Ice Claw Page 2

  Max released the board’s bindings and pulled the slightly built runner to his feet. Time to go. The black ski cap had been torn free in the struggle; a tumble of auburn hair fell across the runner’s face.

  It was a girl.

  The café’s steamed windows blurred the empty streets. Max and the girl ate pizza and drank hot chocolate. Occasionally a car would crunch by, and once they heard the high-revving engine of a motorbike. Max tensed, but it passed without stopping. The girl reached out—a small gesture of assurance. Max liked the warmth of her touch but squirmed his hand away to fiddle with his food. French girls were more demonstrative than any of the girls he knew at home, and they seemed unafraid to express their feelings. Max concentrated on his pizza. Her name was Sophie Fauvre. Her slight, elfin build put her age anywhere between fourteen and eighteen. She had lived in Paris until two years ago, and Max was right, she was a parkour, and the discipline of urban free-running was something her elder brother, Adrien, had taught her. But those boys who had boxed her in tonight—they had been sent deliberately to hurt or kill her.

  “Someone sent those blokes? I mean, how do you know it wasn’t just a bunch of yobs having a go?”

  She frowned. “Yobs?”

  “Er …” He scrambled for a French equivalent. “Loubards.”

  “No, no. They are paid to stop me. They are kids, sure, but they’re like feral animals. The men with the money buy them anything they want, and they do as they are told. If they had hurt me tonight, the police would have put it down to a malicious accident.”

  “Why would people buy off street kids with fancy motorbikes to hurt you?”

  She hesitated. Hadn’t she told him enough? He was an innocent who had jumped into danger to help her.

  “Have I got food on my face?” Max asked.

  “What?”

  “You were staring at me.”

  “Sorry. I was thinking. Look, you don’t understand. My brother has gone missing. He called us from a town called Oloron-Sainte-Marie; it’s a few kilometers down the valley. And then he disappeared. I thought I could find him. People I have spoken to remember him but nothing else. So now I have to go home. Perhaps there is news there.”

  “To Paris?”

  “No. To Morocco.”

  “Ah. Did I miss the Moroccan connection somewhere?”

  She laughed. She liked him. Which was not a good idea.

  It wasn’t going to help her complete her task. He had a habit of rubbing a hand across his tufted hair, and then, as he smiled, his eyes would flick self-consciously away. Nice eyes, though, she thought. Blue or blue-gray, she couldn’t be certain in the soft light of the café.

  “Now you’re staring,” she said.

  Embarrassed, Max quickly recovered and put a finger to his mouth. “You’ve got cheese in your teeth.”

  And as soon as he said it he wished the earth would open and swallow him.

  He walked her back to her small hotel through the winding streets, keeping in the middle of the narrow road, the brightest place, away from light-swallowing alleyways. The cold night air began to bite, even through his padded jacket.

  He ignored the creeping ache in his body, alert for any movements in the shadows. Fear kept the circulation going better than any warm coat.

  Sophie told him that her father used to run the Cirque de Paris, but over the years he had turned more and more towards animal conservation. Her Moroccan mother had taken ill several years ago, and the family had returned to her homeland, where, after her death, Sophie’s father founded an endangered-species conservation group. Like other conservationists who tried to stop the illegal trade in animals, threats and violence were not uncommon. The traders made big money. People like her father were bad for business.

  “Adrien discovered one of the routes was through Spain and across the Pyrenees. There are no customs posts anymore, so every day thousands of trucks cross from the ports in the south of Spain.”

  “And your brother found one of the animals?”

  She nodded. Cupping her hands to her mouth, she blew moist air to warm her gloves. Her shoulders hunched against the icicle-snapping cold. Max wondered, for all of a nanosecond, whether he should put his arm around her.

  “An endangered South American bear was shipped out of Venezuela, through Spain and into France,” she said. “Buyers pay a huge premium for anything endangered.”

  “Why? Do they have private zoos?”

  She shook her head.

  “Trophy hunters. They kill the animals. Shoot them. And one day one of the killers will be the luckiest hunter of them all. He’ll be able to say he shot the very last animal of its species.”

