Jaws of Death

by Paul Adam

  Chris and Consuela talked quietly about what Svensson had told them, but Max didn’t join in. He didn’t feel like talking. He was distracted, thinking about his father.

  They were nearing the end of the street when the attack came. Two shadowy figures erupted suddenly from a doorway to their right, another two from a doorway across the street. They moved swiftly, going for Chris first. A knife blade flashed as it scythed up towards his chest, but he reacted instinctively, twisting out of the way and kicking one of the assailants in the groin, then spinning round and head-butting another.

  ‘Run, Max!’ he yelled, shielding Consuela from the thugs.

  Max hesitated, watching Chris lash out at the men, punching, kicking, trying to drive them back.

  ‘Run!’ Chris shouted again.

  A figure lunged towards Max, a knife glinting in his hand. Max dodged sideways and felt the knife rip through the folds of his jacket. The thug was off balance, unsteady on his feet. Max kicked the knife out of the man’s hand and heard it skitter away across the ground. Then he took off down the street, running flat out. Not caring where he went. Just running.

  FIFTEEN

  At the end of Fjällgatan, Max paused for a second to look back, taking in the chaotic turmoil of shapes and figures – the dark bodies ducking and dodging, arms flailing, fists lashing out, the street resounding with the hard, aggressive grunts of brawling men. And in the thick of it, Chris was holding his own against the attackers, his army training giving him an edge in a fight. Consuela was joining in too, to back him up.

  Then Max saw something that made his blood turn cold – two of the thugs breaking away from the brawl and racing down the street towards him. Coming after him.

  He turned and glanced around rapidly, trying not to panic. The street curved away to his right, sweeping down to join the main road to the waterfront. Max sprinted round the bend and headed down the hill towards the harbour, vehicles speeding past him. He thought about stopping one of the cars to ask for help, but they were all moving too fast. If he ventured out into the road, he knew he’d just be knocked down. So he kept running – running as fast as he could. He was young and fit, but the two men behind him were also young and fit. When Max glanced over his shoulder, he saw that they were only fifty metres back. He could tell from the way they moved that they wouldn’t tire easily. They’d keep going until they caught him.

  Max gritted his teeth and dug in, just as he did on his training runs around the park in London. Legs pounding, arms pumping, heart and lungs fighting for that extra bit of speed. He was nearing the bottom of the hill now, approaching the busy junction near the waterfront where the traffic swept in from all directions. There was a Tunnelbana station on the other side of the road. For an instant Max wondered whether he could get across to it and lose his pursuers underground, but he quickly abandoned the idea. The traffic was far too heavy. The thugs would be on him before he got anywhere near the station.

  They were still fifty metres back – Max was relieved to see that the gap hadn’t narrowed. But how long could he keep up this punishing pace? He could already feel the pain in his chest and legs. What should he do? Find help, protection? But where? There were no police cars around and very few pedestrians. He could stop a passer-by and ask for assistance, but he didn’t speak Swedish. And he didn’t have time to explain himself. He couldn’t afford to stop for even a few seconds, so he kept going, through the junction and across the bridge into the Gamla Stan – the Old Town.

  He looked over his shoulder again and felt a surge of hope. His pursuers had dropped back a little. Maybe they were tiring. Max put on a burst of speed, trying to widen the gap, and ducked down the first side street he came to. It was narrow, with tall, four-storey buildings on both sides, uneven cobbles underfoot. The buildings shut out the sky, the last traces of daylight, turning the street into a dark corridor.

  Max ran to the end and stopped. He was in a small square where several streets all came together. He looked back. There was no sign of the thugs yet. He turned left and saw a narrow opening between two buildings. He dived into the gap and tore up a steep flight of steps, his shoulders almost brushing the walls. At the top of the steps he emerged into another cobbled square. He dashed across into a side street, running twenty metres before he noticed an archway to one side. Plunging through it, he found himself in a courtyard surrounded by high buildings. There was a light on in a second-floor window – an apartment, Max guessed – that sent a golden glow out into the courtyard, illuminating the tubs of flowers around the edges and a fenced structure housing a collection of household refuse bins.

