Entangled

  Matt had a glint in his eye. ‘It’s a weapon for war and for hunting. It works by lengthening the throwing arm of a man with a spear. The extra leverage makes the spear travel faster and further. Look’ – he pointed out the hooklike contraption Leoni had drawn – ‘the butt of the spear notches in here.’ He stood up and demonstrated the throw: ‘A flick of the wrist at the end and you can kill an animal or a man up to eight hundred feet away.’

  ‘So are you saying because I saw these atl-things that proves I went back in time?’

  ‘No. Not quite. Different cultures and peoples throughout history have independently invented the atlatl. But the one you drew has a very distinctive design. Unmistakable. It turns up in archaeological sites across France and Spain around twenty-four thousand years ago. There’s evidence it was brought from much further east – from the Balkans, in fact.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ Leoni asked.

  ‘I’m taking a couple of courses in prehistoric archaeology at Berkeley. We learned about the Kazgarians last semester. That’s the name we give to the people who brought the atlatl into western Europe – we don’t know what they called themselves.’ Matt leafed through Leoni’s sketches again: ‘You’re a pretty good artist, aren’t you?’

  ‘I flunked art school,’ she said – all his academic brilliance made her feel small – ‘but I guess I can draw.’

  ‘Great. So let’s get back to the project, go online and check out the knives and axe heads you drew. That obsidian sword as well. You can tell a lot about when and where stone weapons were made just from how they look.’

  In the cab returning to Irvine Leoni asked: ‘You’re English – so how come you’re studying at Berkeley?’

  ‘I drift around a bit, take courses here and there if they interest me. I wanted to know more about prehistoric archaeology and Berkeley seemed like a good place to do it.’

  ‘So you’re a sort of perpetual student?’

  Matt laughed: ‘Yes. You could say that. “Matthew Aubrey, Perpetual Student.” Quite an accolade.’

  Looking at his ragged, patched clothes – despite his posh accent Matt obviously didn’t have two cents to rub together – Leoni speculated that he must have enrolled in the DMT project for the miserly fee Bannerman was paying the volunteers. The cash, plus a month’s free room and board out of term-time, would, she realised, be worth a lot to a guy who bummed around colleges like this.

  The cab pulled off onto California Avenue and headed down towards the UC Irvine Research Park. They turned right onto Bison Avenue and saw at once that something ominous was going on at the two-storey block where the DMT project was housed. Half a dozen black Ford Explorers with smoked-glass windows were parked outside and there were tough-looking men with short haircuts and dark suits everywhere.

  Leoni quickly leaned forward, quelled the tremor rising in her throat, and told the driver: ‘Go straight ahead to the next junction, and take a left there.’

  ‘But this is the address you gave me, madam,’ he objected, waving a hand at the research block and slowing almost to a halt.

  ‘No,’ Leoni insisted, ‘this isn’t the place.’ She sharpened her tone: ‘Straight ahead, please, and left at the junction.’

  The driver, a lean elderly Armenian, sighed but put his foot back on the gas. The cab picked up speed and Leoni slumped deeper into her seat as a group of the men outside the research block swivelled towards them.

  Chapter Forty

  The taxi driver cast a furtive glance at Leoni in the rear-view mirror as she slumped lower in the back seat and flopped over sideways to avoid being seen. Matt took over the directions. ‘If you could turn left here,’ he told the driver in his imposing British accent, ‘then our building’s third on the left.’ Leoni stayed low in her seat as the car made the turn, but she felt Matt’s hand urging her upright. ‘It’s OK,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘You weren’t seen.’ She looked back over her shoulder. The DMT project was already out of view and no one was following them.

  Moments later they came to a halt in front of another of the white-painted two-storey blocks scattered across the green lawns of the research park. Matt paid the driver with some grubby bills extracted from the depths of one of his many pockets, ushered Leoni out, and led her towards the block as the cab pulled away. ‘I don’t feel good about that cabbie,’ he said as they walked. ‘He knew we stopped him dropping us off at the project because of all the heavies outside. They look official, we look like fugitives, so he’s probably trying to decide if he should go right back and report us to them now.’ He paused: ‘Your parents have got to be behind this, right?’

  Leoni grimaced: ‘Yes. Count Dracula and his undead bride.’

  ‘But those men. All those suits. Like a uniform. And I’m pretty sure some of them had guns under their jackets. Maybe FBI or something?’ Matt was peering around. They’d entered a corridor that ran all the way through the block to a rear exit at the far side. He took her hand: ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’

  They half ran, half walked, to the rear of the block, and once they were in the open again Matt continued to set a fast pace. Across more green lawns, dotted with mature trees, they caught occasional glimpses in the distance of the building housing the DMT project. It was too far away to make out what was happening but they could still see several men standing on guard outside.

  Leoni nodded her head in their direction: ‘I don’t think they’re FBI agents,’ she said. My dad’s not that well connected. But he’s got the money to hire any muscle he wants – so I’m guessing maybe some sort of private security firm? Whatever. They’re obviously here to grab me.’