  They reached the corner of the pension, the small hotel where she had a room. A car eased along the street behind them; its exhaust growled as the studded tires purred into the layered snow and ice. Max eased Sophie behind him into a shadow. It was a black Audi A6 Quattro—high-powered, four-wheel drive, fast, sure-footed and expensive. As it came to the intersection it stopped. A tinted window slid down. Two men: the driver and his companion. They wore black leather jackets over black roll-neck sweaters. They were big men. Dark cropped hair, their faces unshaven for a couple of days—designer stubble or tough blokes? Max settled for tough. Their cold, hard stares went right through him.

  The window glided upwards; then the car eased away. Maybe they were just tourists looking for their hotel late at night, but there were no ski racks on the car, and they didn’t look as though they were into snowball fights for fun.

  “Do you know those men?” he asked.

  “No. I have never seen them before.”

  “Probably nothing,” he said, smiling to reassure her, despite his own sixth sense warning him otherwise.

  The night porter shuffled towards the pension’s door on the third ring of the bell.

  “I can order you a hot drink, if you would like. Before you go?” she said.

  “No. Thanks. I’ve gotta get back. Big day tomorrow.”

  “Of course. Good luck for that.”

  The sallow-faced porter stood waiting silently.

  She lowered her voice. “Thank you, Max. If there is anything my family can ever do for you, my father would be honored.” She went up on tiptoe, placed a hand on his shoulder and kissed his cheek. Max’s head bobbed to meet her lips and, uncertain where to put his hands, he fumbled and dropped his snowboard. He felt the heat rising into his neck and face.

  The night porter gazed at him in bored pity.

  She stepped through the door and smiled again. “Sure you don’t want a drink?”

  “No. Honest. Thanks. I’ve … I’ve got ironing to do,” he muttered uselessly.

  She said nothing, then nodded and turned, walking farther into the half-lit reception area, as the porter, now with unconcealed disdain, latched and bolted the door in Max’s face.

  Cheese teeth and ironing. What a disaster.

  The truth was he did have ironing, but it had nothing to do with making himself look any less untidy.

  Max’s snowboard rested across the two single bed bases in the room he shared with Sayid at the hostel. The mattresses had been shoved to one side on the floor. A towel and a newspaper were spread out beneath the board, and holding the pointed end of the iron downwards, he pressed a stick of wax against the hot surface and dribbled the melting liquid across the board, which was badly scratched from sliding across the road.

  The heat opened the board’s pores and allowed the wax to penetrate. Twenty minutes later, when it cooled, he scraped off the excess wax and rubbed hard with the back of a pan cleaner, buffing the surface.

  His kit was as ready as it could be. All he had to do now was secure a place in the top three of the wildwater kayak race next morning and he’d be ready for the final in the freestyle snowboarding event.

  He checked the alarm clock.

  The wake-up call was only three hours away.

  Max slumped onto one of the mattresses on the floor, fully d
ressed. He pulled the duvet over himself and fell sound asleep.

  And then—what felt like two minutes later—the alarm clock’s bell clattered him awake.

  The Xtreme sports competition’s heats had been held over the previous week. Three events: cross-country mountain biking on the lower slopes of the mountains, wildwater kayaking and freestyle snowboarding. The points system for each event quickly decided who went through to the next stage. Max was one of the youngest competitors, each of whom had to be between fifteen and eighteen and attend school in Europe. Bobby Morrell, ex–U.S. junior champion, was leading the points board so far. He attended the International School near Toulouse in southern France. Max knew he was the boy to beat. Thankfully, because of the costs involved, the mountain bikes and kayaks were provided by the organizers and were all standard. There was no unfair equipment advantage; success was down to a competitor’s skills. But the snowboarding was another matter. The really good riders had specialist boards for different events. Max would have to make do with his own, modest, middle-of-the-road board—if he got through the kayak race in good-enough time.

  The water roared.

  “Max Gordon?” a steward shouted.