  He edged behind the bins and crouched down, trying not to pant too noisily. His heart was hammering – from exertion, but also from fear. Where were the men? Had they seen where he’d gone? He knew he couldn’t remain where he was. If the men came into the courtyard, he was trapped.

  He waited a couple more minutes, until he’d recovered his breath, then crept back to the arch and peered cautiously out into the street. There was no one about. He stepped out and strode quickly away. He crossed another small square and turned left.

  And walked straight into one of the thugs.

  The man was waiting just round the corner, so close that Max almost collided with him. The thug was taken by surprise too. He lunged forward and grabbed hold of Max’s jacket. Max tried to get away, but the man held on. He was bigger and stronger than him. Max knew he couldn’t escape or beat him in a fight. He had to use his brains. He stopped struggling for a second, as if he were giving up. The thug relaxed his guard, and Max struck back, smashing the heel of his shoe as hard as he could into the man’s knee. The man screamed and clutched at his leg in agony.

  Max darted round him and sprinted away down the street. But he’d gone only a short distance when the second man burst out from another side street just in front of him. Max swerved to avoid him, lashing out with his fist and catching the man on the nose, throwing him off balance long enough to get away. He turned sharp right and accelerated down another street. Then, suddenly, he emerged onto the broad boulevard that ran along the water’s edge on the eastern side of the Old Town. Looking back, he saw the second thug giving chase, a mobile phone pressed to his ear.

  Max paused briefly to get his bearings. The island of Södermalm, where the Sista Styvern and the hotel were, rose up to his right, about half a kilometre away. There was light traffic on the boulevard, big gaps between vehicles. Max let a van go past, then ran out across the road and onto the quayside. The area was cobbled, scattered with parked cars. Max turned right, heading towards the bridge to Södermalm. Beside him, three metres lower than the quay, was the sea. Max could hear the water lapping against the stone wall.

  A car turned onto the far end of the quayside and came racing towards him. Its headlights caught him full in the face, dazzling him. He heard the squeal of brakes and the car slewed to a stop. Two men jumped out. One of them raised his hand. Max saw a flash. Something hissed past his ear. A bullet. The man fired a second shot, but by then Max was already diving sideways, out over the edge of the quay and into the sea.

  As he entered the water, he pulled back with his arms and kicked hard, swimming out as far and as deep as he could. The water closed over him, dark and impenetrable. Max knew he couldn’t be seen from the land. His hand grazed something coarse and rough – a rope that was attached to the sea bed at one end and at the other to a mooring buoy. Max clung onto the rope to stop himself floating up to the surface. The men would be watching from the quay, waiting for him to come up for air. His only hope was to stay underwater for long enough to convince them that he was dead – hit by the second bullet – or drowned. Max tried to relax, so that he used less oxygen. He’d been practising holding his breath for years as training for his escapology act. He was never going to need that skill more than now.

  He let out a little air to ease the pressure on his lungs and counted slowly to himself. Twenty seconds … thirty seconds … How long would
the men wait? Most people could only hold their breath underwater for half a minute or less. Max could hold it for three minutes. He prayed that was going to be enough. Sixty seconds … seventy … Max felt comfortable. Eighty … ninety … He pictured the men up on the quay, staring hard at the water, looking for a body, for any sign of him. Two minutes passed. Would they give up and walk away now? Max let out more air – just a bit: he didn’t want any telltale bubbles rising to the surface. The vice was tightening around his chest. Two and a quarter minutes … two and a half … The pain was getting worse. This was the really dangerous point. Much longer and Max risked blacking out. He had to judge it perfectly. Get it wrong and he would die as surely as if one of those bullets had hit him.

  Two and three quarter minutes … There was no choice now. He would have to take his chances.

