sound, like a weightlifter struggling to shift a massive load. It was immediately followed by the creaking of wood under pressure. Carver spun around just as the massive spherical mass came free from its housing and started rolling toward him. He fired four shots straight at the giant black ball, but the bullets ricocheted off the wood, leaving barely a mark on the rock-hard surface, the reverberating gunfire mixing with the deep, hard rumble of the ball against the concrete.
He turned to run back toward the mouth of the narrow tunnel, just a few feet away, but slipped on a patch of water on the bare concrete floor and stumbled. The ball was almost on top of him. Desperately Carver scrabbled to his feet, dropping the dazzler, which was crushed beneath the ball like a tin can beneath a jackboot. The man-made cave was plunged into darkness, and Carver threw himself back into the tunnel. He heard the giant ball smash against the entrance, too big to penetrate any farther.
Frantically, he started running into the pitch-black void in front of him. He shifted his gun into his left hand and placed the fingers of his right hand against the wall to act as his guide. He was totally blind, but he forced himself to sprint flat out into nothingness, though every instinct screamed at him to go slowly.
He reckoned the tunnel was about twenty paces long. Then came the junction. The other guy would be coming that way. Carver listened. He could just hear one set of slow, steady, watchful footsteps-the steps of a man who wants to hunt down his enemy without becoming the prey himself.
Carver looked left and saw a faint flashlight beam emerging from the darkness. It was sweeping from side to side as the man behind it searched for him. He turned toward the opening of the other tunnel and fired three quick shots. He wasn't expecting to score any hits, he just needed to force the other guy to take cover, even for a few seconds.
He could still make this work. He turned again, reached for the wall, and ran on into the blackness. Kursk was on the offensive. He had forced his enemy to retreat and smashed his most important weapon. Without the dazzler to light up his target, the Englishman's gun was far less of a threat. Now Kursk had to press home his advantage.
He had gone no more than five paces down the other tunnel, walking parallel to the one down which the Englishman had fled, when he saw the glint from a pistol barrel in the flashlight beam.
Kursk flung himself to the ground as three bullets ricocheted off the walls around him. The moment he hit the ground, he switched off the flashlight, making himself invisible again.
He heard the Englishman's footsteps moving away from him, fast. Kursk turned the flashlight back on and kept going to the end of the tunnel. He saw the pipe with its striped tape, but beyond that, nothing. The Englishman must have turned off the passage somewhere, gone down another way.
Ahead on the right, Kursk could see the arch of another tunnel, from which came the sound of fast-moving water. He ran toward it, then, without stopping, flung himself to the floor, rolling across the open arch, firing into it as he went. As he reached the far side, two bullets smashed against the wall, showering him in dust and concrete chips. Well, that answered one question. The Englishman had found a new escape route.
As the echoes of gunfire faded away, Kursk thought he could hear something over the sound of water: a scuffling movement in the darkness, then a louder bang and a muffled curse. It was all he could do not to laugh. The poor bastard had bumped into something, trying to run away in the dark.
Okay, time to see where the Englishman was hiding. Kursk got to his feet, then sprinted back across the open archway, holding his gun away from him, so that anyone aiming at the flashlight would not hit him. This time, he looked down the tunnel, seeing the boards and display cases suspended between the ceiling and the metal-grate floor. Maybe the Englishman thought he could hide behind them. Well, he'd see about that.
He switched off the flashlight. Now they were both blind. He slipped to the floor and slid on his belly to the center of the archway. Then he moved forward until he could feel the surface beneath him change from concrete to metal. A blast of chill, damp, fetid air hit him from the sewage water racing beneath him. He reached forward and felt the first wire, as taut as the guy rope of a tent, holding a Plexiglas display case in place. Slowly, silently, he slithered underneath the case, making his way through the tangle of wire securing it to the floor.
When he came out the other side, into the gap between the cases, he paused, listening for any sound of the Englishman. Where had the bastard gone? Kursk darted his head from side to side, cocking his ear, suddenly nervous that the Englishman was nearby. The two men could be centimeters apart. With the darkness, and the noise and smell of the water, they'd never know it. He willed himself to wait, be patient. This was a matter of who lost their nerve and made the move that gave away their position.
The Englishman cracked first. There was another brief scurry of feet up ahead. Kursk put both hands on his gun and leaned forward into the firing position. He was just about to pull the trigger when the blackness of the tunnel was lit up by a white-hot ball of flame, a deafening crack of explosive, and a sudden blast of air. It picked Kursk up, smashed him against the ceiling of the tunnel, then flung him back down in an avalanche of wire and debris, down through the gaping hole where the metal grating had been, slamming him into the torrent of water and filth down below.
9
Two short cross tunnels led from the display area of the Belgrand gallery to the Bruneseau gallery, which ran parallel to it. Carver had set the timer detonator on his packet of C4 putty to five seconds, then dashed down one of these cross tunnels, the Avaloir. The flame from the explosion flared down the passage, chasing after Carver, scorching his back as it licked against him.
Now he just had to get back to the surface. But which exit? There were two people on the bike chasing him, so one of them was still up there. Carver wanted him, alive if possible. He tried to put himself in the guy's place. Where would he station himself if he were up top? The smart move would be to find a place where you could cover both exits. On that basis, it made no difference where he came up. The risk would be the same.
There was another factor to consider. The area around the ticket kiosk was an ambusher's paradise. There was cover everywhere and no passersby to witness what happened. But if Carver's sense of direction was in working order, the other exit must be near the south end of the Alma Bridge. That was much more open, with many more cars and people.
So that was where he'd take his chances.
It took him several minutes to work his way back through the darkness toward the man-made cave where the giant ball had been. At last there was a glimmer of light. He dashed toward it with intense relief, running toward the stairs, past the open red door, and almost up to the stairwell before he forced himself to stop.
He edged into the stairwell, then looked up, sighting his gun vertically, ready to fire at the slightest movement above him. There was a grille of some kind across the top. He couldn't see any padlock or chain holding it in place. He walked steadily up the circular steel staircase, pausing every few steps to watch and listen for any sign of suspicious activity.
The steps ended at a small platform a couple of feet from the surface. Carver crawled onto it on his belly, keeping himself below the lip of the manhole. He slithered as close as he could get to the side of the hole, then placed his hands on the ground level with his shoulders, the left hand flat, the right bunched around the grip of his gun. Next, he shifted his weight onto his arms, leaning his torso forward and bringing his feet up so that his knees were pressed against his chest.
He sprang forward, throwing himself out of the manhole, keeping his trajectory as low as possible, so that he landed flat on the tarmac sidewalk. As soon as he hit the ground, he rolled to his left, bringing his hands together in front of him, clasping the gun. He kept his head up, his eyes focused forward, along the line of his arms and his weapon.
He saw nothing. Just a couple of cars crossing the Alma Bridge. There was no sound of gunfire, no smack of a silenced bullet hitting the tarmac beside him.
Carver had rolled through 270 degrees onto his right shoulder when his legs slammed into something hard. He grimaced at the impact of bare metal on his anklebone. He looked around and saw that he'd come to rest against the dead man's Ducati. The man's helmet was still hanging from one of the handlebars. The sharp, almost nauseating bolt of pain from Carver's ankle had been inflicted by the foot rest.
He pulled himself into a sitting position, leaned back against the bike, and again checked his surroundings. Still