  “Here!”

  The previous heats had determined who was who time-wise, and at this stage of the competition the fastest kayakers went last. And that was Max and Bobby.

  The American shook his hand and they touched knuckles. “Good luck, Max. Remember, watch that drop at the halfway mark. You get it wrong and it’ll force you to the left where the river splits. Don’t get pushed down there. That’s damned near a grade four river in these conditions. It’s dangerous enough to put you under and kill you, Max. Okay?”

  Max nodded. He liked the American. The eighteen-year-old champion always passed on his experience to the younger competitors. They both wanted to win, but for Bobby it was nowhere near as big a deal as it was for Max. The five-thousand-euro prize money would go a long way towards helping Max buy equipment and pay for travel expenses if he wanted to continue competing in these events in the future. His dad didn’t have much money to speak of, and although the school had managed to secure a grant for him to stay on and study, any extras were up to Max.

  He fitted the splash apron around the kayak, then nodded to the stewards that he was ready. The roaring water almost deafened him to the beeps of the electronic starter. A steward helped with the countdown, spreading his fingers wide, the palm of his hand towards Max’s face. Five fingers, four, three, two …

  Max’s shoulders bunched; his grip tightened on the double-bladed paddle. A deep breath. Charge the energy. Win this thing. Go fast … go fast … go …

  One!

  The start Klaxon shrieked and Max plunged the kayak into the first swirling wave.

  He immediately realized the water was trickier than that of the previous time trials. It twisted and pounded him. The snowmelt farther up the peaks meant the heavy runoff was being funneled like water down a narrow drain.

  He thrust the paddle’s blades left and right and threw his body from side to side for balance. It was all about countering the strength of the river with skill and judgment. Wildwater kayaks are long and narrow; their rounded hulls made them fast, but unstable and hard to turn.

  Water thundered over him. He’d misjudged one of the eddies and nearly rolled, his helmet deflecting him from the boulder that was the cause of the spurting power. He had to use the curved boat to his advantage. The river was widening. Slower water nearer the bank gently swelled into calmer pools. Max stayed in the rough and tumble, curving turns—using the boat to pick up the energy of the water and hurtle him along. The dangerous bend wasn’t far now. No one would be on that side of the river anyway—not by choice. The rapids were treacherous there.

  Max saw the foaming water snarl angrily past hidden boulders; these were the fastest jets, the edge of the wave train. He took the curve and felt the lift and surge as the tongue of water powered him along, its roar muffling his shout of joy.

  The cold, stinging water lashed his face, and as he turned to shake his head free of it, he saw another kayak, protected by a promontory, clear the calmer-flowing water near the riverbank.

  It couldn’t be Bobby, he’d never have passed him this far downriver. Besides, he wouldn’t start his run until Max was across the finishing line. Maybe there’d been a problem with the previous competitor, a German girl who was doing well in all the events. Had she got caught up? Had a problem? Hadn’t they relayed the information back to the start line? His mind raced as he battled the crashing water. No, this was a more rugged kayak than the Xtreme competitors were using, carbon-fiber-made, and it certainly took the rapids in its stride. Whoever was in the kayak was pounding across the current, which meant he had a lot of strength and skill. And he was coming straight at Max.

  Collision course.

  He was going to sink him!

  It was Sharkface.

  Max dug in the paddle, forced the water around it, threw his body weight to one side and sideslipped the kayak so that the attacking boat glanced off.

  It shuddered into him, nearly rolling him over.

  The two boys fought the confused water almost side by side. Sharkface swung his paddle in a backward slash, catching Max off balance. Max’s boat spun, nearly capsized, and was saved only by Max counterbalancing in the opposite direction, but in doing so he was vulnerable. The scarred boy held his paddle above his head and, like a mighty sword blow, hammered it down onto Max.

  Max braced for the impact, held his paddle across him and took the blow square on. Now it was the other kid who had lost his balance and was vulnerable. Max powered the paddle into the water and in a couple of strokes took the fight to him.

