The Marks Of Cain Part 48

And then Amy shouted: 'I'll kill the baby. Stop. Stop it now.'

David glanced wildly across the chamber.

Amy had Simon's knife, and the blade was poised over her belly. The steel tip of the blade was aimed at her womb, the unborn. Ready to plunge.

David looked at Angus, who was gaping in amazement.

Amy said again, louder this time: 'Let them go, Miguel. Because I will will kill the child. Your son. The last Cagot in the world, in my womb. I will kill him. Let them go and then blow the place, but kill the child. Your son. The last Cagot in the world, in my womb. I will kill him. Let them go and then blow the place, but let them go let them go.'

Angry, roaring, wolflike, Miguel stood and ran at Amy, trying to lean and grab the knife, even as she jabbed it towards her womb, to kill, to stab; and as she did this, Amy screamed at Simon: 'The lamp!'

It was already done. The paraffin lamp had been knocked across the wooden crates, smashing against the wall beyond. Instantly the flame of the lamp ignited the paper and wood, just soaked in gasoline. The chamber virtually exploded: a rush of flames flashed across, churning smoke, searing the air, choking the life from the cellar. One man screamed: his hair was on fire. Miguel was grabbing for Amy. She was shouting at Angus. Where was he? Then David saw. Angus was swinging a torch at Miguel's skull. The impact was gruesomely audible: a tremendous crack.

It happened so fast in the fire and the smoke, David could not see what happened next. Was Miguel down? But where was Simon. The air was dusty and burning, the shouts loud, the flames were keen. Amy? And then he realized, someone was yelling: 'Run! The explosives!' Was Miguel down? But where was Simon. The air was dusty and burning, the shouts loud, the flames were keen. Amy? And then he realized, someone was yelling: 'Run! The explosives!'

They were all running. Bodies running in the chaos. Everyone was turning, and running up the pa.s.sage; but David lingered, and swivelled, and saw: Miguel was on the ground and bleeding. But he was reaching for something on the floor, between the stinking flames of the paraffin. The terrorist was seeking the switch the explosive trigger. David was the nearest, he tried to lean and grab it. He was too late. The switch was pressed.

'No '

'David!' Amy screamed.

Her scream was utterly drowned by a strange explosion, oddly broken, and partial. For a moment the room shook and concussed but then came a blast wave.

It was like a sideswipe from G.o.d, hurling David into a corner, and slamming him to the concrete floor. All was smoke and blackness.

50.

The pain was intimate and intense, somewhere deep inside him. A pain that lived in the darkness, like an eyeless animal. But then he opened his eyes, and discovered the truth: he had survived. Yet he was half-buried under rubble and stones, he could barely move, but he could breathe and see.

The chamber had collapsed. Rocks and earth had filled most of the void, entombing the boxes, and stifling the fires. A respectful silence reigned. David realized he had probably been lucky. If all the charges had detonated, he'd have been killed. Maybe the flames had destroyed the wiring, maybe just one bomb had detonated.

So the fires were dying but he was still trapped under rocks. And there was no sound of any other life, and certainly no rescue.

A noise. He looked left and right; there was light filtering from somewhere, up the tunnel. An aperture, letting in air, inhaling sad grey smoke.

The earth moved again, a few metres away. A face emerged.

Miguel, brushing soil from his face.

Miguel had survived. The indestructible killer, the jentilak jentilak from the forests of Irauty. from the forests of Irauty.

The terrorist was p.r.o.ne and he was bleeding copiously from a wound on the side of the head, with another vicious wound in his leg, a lavish gash, proudly glistening.

The smoke and dust of the explosion drifted, wistfully, as the light of the last gasoline flames died away.

Miguel saw David.

The terrorist frowned. He frowned and laughed and shook his bleeding head. And then he threw a plank of wood off his chest, and rolled free, and began dragging himself across the rubbled concrete floor, towards David.

David's blood was liquid cold. There was something unspeakable in the Cagot's slow, grisly crawl, dragging his ravaged leg. Dragging himself over to David.

Desperate to escape this human worm, this crawling, bleeding predator, David tried, again, to liberate himself, but the rocks and stones were too heavy. It was squa.s.sation. He was being crushed like a witch by the rocks. And now Miguel was on him.

And the terrorist was salivating salivating. Miguel had ripped away David's shirt and exposed the flesh. A line of dribble spooled from the wide and scarred mouth; David's skin twitched, reflexively, at the sickly warmth of the spittle.

The Cagot flashed an exultant smile.

'Jaio zara, hilko zara...'