  Letting go of the rope, he kicked upwards. His eyes were open, looking towards the quay as he broke the surface. He was ready to snatch a mouthful of air and dive back down if the men were still there. But they weren’t. The quay was deserted, the car and the men gone.

  Max gulped in the night air, almost sobbing with relief. He’d made it! Then he swam slowly back to the quay and found an iron ladder bolted to the wall. The land was only a few metres above him, but he was so exhausted it took him three attempts to haul himself out. He climbed to the top of the ladder, water pouring from his clothes, and stumbled away.

  * * *

  He was lucky it was dark. In daylight, the sight of a soaking wet teenage boy walking through the city streets would have drawn curious glances, maybe even the attention of the police. But at night Max’s bedraggled condition was less noticeable. There were fewer people about, and most of those were too intent on finding the next bar or getting home to their families to take much notice of a kid who’d been for a nocturnal dip in the sea.

  Max walked quickly but vigilantly, his eyes constantly roving the street, looking out for danger. He thought he was probably safe – if the thugs suspected he was still alive, then surely they would simply have waited around on the quay to finish him off – but he couldn’t be absolutely sure. Every person who passed him, every car, was subjected to the same wary inspection. Anything suspicious and Max was ready to run again.

  He walked across the bridge to Södermalm and headed back up the hill he’d run down earlier. His feet squelched in his trainers; water trickled down his back and legs. He was shivering with cold. He reached the end of Fjällgatan. The area was deserted. There was no sign of Chris or Consuela, or the men who’d attacked them. Max felt an icy tremor of fear pass through his body. What had happened to his friends?

  He didn’t know what to do. He was alone in a foreign city. He’d been chased, almost killed. It was dangerous to remain on the streets. He had to get back to the hotel.

  He remembered the route they’d taken, the landmarks they’d passed on their way to the Sista Styvern. He made a couple of wrong turns, but corrected himself, and in less than fifteen minutes he rounded a corner and saw the Hotel Katarina ahead of him. He saw something else too and stopped dead, then ducked quickly out of sight into a doorway. Just along the street, two figures were running towards him. For one heart-stopping moment Max thought it was the men from the quayside, but then he realized that one of the figures was a woman. They drew closer, crossing a pool of light under a streetlamp, and Max felt an overwhelming flood of relief as he realized it was Consuela and Chris. They were safe!

  Max stepped out into the open and ran to meet them.

  Consuela let out a cry as she saw him. ‘Max! Thank God!’ She threw her arms around him and held him tight. ‘We’ve been looking everywhere for you. We thought—’ She didn’t finish the sentence. She broke away and looked at him. ‘You’re soaked. What happened? Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Max said.

  ‘You don’t look it. Those guys—’

  ‘I dived into the sea to get away from them.’

  ‘The sea? Oh, God, I can’t tell you how relieved we are to see you.’

  ‘I’m OK. Just a bit wet.’ Max glanced at Chris and noticed the dried blood on the side of his face. ‘You’re hurt.’

  ‘Just a graze,’ Chris said. ‘And a few bruises.’

  ‘What happened to the men?’

  ‘Chris drove them off,’ Consuela said. ‘Let them go so that we could find you. That was more important.’

  ‘They tried to kill me,’ Max said. ‘They had a gun. They fired a couple of shots …’ His voice trailed off. He was suddenly aware that his whole body was shaking.

  Consuela took hold of his arm. ‘Come on, let’s get inside.’

  They walked along the street, Max in between Consuela and Chris. Just before they reached the hotel, they paused. Max straightened his dishevelled clothes and combed his hair with his fingers to make himself look more presentable. Consuela took a handkerchief from her bag and wiped the blood off Chris’s face. Then they went into the hotel. There was a night porter on duty behind the reception desk. He glanced up, but didn’t pay much attention to them; didn’t seem to notice Max’s damp appearance. He just nodded and looked back down at the magazine he was reading.

  They took the lift upstairs and went into Consuela’s room, locking the door behind them. Max slumped down onto the edge of the bed.

