubt in her mind that the men would have raped her, if she had been weak. She was a beggar, a refugee to them. They might have killed her too. But she’d won.
Shouting broke out from the room they were outside. “Who�
�s there?” a female voice cried.
“Help us!” a male voice called.
She bent down, wiped her blade and her hands on the black jacket of the dead guard. This was turning into a good day. Not only had she tasted blood already, her revenge would be complete.
She held the knife in front of her as she walked into the room, holding the torch in her other hand, pointing it straight ahead.
47
Isabel gripped Sean’s hand. They stopped shouting. The noise of the machine gun going off had reverberated through the cell, bouncing off the walls and vibrating the stones. Now the last echoes had gone and a light had returned to the room outside.
Then there was a woman’s voice. “Who’s there?”
The accent was foreign, faintly familiar. The hope that had entered Isabel’s heart at the sound of the gunfire, the expectation that the police had arrived, and were about to rescue them was extinguished. All that was left was the light outside moving, the cold thumping in her heart, and Sean’s hand squeezing hers even tighter.
“Who’s there?” came the voice again. Light flashed along the millimetre-thick gap under the door and through the keyhole.
“Sean Ryan,” said Sean. Then he leaned towards Isabel and whispered in her ear. “Get to the side. I’ll rush her when she opens the door.”
There was silence. The light stayed steady now under the door. A trickle of icy sweat ran down Isabel’s back. Sean pushed at her, to force her to the side wall. Isabel’s skin tingled. The sound of receding footsteps, though faint, echoed through the cell.
Were they being left down here?
Please.
No.
She reached towards the door. The wood was rough, hard, and impenetrable. It felt like the inside of a coffin. She pulled back her fist, held it steady. Should she hammer, plead? Would it be more dangerous to bring that person back, if she was actually intending to walk off?
She banged on the door.
“Don’t leave us!” Her tone was angry, but inside something was clutching at her, telling her to stop.
If all the people who knew they were down here were dead, it could be a long time before anyone came down here again. You can die of thirst within a week. Your kidneys would be permanently damaged before that. They’d taught her about that painful fate in her kidnap training at the Foreign Office.
“Ssshhh,” whispered Sean.
His hand gripped her shoulder. He was pushing her away to the side again. Isabel resisted, pushed back against him. If she waited, while Sean rushed out, he would be a target, literally, if whoever was out there decided to open their cell.
“We have to do it together,” she whispered.
“I’m going first,” he replied.
The sound of laughter echoed from beyond the door, as if they had been heard, whispering. Then the laughter stopped.
“Who is that?” whispered Isabel, leaning close to Sean.
There was a hesitation, then he replied, “I don’t know.”
Isabel was sure the sound of her breathing, and the deep tremble in it, could be heard beyond the door, it was that loud in her ears. It filled the darkness all around and echoed back through the walls and floor. Her cheeks felt hot too. And every muscle in her stomach had tightened, painfully. The voice had brought back memories, she didn’t want to think about.
A scratching noise echoed from the other side of the door. It sounded as if an animal had been released. A metallic gleam appeared under the door.
“What the hell?” whispered Sean. “She’s pushed something under the door.”
Isabel moved her hand along the floor, slowly. She expected her fingertip would meet a sharp edge, some final torture for them.
Her finger touched something. She pulled her hand back quickly.
“What is it!” said Sean. She’d pushed against him.
“Wait,” said Isabel.
“Let me try,” said Sean.
She took a deep breath, tried to calm her thumping heart. “Sean, please. My fingers are smaller. Let me do it.”
“No.”
“Wait, Sean,” she hissed.
She leaned down, moved her hand slowly along the bottom edge of the door, as if she was caressing a baby. A slight breeze tugged at her skin, like an animal breathing on her fingertips.
Then she touched something solid. She stopped breathing. What the hell was it? It had a round end. She pushed at it.
Then she knew.
“It’s a key. She’s pushed a key through to us.” A rush of relief almost overcame her. Tears formed. Her chest tightened. Someone wanted to help them. Or was this another cruel game?
“Can you see the keyhole?”
She could. It was about the same size as the key she was holding. Please let the key fit. She raised it, put it into the hole, slowly. It turned, then stopped. A spike of anxiety twisted at her insides. Had it been a trick?
She tried the key again, pushing it backwards and forwards, slowly.
“It won’t turn.” Her voice was low.
