The Escape - Robert Muchamore Page 0,60
to slow its momentum would pull them into a hopeless spin.
Marc’s shoulder banged against the sidecar as he saw the single headlight of the remaining bike poised at the top of the hill. But it wasn’t coming after them.
‘I think he’s chickened out!’ Marc shouted jubilantly.
Henderson was closing on the bottom of the hill and there was a tight turn just ahead. If they didn’t make it, he was going to crash into a metal fence before careering over the handlebars and slamming head first into a wall without a crash helmet.
He waited until the hill started to level before dabbing the brakes, but there was still enough force to send Marc sliding down inside the body of the sidecar. Each time the sidecar tried to outrun the motorbike to which it was joined, it pitched to one side. Henderson would correct this by steering in the opposite direction and Marc would hit the metal with a thud. The process was repeated each time Henderson applied the brake and, as if the buffeting inside the sidecar wasn’t enough, Marc managed to bang his face on the briefcase, tearing off the blood clot around his missing tooth.
More by luck than judgement, Henderson slowed down enough to steer around the sharp corner without even brushing the kerb. Marc pushed his feet against the bottom of the footwell and clutched his bloody chin as he manoeuvred himself back into the seat cushion facing forwards.
‘Have they gone?’ Henderson asked breathlessly, as he took a quick right into a side street, followed by a left on to a much gentler hill.
‘I shot one,’ Marc explained, as his tongue fought the blood in his mouth. ‘The other obviously didn’t fancy his chances.’
Henderson looked pleased and he eased off the throttle until the bike was cruising. It was heaps quieter than when they’d been going flat out.
‘Have you got something to wipe your mouth?’ Henderson asked.
‘Just looking,’ Marc said, as he reached into the pigskin bag and found the square of cloth in which he’d originally wrapped Director Tomas’ food. He wiped his face before rolling up a corner of the cloth. Then he pushed it into the gap where his tooth had been and bit down to try and stop the bleeding.
Henderson pulled on to a wide boulevard. Marc looked around and realised that they were near the centre of Paris, in the Government quarter. The tall building on one side of the road had burned out in an air raid and moonlight shone through a stone façade with nothing but air behind the shattered windows.
‘You did great,’ Henderson said. ‘The one you shot, do you reckon you killed him?’
‘Maybe,’ Marc said uncertainly. ‘It was like he stopped moving and the bike carried on.’
‘Are you OK about it?’
Marc nodded. ‘You think I care about Germans after Hinze ripped my tooth out? So what now?’
‘Potente has four or five hours’ advantage over us and he’ll have an easier time getting through the German lines than I would.’
‘So why didn’t we go straight after him?’ Marc asked.
Henderson looked uncomfortable. ‘I would have liked to for the sake of Digby Clarke’s kids, but Mannstein was more important. He could have recreated his plans within weeks and the Germans would have shipped him off to Poland before I could possibly get back from Tours.’
‘So if we can’t get to Tours before Potente we’re stuffed?’
‘Not necessarily,’ Henderson said. ‘We’ll have to pray that some of the phone lines out of Paris are still working. If they are, we might be able to get a message down there.’
Marc looked surprised. ‘But I don’t even know the name of the person they’re staying with, let alone the phone number.’
‘I know,’ Henderson said, nodding. ‘But you said they were staying with a retired priest on a farm south of Tours. That might be enough – for the sakes of Paul and Rosie Clarke, it had better be.’
‘So if we’re not going to Tours, where are we going?’
‘There’s a telephone exchange just a few hundred metres from here. They’ll have phone and street directories for the whole of France. We need to get in there, but it’s likely to be under guard to prevent saboteurs.’
‘Sounds great,’ Marc said, as a drop of blood trickled from his chin on to his white shirt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Marc hunkered in the footwell of the sidecar as Henderson rolled up outside an office building. The carved wooden door had a brass plaque bearing the logo of France Télécom. A single German