  ‘Get in the shower, Max,’ Consuela said. ‘You can use mine.’

  ‘I can go to my own room,’ Max said.

  ‘It’s better that we all stick together.’

  ‘You think those men will come here?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I don’t want to take any chances. Go on, get those wet clothes off and warm yourself up.’

  ‘Do you have the keycard for your room?’ Chris asked. ‘I’ll get your things.’

  Max rummaged in his trouser pocket and was relieved to find that the keycard was still there. He hoped the immersion in the sea wouldn’t stop it working. He passed the card to Chris and went into Consuela’s bathroom, stripped off and got in the shower. He stood under the jet of hot water for a long time, not bothering to soap himself, just letting his body warm up. Then he scrubbed himself thoroughly, getting rid of all traces of seawater.

  Max was wrapped in a towel, the bathroom misty with steam, when Chris tapped on the door and passed in a fresh set of clothes. Max dressed and went out into the room. Consuela and Chris had been busy during his absence. They’d gone into both Max’s room and Chris’s, removed the mattresses and duvets from the beds and brought them back to Consuela’s room. The mattresses were laid out on the floor now, pretty much taking up all the space.

  ‘We’re staying together tonight,’ Chris explained. ‘It’ll be safer.’

  ‘Do you think we should go to the police?’ Max asked. ‘Tell them about the attack?’

  Consuela and Chris exchanged glances.

  ‘We were discussing that while you were in the shower,’ Consuela said. ‘We don’t think it’s a good idea.’

  ‘They’ll want to know who we are, why we’re here,’ Chris said. ‘We don’t want that. I’m travelling under a false name, on a forged passport. I don’t want them making enquiries about me.’

  ‘We also don’t know whether we can trust the Swedish police,’ Consuela added. ‘Remember what Svensson said about their phones being tapped, their offices burgled, files taken; the possibility that the security services might have been involved.’

  ‘Now stop worrying and get yourself into bed. It’s very late,’ Chris said.

  It was an unsettled night for Max. He couldn’t stop thinking about the evening’s events. He was terrified that the thugs would come to the hotel, break down the door of their room and finish the job they’d failed to complete on the quayside. Everything merged together into one petrifying nightmare – a waking nightmare and a sleeping one too, for even when he finally dozed off, the frightening images kept recurring, repeating themselves over and over again until he woke in a cold sweat, trembling with fear and panic.

  The final
time he was jolted awake, shortly after dawn, he decided he’d had enough of this torment and, throwing back his duvet, got up and went into the bathroom. He washed and dressed quietly, then returned to the bedroom and sat on the chair in the corner, watching the room getting gradually lighter. Chris was the next to wake. He opened his eyes, saw Max on the chair and sat up quickly, instantly alert.

  ‘You OK?’ he said.

  Max nodded. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  Chris turned his head to check Consuela. She was sleeping restlessly, one bare arm sticking out from beneath her covers. He slipped out from under his duvet and put on his clothes. Then he and Max took the mattresses and bedding back to their own rooms. By the time they returned to Consuela’s room, she was awake and dressed.

  They could have had breakfast in the hotel, but they were impatient to be on the move. They wanted to get away from Stockholm, from the traumatic memories of the previous evening. The hotel receptionist, a young, auburn-haired woman this morning, ordered them a taxi and they drove directly to Arlanda. Outside the terminal, they split up so they wouldn’t be seen together. They had breakfast at the airport coffee shop, Max and Consuela sitting at one table, Chris at another several metres away.

  Chris’s was the first flight to go – SAS to London via Copenhagen – then, an hour and a half later, Max and Consuela were called to board their British Airways direct flight to Heathrow. Max lined up by the gate with butterflies in his stomach again. They’d had no problems getting through passport and security control, but they were still on Swedish soil. There was still time for the police to arrive and take them away for questioning. Max braced himself as he neared the gate. The BA flight supervisor checked his boarding pass and passport for what seemed like an eternity. Then she smiled and waved him through.