Blood Sun

momentum. It almost tipped. Max cried out in effort. One more pull and push should do it.

Too far! The pole’s momentum was going backward. Max hugged the sharp-beaked face that glared at him. It was like embracing a monster.

“Come on!” Max yelled at the top of his lungs, forcing every fiber of his body to hurl his energy against the momentum. Like a giant, felled tree, the totem pole creaked, shuddered and fell.

The man screamed. He’d lost his foothold and grip. Bones would shatter when he hit the floor. Another agonized scream confirmed it.

But Max’s attention was fixed on the stately fall of the totem until gravity took his breath away. He would have to let go at any moment. The wall of the building loomed toward him, and then the shuddering pole slammed into it-taking the decision out of his hands, literally. The impact bounced him off the totem. Max threw out his arms, grabbing the ridge of concrete pediment that ran below the skeletal roof. Feet scrabbling, he found the edge of the totem again and used it to push upward. Then there was nothing but thin air below his feet. His weight wrenched his shoulders, but he brought his knee up onto the narrow ledge, felt the concrete dig into bone, ignored the pain and clung like a limpet. Sweat slicked his hands and face. He risked a downward glance. The dark-eyed man gazed up at Max. Then he sprinted for the hallways and stairs that would bring him up to Max’s level.

Max grunted and heaved himself along the fingertip ledge, his badly aching shoulder protesting. Pain took his mind off the fear of falling. At last he reached a small balcony, hauled himself over and tried to calm his breathing so he could hear any sounds of approaching attackers. Max held his breath. His heart would not stop banging in his ears. He couldn’t wait. He took a chance and ran down a narrow corridor.

Glass doors, chained and bolted like all the others, blocked his way. He was trapped. He saw the dark-eyed man reach the top of the marble staircase, turn and sprint toward him.

Max fumbled with Dr. Miller’s key ring. Don’t look at him! Concentrate! There were only three master keys on the ring. A one-in-three chance to escape. Max’s mind picked the one that looked more like a padlock key, pushed it in, turned it and felt the surge of relief as the padlock sprang open.

The man was running flat out toward him now.

Thirty meters.

Max heaved the chain free, pushed through the glass doors and shoved his hand through the handles on the other side.

Fifteen meters.

Max tightened the chain, pushed the padlock through and snapped it closed.

Bang! Max staggered back. The man had thrown his shoulder against the solid glass doors just as the padlock clicked.

The man seemed unhurt and never took his eyes off Max. There was less than an arm’s length between them. Max looked at Riga and their gaze held for a moment. In that split second, both recognized the other from that night on Dartmoor. Max saw the man’s jaw muscles clenching. He was really fired up.

Being scared gives a high-octane boost, and Max was about to take off, but so was the other man. He could run through the next corridor and corner Max. To hell with him. Max smiled and raised his middle finger.

Then ran like the devil was after him.

There were stairs at the end. A narrow lift door tempted him, but going inside there would be like handing himself over. Nonetheless, it might help to cause a brief diversion. He pressed the button to summon the lift, turned and ran. And stopped. Now he could hear the sound of pounding feet. He ducked into an alcove. This area behind the exhibit’s glass was boxed, creating a false wall.

Max heard the lift doors ping open in the background.

He slid to his haunches-keep a low profile-eyes scanning every shade of light. Someone had run past the end of the corridor, heading toward the lift. Max’s fingers had already slid out the SIM card from his phone. He reckoned there were only seconds left now.

He was heading the right way: west. There were the stairs. The final exhibit at the end of the corridor was of a cave, with two skeletons lying in the dust-the Jericho Tombs, a sign told him. Max unhooked a fire extinguisher and placed it in position where the glass case ended and the wall started. He was out of sight from each end of the corridor.

He pressed a button on his mobile and slid the phone across the floor. It skittered like an ice-hockey puck.

He could just about balance one foot on top of the fire extinguisher, enough for him to reach up and grasp the top of the exhibit’s roof. He heard his own voice echoing across the halls from the message he had recorded. “This is Max Gordon. I need help. I’m in the British Museum.” There was a pause as if he were listening. Then, “I don’t know where exactly. Help me!”

Max was on the roof. He risked a peek over the rim. The man who’d almost had him at the glass doors now held a short stabbing knife. As his jacket flapped, the butt of a chromed semiautomatic pistol glinted in the half- light. He ran past the tomb toward the sound of Max’s voice. “Listen, I can’t talk. They’re close. I reckon there are at least three men.”

The dark-eyed man looked this way and that, then bent down, found the phone and turned. Max ducked. It was as if his pursuer’s instincts told him exactly where Max was hiding. He held his breath. Would the fire extinguisher on the floor arouse any suspicions?

Max heard someone call from below. “Riga!”

Riga. Was that the man’s name or some kind of warning in a foreign language?

“Riga!” the voice demanded. “Police. C’mon! We gotta get outta here!”

Max dared not move. He lay as flat as he could on the exhibit’s roof and hoped it would bear his weight; otherwise he would fall into the Tomb of Jericho and end up dead-just like the skeletons.

“I’ll find you, Max Gordon!” Riga called.

Max’s blood froze. His throat dried. The man knew his name and was cool enough to take his time and issue the warning.

“You’re a smart kid. But I’ll find you. Don’t think I won’t. You can’t get away. Not from me. You remember that.”

Footfalls pounded into the distance. Unintelligible voices, scrambled words filtered up from downstairs somewhere; then it was silent. Blue light twirled across the walls. The police. What were they doing here? Had a passerby seen something? Had a security guard got free and phoned them? Max heard the throaty growl of a motorbike. Its engine was cut. Doors banged open. And a woman’s voice took command of the darkness.

“Search the place! See if the boy’s here!”

Uniformed cops ran up the stairs.

Unbelievable. Now Max had to escape from the police.

9

The paramedics covered Dr. Miller’s body with a blanket and eased the stretcher out through the doors. Charlotte Morgan stood in the room. There was no doubt that there had been intruders in the British Museum or that the man had had a heart attack. And there was evidence that someone had tried to save him. Who? She did not believe for one moment that the vandalism was caused by these ACT people. Not after being told of Riga’s involvement at Dartmoor High.

She studied the room carefully, walking around the exhibits behind the glass. There was no evidence of any connection with Peru or South America. Light caught the glass and she saw the smudges. They were fingerprints, plenty of them. Most were low down. She imagined small children pressing their hands against the invisible wall.

Higher up were other prints. She stepped back, checked the maps behind the glass that showed the history of the Toltecs, Aztecs and Mayas. Why had Dr. Miller been in here? It seemed obvious that it must have been with Max. In Oxford, Professor Blacker had told her that there were two other experts who could understand khipus. One was in Edinburgh, the other at the British Museum. Max Gordon could go to either. Charlie Morgan had mentally tossed a coin. Heads or tails? Heads. London.