“Let me try.”
“Don’t drop it.”
She passed the key to him. Sean was breathing hard right beside her ear. Thank God she was facing this with him. She put her hand out, squeezed his arm.
“Try spitting on it,” she said. She heard him spit, then try the key again. There was a long moment, when it seemed it wasn’t going to work, then she heard a squeak. His arm rubbed against hers. The key was turning. It had to be.
“Thank God,” said Sean. There was a louder squeak. He was opening the door. A rush of air hit her. There was a musty, metallic flavour, to it. There was no more light than before, but she knew the door was open.
“Were going to go, but slowly and carefully,” he said.
“If we turn left in the corridor we can get the hell away from here. What were you thinking coming down here, Sean?”
“I was thinking about getting some answers.”
“To what, for God’s sake?”
“Why Eleni was murdered for a start.”
“Did you find out?” It was obvious from her clipped tone that she was angry.
“I found out that they’ve been digging under this church trying to find something important.”
“Come on, let’s go.” She gripped his arm. “That woman’s voice made me very nervous.”
They were padding across the room. The far door stood out against the blackness, as a paler shade of gray. There had to be light coming from somewhere up the corridor.
The air in the corridor felt warm. They turned left, went forward slowly.
As they moved, she relaxed for the first time in hours. They were going to get out of this stupid place. They were going home.
“What’s that,” whispered Sean.
Isabel’s heart almost stopped. She’d bumped into something. It felt like a dead animal at her feet. And there was a light up ahead. It was seeping from a doorway at the far end of the corridor. She looked down. There was a bad smell here. A smell of shit and death. She could hear voices now. German voices.
“Let’s go back,” whispered Sean. “Maybe there’s another way out.”
He pulled at her hand. They walked faster this time, the darkness wasn’t complete anymore, she could see the shadow of the wall. But her instincts told her to slow down. Her hand brushed the wall, and her throat tightened. Dread at what might lie ahead gripped her. Then the tunnel turned, and in a moment they were in total darkness again.
Sean slowed. The voices had stopped behind them. Whoever they were, they’d gone quiet. Then, up ahead, there was a sliver of light. It seemed to hang in the air. Isabel tugged at Sean’s shirt.
He leaned close to her. She could feel his warmth on her ear when he whispered. “This is the room where they’re doing that dig. They took me through it. I think they’ve broken through into something below.”
“Can we get out this way?”
“I hope so.”
“You hope so?!”
; A faint glow seeped from all around the door. It was etching lines into Isabel’s retina. Then there was a noise from the far side, a raised voice. She put her ear to the door. She could hear two voices.
“We have to go in there,” whispered Sean. “This passage ends just beyond this. I saw it the last time I was here.”
“Wait,” said Isabel. “She’s in there. The woman who pushed the key through to us.”
Sean sighed. “Then she’s a friend.”
Isabel listened again, straining. Was Sean right?
Two women were talking in German. And then there was a scream.
She took hold of Sean’s arm, which she could make out in the seeping light from the doorway, like a gray shadow beside her. The glow from the door was illuminating part of the floor too. It gave it a red tinge.
“Let’s go back. I have a bad feeling about all this.” A gnawing foreboding was building up inside her. She did not want to go any further. It was time to leave this place.
As she stepped back a grinding noise reverberated through the corridor and the door opened with a wash of light that blinded her. She put her hand over her eyes, stepped back.
“Come in. Join us,” said the woman who’d pushed the key through to them. Isabel knew immediately she saw the woman’s face that she’d been right about the voice being familiar, even though it was years since they’d met. Memories of their meeting, under Manhattan, with dead bodies all around, came back to her.
They were motioned forward.
“Do not make any mistakes, Sean Ryan, or I will blow your wife’s brains all over your face.”
Isabel stepped forward. Her eyes were recovering. She was in a square stone-roofed room. The walls were dark, stained black high up, green nearer the floor.
There were small niches in the walls and a raised stone area at the far end. Rough-cut chunks of stone were piled up along the walls.
Two men, dressed in black, one of them wearing a red helmet, were slumped against the far wall. There was a lot of blood around them. A digging machine with a yellow arm stood near the raised area. Propped up against it, with her back against its side, was a woman with blond hair. As Isabel watched the woman tried to move, but her mouth opened in obvious pain as she did. There was blood on her clothes. A lot of it.
The Nuremberg Puzzle Page 18
