“Sayid!”
Max nodded towards the small dressing room. Sayid hesitated-they’d be found if they hid in there! But Max was already tying all the cords together, making a rope. Sayid knew Max would have a reason for his command, and he did not want to face the violence that threatened them outside the door. He did as he was told.
Once in the small room Sayid saw there were doors leading to a balcony behind the room’s heavy curtains. Max was ahead of the game-he’d already seen the terrace on the chateau’s plans. Sayid opened the doors while Max feverishly pressed his palms across the small room’s paneled walls. He found the latch he was searching for. A click. A narrow door creaked open, revealing a passage: a slender tunnel of blackness leading into the body of the building.
“Servants’ corridor,” Max said quickly. “Right. Get ready.”
Max joined Sayid outside, drawing the curtains and shutting the doors behind him-the German and the bikers might waste valuable seconds before they realized there was a balcony.
Sayid’s mouth was dry. His voice croaked in a worried whisper, “Ready for what?”
Max dropped a meter of the homemade rope over the edge and coaxed Sayid forward. “Dead easy,” he said. “All you have to do is clamber over the balcony, put your good foot into this loop and I lower you down. Smell that sea air? That’s freedom.”
Some of the curtain tiebacks were broad swathes of strong material and Max had fashioned a loop with one of them at the end of the cord. He smiled. “No rush. Take your time,” he said with a comforting, though false, calmness.
A huge thump against the door convinced Sayid to clamber over the balcony. Knuckles white with tension, he nodded. Crutches gripped in one hand, the other holding the rope, he eased his good foot into the sling.
Max took the cord across his back and braced his legs for Sayid’s weight. “Step off gently. There-got you,” he whispered.
The cord bit into Max’s back, but he lengthened the rope half a meter at a time, then allowed his legs to walk forward slowly towards the balustrade, taking the strain in his thigh muscles. Sayid was still a couple of meters off the ground. The cord was too short! Max leaned his body across the balcony’s rail to try and give Sayid the extra length that his own body provided. The rope burned into his back, and it felt as though the skin on his hands would tear from his bones. Sweat ran off him, and the railing pressed against his bruised rib. He had to let go, he couldn’t hold on any longer. Sayid would smash his leg. He’d failed.
But then the weight disappeared. Max opened his eyes. Sayid was on the ground, looking up, waving. Max hauled the rope back up, looped it through the balcony’s uprights and lowered himself down. Once on the ground, he yanked the rope free and tossed it into the shadows. Even if their pursuers saw the balcony, they wouldn’t see Max and Sayid’s means of escape. That should convince them to waste time exploring the servants’ corridor.
Max immediately urged Sayid into the shadows of the tree line. “Look out for anyone coming, especially the German’s wife. I bet she’s out here with their car.”
All they had to do now was escape. How long did they have before their attackers heaved the door upstairs open and realized the boys had escaped? Max took Sayid’s weight, helping the boy to move quickly towards the trees. They reached the front of the chateau. Half a dozen motorbikes stood tilted on their stands. Was Sharkface here? He couldn’t be. If he were he’d have led the battle on the staircase.
Max looked out into the moving shadows. Spiderwebs of light teased the bare branches. One patch of darkness was blacker than the rest. On the left of the drive the Germans’ car sat unmoving-and facing the gates. Tucked well in, so the driver could see if the old Frenchman returned.
Max put his mouth next to Sayid’s ear. “There’s no sign of Bobby. We’re on our own. Get into those trees over there on the right. See the car? Stay on its blind side and keep out of sight. Meet me at the entrance gates.”
Sayid hesitated.
“I’ll be right behind you,” Max assured him, then turned and ran for the chateau’s front doors. He had to buy them time.
Max barely made it to the Frenchman’s office before he heard the German’s shouting: “Find them! Find them! Search every room!”
He scanned the small, tidy office.
The Frenchman had patted his pockets, twelve … thirteen. Stepped back to his office, fourteen … fifteen. Open the door, sixteen. Done what? Reached for something on his desk. What? Cigarettes. He had picked up the forgotten cigarettes, seventeen … eighteen. Repeated his movements again, out of the office, into the hall, nineteen … twenty … twenty-one. The old man had quickened his pace, twenty-two … twenty-three … twenty-four. By now, Max remembered, he would have been back at the door, which was already open. Stepped out-and closed it.
Twenty-five seconds tops. The old Frenchman might have been slow but it was a practiced pace, he did it every night of his life. To the second.
Max’s finger hovered over the master control. Was he about to throw the wrong switch? Holding his breath, he flipped the switch and began a mental count-following the same procedure as the Frenchman. Door … one second. Turn, three … four …
Footfalls pounded on the stairs. Max sneaked a peek around the office door and saw the German, grunting with exertion, reach the hallway. He ducked behind the open front door and watched through the narrow gap between wall and door as the German stopped in the archway.
Five … six … seven …
Max could have reached out from the darkness and touched him.
Eight … nine … ten …
The man gestured and yelled, “Bring the car! Bring the car! We need a flashlight! They’ve escaped! Rhona,
Eleven … twelve … thirteen … fourteen … Max hardly dared breathe. The clock was ticking; the alarm would go off unless he could get out the door and close it. That was his only chance.
Fifteen … sixteen. The German turned back to the stairs. Max heard a car engine start, crunching tires, a car door open and slam. No headlights.
Seventeen … eighteen … nineteen. And then the German’s wife ran into the entrance hall. She hesitated. “Ernst!”
Twenty …
The voice carried. “Up here!”
Twenty-one … twenty-two …
She ran towards her husband’s voice.
Twenty-three …
Max stepped out, grabbed the door …
Twenty-four … twenty-five!
The door clicked shut behind him.
Silence.
Max blew the air out of his lungs with a massive sigh of relief. He leapt down the steps, past the guardian crocodiles to the motorbikes, then slowly and methodically pushed the scissors’ blades into the rear tire of each motorbike. There was an even more satisfying hiss of released air.
Max’s plan had worked better than he had hoped. The Germans’ car had stopped right outside the entrance and the keys were in the ignition. Max didn’t care about noise now.
He kicked the row of bikes. Nice to see the domino effect in action. The bikes clattered down. Handlebars snared wheels, brake and clutch levers dug into engine blocks, and headlights cracked and smashed.
Max adjusted the driver’s seat in the small Mercedes, turned the key, pulled the gear shift from park to drive