Miguel wiped his mouth and bared his teeth and then he stooped his mouth to the exposed flesh and he began to bite; David was being eaten alive; he could feel the teeth of the terrorist biting into his stomach muscles and then the gnawing, gnawing sound as Miguel tried to bite through, moaning with pleasure, biting into a man's living stomach, sucking at the pooling blood But a gunshot slapped Miguel away, and David gasped, and a second shot burst the terrorist's head open, like a great b.l.o.o.d.y flower, a vile carnation of red. He was shot dead. And Amy was standing above him, and some other men. They had climbed through the hole with the light, and David looked, in terror and panic, at Amy and Angus and others, as they pulled the rocks away, and set him free 'Come on,' said Amy, dragging him to his feet.

He looked down at his stomach. He was bleeding, there was a bite mark and some blood but he was OK 'Now!' Angus shouted. He jerked his head, indicating their escape. There seemed to be soldiers up there. Or policemen, way up the pa.s.sage. Bright lights. Torches. Uniforms.

'But ' David protested. 'But '

Amy squeezed his hand. Her gaze was ardent, and fierce.

'I did a deal with the police. They wanted Miguel, David. I gave them Miguel Miguel, and the archives for us, you and me. Now try and run the police have been fighting Miguel's men, in the bar '

Angus yelled: 'We have to go!'

It was another rockfall. Blocks of stone and muddy boulders were slipping and groaning; the whole pa.s.sage complex had been destabilized. They clambered through the hole and into the pa.s.sage and then they ran: for their lives for their lives, a wall of mud was chasing them everyone was running, sprinting, fleeing, as a tidal wave of slurry came after them like a wild animal, a devouring cave monster a mouth of grey and black rocks chasing them, trying to eat them alive, a wolf of rock.

And then they reached the little door and the booming sounds of the rockfall began to subside, and they wrenched open the Juden Tur Juden Tur, and emerged blinking and gasping and dirty into the bright light of the Bohemian pivnice pivnice.

Where several German policemen were standing and waiting. And Czech policemen too. And Sarria was there. And the other policeman from Biarritz. Some other guys in plain clothes and sungla.s.ses. Secret police? What? There were doctors tending men on stretchers. Signs of a gunfight.

One German officer came over to Simon, brandishing a mobile phone: 'Herr Quinn?'

'Yes but '

'A detective...in Scotland Yard. Here.' The German officer handed over the phone. The journalist took it and stumbled outside, into damp grey October air. David watched for a second: then he saw, through the doorway, Simon buckling into tears, and crumpling, and stumbling. A hand over his eyes, hiding his shameful sobs.

No doubt Tim was dead. They had been too late for Tim.

David and Amy and Angus walked out into the rain. Large shiny police cars were lined up and down the road; several ambulances were waiting, red lights flashing, others were racing up the hill. A platoon of soldiers in fatigues stood at the end.

It was mayhem: cops were running into the beer-hall. Carrying more explosives, or so it seemed.

He looked at Amy, her face streaked and smeared with dirt and blood. But alive. Intact. Was she pregnant?

She shook her head. And spoke.

'Listen. Let me talk. I knew he would catch us. By the time we reached Amsterdam I realized...Miguel would never never give up. One day somewhere he would find us. We had to entice him. Entice him into a trap where give up. One day somewhere he would find us. We had to entice him. Entice him into a trap where we we could kill could kill him him. Where the cops could get him. I couldn't trust you to know, because...I knew you loved me too much...And...because...' She blinked, and wiped her eyes with the back of a grimy hand. Then she said: 'You would never let me risk it, David especially if you knew I was pregnant. And the pregnancy was my one trump card, if we needed to buy time in the cellar. And we did I guessed right we needed to buy time.' Her gaze was calm, yet rich with emotion. 'So, yes, I called Miguel. Betrayed us, told him where we were going. He believed me. He still loved me. He wanted wanted to believe.' to believe.'

'But '

'But then I called the police as well, Sarria. He spoke to the German government and to the French government. He told them that they would get everything they wanted Miguel, an end to all this, and the hiding place of the Fischer archives. So the data could be destroyed. And the Cagots all dead...'

'You did a deal with the police?'

'As well as Miguel. Yes, I had to, David. But it was so difficult. difficult. Miguel had to get here first, any sign of the police and he'd never have come. But the police have been following us for days. We're lucky. Very lucky. They've agreed to let us go, and we must commit to stay silent. Forever. That's the deal, that's the deal that kept us alive. Miguel had to get here first, any sign of the police and he'd never have come. But the police have been following us for days. We're lucky. Very lucky. They've agreed to let us go, and we must commit to stay silent. Forever. That's the deal, that's the deal that kept us alive. All of us.' All of us.'

She took his hand, and, just as she had done with Miguel, she placed his palm on her stomach.

'So that really was true? You really are...'

'Yes.'

He couldn't bear to ask the terrible and obvious question. Instead he turned away and stared down the dismal street where the police lights twinkled sadly in the rain like blue stars written on an old grey map.

51.

Stepping from the shower Simon dried himself and threw on a shirt. He could still hear the mild laughter outside, the happy noises of a summer holiday.

