[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
And I don t know if they will tell you anything I haven t.
Thanks anyway.
She looked like she had something awkward to say, her eyes
avoiding his. You know, you are welcome to stay here tonight.
He smiled. Thanks, but I think I ll head off.
You are sure? Now she looked at him. She didn t look like
an executive anymore; she looked lonely and tired, tired of soli-
tude and stroking Foucault, tired of long wakeful nights wonder-
ing if the sky would suddenly burst open with halogen. Tired of
waiting.
I ll see how I feel after dinner, he conceded. But he loaded
the box of files into the trunk anyway.
Shall we take my car? she asked.
Let s take mine. It s blocking yours anyway. He helped her
on with her coat. It looked like a very nice restaurant. Making
conversation didn t come easily. He was still getting over the feel-
ing of being flattered that she wanted him to stay. She locked the
door after them.
It is an excellent restaurant, she said. And a very good rea-
son for moving here.
It wasn t sentimentality then? He opened the passenger
door for her.
You mean because the house belonged to my grandparents?
No, not that. Well, perhaps a little. But the restaurant made the
decision easy. I hope they have a table. Reeve started the engine
182
Blood Hunt
and turned the car around. I tried calling, but the telephone is
acting up again.
Again?
Oh, it happens a lot. The French system . . . She looked at
him. You are wondering if my phone is tapped. Well, I don t
know. I must trust that it is not. She shrugged. Otherwise life
would be intolerable. One would think oneself paranoid . . .
Reeve was staring ahead. A car, he said.
What? She turned to look through the windshield. There
was a car parked fifty or sixty yards away French license plate;
nobody inside.
Merde, she said.
Reeve didn t hesitate. He slammed the gearshift into reverse
and turned to navigate through the back window. There was a
logging trail behind him, and another car darted from it and
braked hard across the road.
Gordon . . . , Marie said as he stopped the Land Rover. It
was the first time she d used his name.
Run for it, Reeve said to her. He released both their seat
belts. The men in the rear car were reaching into their jackets, at
the same time opening their doors. Just get into the woods and
run like hellfire! He was shouting now, pumping himself up. He
leaned across her, pushed open her door, and thrust her out of
the car. Run! he yelled, at the same time hitting the accelerator
with everything he had and pulling his foot off the clutch. The
wheels spun, and the car started to fly backwards, weaving crazily
from side to side. The men were halfway out of the car when
Reeve hit them with everything his own vehicle had. One of the
men slipped, and Reeve felt his back wheels bump over some-
thing that hadn t previously been on the road. The other man
slumped back into the car, either dazed or unconscious.
Reeve looked out of his windshield. Men had appeared beside
the car in front. They d been hiding in the woods. He checked to
his left and saw Marie scurrying away. Good: she was keeping
low. But the men in front were pointing towards her. One of
them headed back into the trees, the other two took aim at
Reeve s car.
183
Ian Rankin
Now, he told himself, ducking and opening his door. He
slipped out of the car and started crawling towards the trunk just
as the first shots went off. There was a body lying under the car,
between the front and back wheels. Most of it was intact. Reeve
patted it down but found no gun. It must have been thrown during
the collision. He couldn t see it anywhere nearby. Another shot hit
the radiator grille. Would they hear shots at the neighboring farm?
And if they did, would they think them suspicious? The French
were a nation of hunters truffles not their only prey.
The collision had thrown open the back of the Land Rover.
He couldn t hope to carry the box of papers, but snatched his
overnight bag. They were closing on him, walking forward with
real purpose and almost without caution. He could try the other
car, there might be guns there. He was on the wrong side of the
track to follow Marie, and if he tried crossing over they d have a
clean shot at him. His first decision had to be right. He knew
what standard operating procedure was: get the hell away from
the firefight and regroup. If you had to go back in, come from a
direction the enemy would least expect.
It made sense, only it meant leaving Marie. I can t help her
dead, he thought. So he took a deep breath and, crouching low,
made for the trees. He was like a figure in a shooting gallery to
the two gunmen, but they only had handguns and he was mov-
ing fast. He reached the first line of trees and kept running. It
was nearly dark, which was both good and bad: good because it
made it easier to hide; bad because it camouflaged his pursuers as
well as himself. He ran jaggedly for three minutes and was still
surrounded by oaks. He hadn t been trying to run stealthily or
silently, he just wanted distance. But now he paused and looked
back, peering between the trees, listening hard. He heard a whis-
tle, then another one way over to his right, the other to his
left, much closer. Only two whistles; only two men. He was get-
ting farther and farther away from Marie. It could take him hours
to circle back around to her. He was doing something he d vowed
to himself he d never do again: he was running away.
He held out his hands. They were shaking. This wasn t one
of his weekend games; his pursuers weren t using blanks. This
184
Blood Hunt
was real in a way that hadn t been true since Operation Stalwart.
Return or retreat: those were the options facing him now. He had
seconds to decide. He made the decision.
He looked down at his clothes. His pullover was dark, but
the shirt beneath was white and showed at the cuffs and neck.
Quickly he tugged off the pullover and took off his shirt, then put
the pullover back on. Trousers, shoes, and socks were dark, too.
He put the shirt back in his bag, then unwrapped Lucky 13. He
used the damp and mud beneath the leaves to cover his face and
hands and the meat of the dagger s blade. They might have flash-
lights, and he didn t want a glint of metal to give him away. The
dark was closing in fast, the tree cover all but blocking out the
last light of day. Another whistle, another reply. They were far
enough apart for him to walk between them. They d hardly be
expecting him to double back.
But he was going to do just that. He left the bag where it was
and set off.
He took slow, measured paces so as not to make noise, and he
went from tree to tree, using each one as cover so he could check
the terrain between that tree and the next. He had no landmarks
to go by, just his own sense of direction. He d left no tracks that
he could follow back to the road, and didn t want to follow tracks
anyway: they might belong to a truffle hunter; they might belong
to a pursuer.
But the whistled messages between his two pursuers were as
good as sonar. Here came the first call . . . then the response. He
held his breath. The response was so close he could hear the final
exhalation of breath after the whistle itself had ended. The man
was moving slowly, cautiously. And very, very quietly. Reeve
knew he was dealing with a pro. His fingers tightened around
Lucky 13.
I m going to kill someone, he thought. Not hit them or
wound them. I m going to kill them.
The man walked past Reeve s tree, and Reeve grabbed him,
hauling him down by the head and gouging into his throat with
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]