  Side by side they thundered down the white water, and for every stroke in the water that kept them upright, another was hammered into their opponent. Like two swordsmen on horseback, they cut, slashed and battered. A glancing blow sliced beneath Max’s helmet, the edge of Sharkface’s paddle cutting into his forehead. Blood mixed with the cold water, closing his eye.

  A surge of anger almost lifted Max out of the kayak as he yelled and slammed his body weight and paddle down onto the boy.

  Sharkface slumped. The water sucked his uncontrolled boat away. Max balanced his own kayak and wiped the blood from his eye. He was still going fast, but now he was looking at the back of his attacker. The unconscious boy had still not lifted his head. His paddle was churned away in the water and both kayaks were at the dangerous bend. Sharkface was on the wrong side of the river. If he got sucked down there, even if he was conscious, odds were he would drown. As unprovoked and vicious as the attack had been, Max wasn’t a killer.

  He saw a curving channel of water, paddled furiously and felt the nose of his kayak lift, then settle, as the faster, stronger and more dangerous current took control.

  Within seconds he reached the other boy, the kayaks now side by side as Max shielded the uncontrolled boat from the rapids. If he could dig in his paddle and slow the pace he could force both of them away from the side tributary that now exerted a huge pressure on the river’s flow.

  Max’s shoulder tendons felt as though they were tearing, but he kept the paddle in the water, throwing his weight against Sharkface’s kayak, taking the strain for them both.

  And then the river eased, the noise lessened, and slower water gave Max the chance to control his own kayak’s progress by letting the other boat slip away. It nudged the bank, the water acting as a buffer, making it roll over gently on its side.

  Max steered past, aiming for the center of the main river again. With a final backward glance he saw Sharkface clamber groggily from the kayak and slump down on the bank. Someone hadn’t liked the fact that Max had helped Sophie last night. And she was right—they were paying a lot of money to give these violent kids whatever they wanted, and to buy their obedience.

  The adrenaline kept Max going, but in his heart he knew the attack had cost him valuable time.
r />   As he rounded the final bend, the finish line was two hundred meters away, crowded with spectators and officials. He caught a glint of sunlight on the road that snaked up the mountain pass.

  A stationary black car and two men, both in black leather coats, stood watching. One held a pair of binoculars to his eyes.

  Max heard the spectators shouting.

  He focused on the finish line and flexed his arm muscles in an almighty surge of power. Seconds later he heard the electronic buzz as he passed through the time gate.

  He eased towards the bank, and eager hands helped steady the kayak. Using the paddle for support, he pulled himself out. Exhausted, he gasped for oxygen. One of the stewards shouted for a paramedic.

  Max ignored the stewards’ fuss and pushed his way through the crowd to get a clear view of the time board.

  It wasn’t his best, but he had still beaten two of the others. He’d get through to the snowboarding final on those points. Had he made better time and accumulated more points he would have been in with a stronger chance for the last phase of the competition. Now it was going to take something extraordinary in his freestyle event to snatch back those points.

  He looked up towards the mountain pass.

  The men and the car had gone.

  The organizers bused the competitors back up the valley and gave them two hours to eat and prepare themselves for the final event of the day. This last week had been pretty relentless because it was about stamina as well as skill. Bobby Morrell was the clear favorite now, as he’d achieved a scorching time on the river. There were three other contenders besides Bobby and Max: the German girl, who had trained on the custom-built snowboard course in Munich; a French seventeen-year-old who was clearly the favorite of the home crowd; and a Dutch boy who had surprised Max by managing to reach this stage. A Hungarian girl, lithe and beautiful like a gymnast, and who looked Californian with her modern, short hairstyle, had originally been a favorite. Always smiling, she was also well liked by everyone, especially the boys, but they kept a respectful distance when they learned that she and Bobby were a couple. Her name was Potÿncza Józsa, and she seemed more competitive than most. Even Bobby would stand back and shake his head at her focused determination. Her name was a tongue-twister, so she always introduced herself, and then added, “But call me Peaches; everyone does.” And that was how everyone knew her.