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 bloody 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 passage. 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, 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 passage complex had been destabilized. They clambered through the hole and into the passage and then they ran: 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, and emerged blinking and gasping and dirty into the bright light of the Bohemian 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 sunglasses. 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 give up. One day somewhere he would find us. We had to entice him. Entice him into a trap where we could kill 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 to believe.’