raised the cobra’s flicking tongue to his own lips and kissed the snake.
Murmurs of approval sighed from the crowd, a smattering of applause, coins tinkled into his upturned hat.
Max gave an embarrassed smile. Perhaps he’d been too quick to react. Could you be too quick when it came to a cobra strike? Sophie touched his shoulder. She knew how fast Max had moved-a brave and instinctive gesture. An attacking cobra was an old snake-charmer’s trick. But Max wasn’t to know that.
But those few seconds of reaction had sharpened his senses. There was another danger. His instincts bristled, the warning insistent, demanding his attention. But what was the threat? From where? Max searched the immediate crowd. Something wasn’t right. A man’s eyes held his own for the briefest of moments and then flitted away. There were two men’s faces he had seen earlier. He had been erratic in his choice of food stalls and entertainment, so it wasn’t likely that he would spot the same faces twice.
He pointed over the heads of the crowds. “Get to the edge!” he shouted.
She nodded. As fascinated as he was by the seething mass of people in the square, he realized he could be targeted more easily here than in the wilderness. In open space you can see your enemy; here they could be a breath away. But why would Sophie bring him here to entrap him when she could have arranged an attack at any time since they left Biarritz?
Paranoia. Fear. Get rid of it, he told himself-these feelings were just crowd fever. This place was like Wembley Stadium and twice as noisy.
The stifling mass now seemed impenetrable. Max pulled Sophie closer. He wanted her right there, at his shoulder, no more than a step away. A ripple of energy shuddered through the pressed bodies; hands reached out, clawing at him. Max felt the torsion on his skin as someone twisted his wrist. Sophie was at arm’s length. Two men were between them, the back of their heads momentarily obscuring her face. Sophie’s grip still held but he could feel it slipping. Images of Zabala falling from his grasp flashed across his mind. Sophie mouthed his name. Shouted it. One of the men turned. Same face as before. Dull eyes, uncaring, probably doped up on something. The man made a sudden grab at the pendant. Max blocked the move but the action forced him to lose his grip on Sophie.
Other hands scratched at his face. Screaming and chattering as they raked their fingers across his head. Someone had thrown a chained monkey onto his shoulder, its tiny nails scrabbling at his face and hair, and then Max felt it tug on the leather thong that held the pendant.
He swept his arm up, caught the monkey by its soft fur, but then yelped as it bit into his forearm. He threw the monkey away from him and lunged at its chain. He wanted the man at the end of it, but someone kicked his legs from beneath him and he went down hard onto the ground. Sandals and dirty feet, rubbish and bits of food swirled around his face. Max rolled, tumbled, struggled to get back on his feet. It was like another avalanche.
“Sophie!” he yelled, his elbows pushing against anyone trying to hold him.
Someone grunted; a man shouted in agony as Max’s blow caught his cheekbone. He was being wrenched from side to side, unable to defend himself. Half a dozen smaller boys, ten- or eleven-year-olds who looked like street urchins, were attacking him now, but they too were hampered by the weight of the crowd.
A crushing fear-was Sharkface here? Max looked around desperately, but there was no sign of the ragged- mouthed teenager.
Bodies scattered and fell. Max saw Sophie throw a man twice her weight to the ground. This was close- quarter fighting. Her eyes darted across the swirling mass, seeking out his. But before she could speak another arm went around her neck. She twisted and was obscured from view as Max yelled. He hadn’t noticed that a different energy now took control of the crowd. A surge went through it, like a shock wave. Voices were raised in protest, but then subsided. Max burrowed beneath the sea of legs, scrambling in Sophie’s direction. The boys snatched at him, but he was scurrying fast, as in a body-jumbling fight for a rugby ball.
Five meters farther on he pushed himself to the surface. People buffeted each other as a great battleship of a man bellied his way through the crowd. Abdullah. And behind him, like two escort destroyers in battle formation, came the two men from the
An angel of the night.
Max gaped for a moment.
“Abdullah!” Sophie cried, and the man’s bulk turned, angling directly towards her.
He had struck out with a sturdy-looking stick and one of the attackers went down. Abdullah and his light- carriers walked right over him. That was probably worth a couple of broken ribs, Max thought. The urchins scattered as the second assailant foolishly tried to raise a hand against the unstoppable momentum. One light-carrier dipped the lantern over Abdullah’s shoulder; the man shielded his eyes momentarily and Abdullah’s fist struck him across the head like a mallet blow. Down he went.
Max reached Sophie at almost the same time as Abdullah. The big man didn’t smile and spoke only to issue a command.
“We must go!” he said.
He turned. Sophie and Max fell in behind him, and the crowd opened like the Red Sea in front of Moses. They were safe for now.
But Max knew that the killers had found him.
18
Angelo Farentino had once known courage. He had worn it as lightly as one of his expensive suits. For countless years he had championed and supported those who roamed the world reporting dangerous practices that could wreak havoc with the environment.
And then one night he awoke-a frightened man. He could no longer endure the intimidation and threats of the destroyers. The realization came that he could survive, be protected and become wealthy. All he had to do was betray those who trusted him implicitly.
Like a deep-seated disease, the seeds of deception had started months, perhaps even years, earlier. It was caused, he realized some time later, by pain and jealousy. Of being denied something he could not have. A woman. His anger, like the claws of a beast, had torn something from his heart. And weakened him.
His courage had never truly returned, but his sense of survival was intact. Which was why he had argued with Tishenko. Less an argument, perhaps, more an impassioned plea. What Tishenko wanted could cost Farentino his life.
“You want me to go to England and speak to Tom Gordon?”
Tishenko had no lips-they had been scorched from him when the lightning struck him as a boy-but the gap that was his mouth widened into a grin. “We know where he is. And we know his mind is as fragile as a kite in a storm.”
Farentino sipped the drink Tishenko had put into his hand. Drinking and listening allowed him to avert his eyes as often as possible. Tishenko’s appearance had always given him a shudder of revulsion. For a man who cherished art and beauty as much as Farentino, the grotesque Tishenko was an affront.
Tishenko took his drink through a straw. “You know his boy, Max. He has become involved in something quite extraordinary. He has slipped past my people, and he has discovered information that could cause me damage if anyone had the understanding and the knowledge to study it carefully,” Tishenko said quietly.
Farentino had once tried to have Tom Gordon killed and Max had been caught up in that assault as well. He knew the boy, all right.
“Why is Max Gordon involved?” Farentino asked.
“I am uncertain whether he stumbled upon the information I need by accident or his father has something to do with it.”
“Tom Gordon would never deliberately send his son into anything dangerous. That’s ridiculous,” Farentino protested.
“There has been contact between father and son. If Tom Gordon knows anything about my plans he could