Briskly he walked to the top of the stairs. Not for the first time this week, he stared out of the window at the blue and sunlit Pyrenees, across the valley, their summits confected with snow. Then he jogged down the sunny steps, into the villa's airy kitchen. He wanted to join his friends, in the sun, before the afternoon ended.

But his attention was snagged en route en route.

A package lay on the kitchen table. The address was Simon Quinn, c/o c/o David Martinez. David Martinez.

The stamps were South African. And he recognized the scrawly handwriting.

Nerves jangled, he opened the package. Two items fell out. A clasp of hair. And a little toy dog. And there was a note.

Call me on this number.

Calming himself, Simon walked to the door that led to the riverside lawns. He dialled the number. The answering voice was quite unmistakable.

'h.e.l.lo, Angus.'

'So you're holidaying with Mr and Mrs Martinez?'

'For a fortnight or so.'

'Excellent news. Soaking the rich!'

'And what about you?' Simon was desperate to ask the question; but he desperately didn't want to know the answer. He leaned against a sun-warmed wall. 'Why the sudden phone stuff? Thought you were still a bit paranoid?'

'Well I've calmed down now. I reckon they really must must have agreed to Amy's deal. Our lives for Miguel. The Fischer data destroyed. If they were really planning anything it would have happened by now, three frigging years later. So, yes, I have opted to chillax. Move on. Get some putting practice. You know.' have agreed to Amy's deal. Our lives for Miguel. The Fischer data destroyed. If they were really planning anything it would have happened by now, three frigging years later. So, yes, I have opted to chillax. Move on. Get some putting practice. You know.'

'Well, good, glad to hear it. So...' Simon watched a heron gliding across the sky, down the long Gascon valley. 'So where are you?'

'Little town near the Cedarbergs. And I got enough diamonds to keep myself in biltong.'

'OK.'

Again Simon wanted to ask the the questions yet he couldn't quite stomach it. So he asked something else: questions yet he couldn't quite stomach it. So he asked something else: 'You know...'

'What?'

'You never told us. Did you ever find Alphonse?'

The thoughtful silence carried halfway across the world. Then Angus replied: 'Took me six months. I searched the desert. But, yes, I found...what was left of him. He's buried out there now, in the desert. Poor old Alfie.'

Simon wondered, 'Did it help?'

'You mean closure? Yeah maybe. Reckon I'll always feel guilty. But then I always did. It's probably genetic. genetic. Talking of which...' Angus's voice was quieter. 'I wanted to tell you this personally, rather than in some silly email. I'd like to have told David but...maybe it's easier through you.' He paused. 'I did both the tests, Simon. Successfully.' Talking of which...' Angus's voice was quieter. 'I wanted to tell you this personally, rather than in some silly email. I'd like to have told David but...maybe it's easier through you.' He paused. 'I did both the tests, Simon. Successfully.'

'Well done.'

'Dankie. In fact, without shipping the entire horn section into the recording studio, I like to think I'm the only geneticist in the world who could have done some of that got enough genetic material from the toy dog, for instance, but, yes, I managed it. I got your brother's DNA. And compared it to the DNA in your son's hair.' In fact, without shipping the entire horn section into the recording studio, I like to think I'm the only geneticist in the world who could have done some of that got enough genetic material from the toy dog, for instance, but, yes, I managed it. I got your brother's DNA. And compared it to the DNA in your son's hair.'

'Where?'

'Borrowed a lab at Wit.w.a.tersrand.'

The moment was coming. Simon felt the tension like a steel grip around his throat. Angus gave the answer.

'Timothy Quinn, your late brother, carried the cla.s.sic genetic markers for schizotypal mental disorders, DNA sequence alterations in NRG1 and DISC1.' A sober pause. 'I can say with 99.995 percent certainty that your son Conor Quinn does not not have the same sequential alterations.' have the same sequential alterations.'

'That means...?'

'He hasn't inherited it. Of course yer little Conor might drop dead from a heart attack at fifty, I didn't check that. But no schizophrenia. He's fine.'

The sense of shocking relief was like diving into a cold pool in hot weather. Simon exhaled, and said: 'Thanks, Angus. And?'

'It's also good news. It was pretty d.a.m.n unlikely that Miguel could have fathered a child, anyway, because of his congenital problems. But now we have proof. Little Miss Martinez is indeed the daughter of David Martinez. 99.99 percent sure. That's as good as it gets. And neither David or his daughter carry any of the markers of...the Cagots. He is Basque, so is his daughter.'

He stammered, 'OK, well...Well thank you thank you for doing all this.' for doing all this.'

'Ach. Think nothing!' Angus said, rather wistfully. 'OK, I better go. Send my big love to David and Amy, when you give them the news...Tell 'em I like the name they chose. Maybe we'll meet again soon. See ya.'

The call ended.

Simon slipped the phone into his pocket, and walked outside. Amy and David were sitting in plastic chairs, by the riverbank; a scene of tranquil contentment.