  ‘Yes,’ Matt agreed. ‘I would say so.’ She was about to object to his cheerful tone when he produced a cellphone, pressed a speed-dial button, and became brusque as he arranged for a cab to meet them in fifteen minutes at the junction of Bison Road and the San Joaquim Hills Toll Road. He gave an address in a seedy district of South Los Angeles as their destination and confirmed payment would be made in cash.

  ‘That’s quite a ride,’ whistled Leoni when he hung up. ‘Might work out more than a hundred bucks, maybe a hundred and fifty. You want to check you’ve got that much cash on you? Because I sure as hell don’t.’ She was turning out the pockets of her jeans while she talked and counted $187 and change. ‘Oh, I lie. I’m richer than I thought. How about you?’

  Matt rummaged and found five crumpled bills. Three of them, Leoni was surprised to see, were hundreds. ‘We have enough cash,’ he said.

  They walked in silence, avoiding exposure in the open whenever possible, darting from tree to tree. Eventually Leoni asked: ‘What are we going to do when we get there?’

  ‘Get where?’

  ‘South LA, East Century Boulevard in the eight hundred block. The address you gave to the cab company.’

  ‘We’re going to walk some more, then take another cab.’

  Leoni must have shown her puzzlement.

  ‘That way our trail stops after the first cab,’ Matt explained. ‘We need to make certain your parents and their heavies can’t follow us.’

  They had reached the last block at the edge of the research park. Unlike the others, its large windows were shuttered and it appeared to be closed and deserted. There were no students or staff to be seen anywhere around and the building had an isolated, run-down feel. They fell into a guarded silence as they walked alongside it and, for the next minute, there was only the rhythmic sound of their footsteps crunching over the gravel path.

  That was why they didn’t hear the approach of the two men in dark suits who stepped out and confronted them at the corner of the building.

  Both men were big – in very different ways.

  One had the squat functional build of a circus strongman. He might have been of Turkish origin – or from some other place in the Middle East where people were swarthy and thickset, with large muscles. His black hair had been shaved to a stubble over the dome of his skull and his right h
and clutched a chunky automatic pistol pointed at Leoni’s stomach.

  The other guy was tall, at least six-three, with a broad chest and narrow, muscular waist – the ultimate Abercrombie & Fitch uber-model. His blond hair was cropped into a high and tight military cut above handsome peasant-boy features, and he held a pistol too.

  ‘You got them covered?’ the Turk asked.

  ‘Of course.’ Abercrombie nodded, waving his gun from side to side.

  The Turk stuffed his own weapon into his belt and pulled a cellphone from his jacket pocket. He looked from the screen to Leoni a couple of times. ‘Little Miss Watts,’ he announced, ‘you can run and you can hide, but we have you now.’

  ‘What about him?’ Abercrombie indicated Matt, who, to Leoni’s dismay, was cowering in fear.

  ‘He’s seen too much,’ said the Turk. ‘I’m going to kill him.’ His gun was out of his belt again and he was screwing a silencer onto the barrel.

  ‘You mean now?’ asked Abercrombie.

  ‘Yeah, sure. Why not? There’s no witnesses for miles and the cleanup boys are right here to deal with the body. Couldn’t be better.’ The Turk’s face broke into a broad smile. ‘Tell you what. I want to recreate that scene from ’Nam. You know – the one where the Vietnamese officer shoots a prisoner in the head at point-blank range?’ He giggled: ‘You got video on your phone?’

  ‘Sure have,’ said Abercrombie.

  ‘OK, then video this.’

  And with that the Turk strode over to Matt, thrusting the pistol barrel at his temple.

  But Matt was already on the move. Shedding his submissive body language in an instant, he swayed his head, avoiding the thrust, and the Turk stumbled forward. Matt closed both his hands around the gun, somehow rolled the Turk’s big strong fingers tighter around the weapon’s grip, and kept the hold as he pirouetted away from him, snapping his wrist with an audible ‘POP!’

  Now Matt had the pistol. He swept its barrel up and locked the sights on a point between Abercrombie’s eyes while the Turk turned pale and slumped to his knees, staring at the bloody spike of bone sticking out of his forearm.

  ‘Put your gun down,’ Matt yelled at Abercrombie. He thumbed back the hammer of the weapon. ‘You have just one second not to get shot.’

  Leoni could see how much Abercrombie didn’t like this sudden reversal of roles but he obeyed at once.

  ‘No sudden movements,’ Matt said. ‘I want you to slide the gun over here with your foot. I don’t want you to kick it. Just slide it over to the young lady.’

  With a sullen glare Abecrombie nudged the gun across the lawn and Leoni picked it up. She didn’t know how to use it but tried to look menacing as she pointed it at the Turk.

  Matt hadn’t finished with Abercrombie. ‘Take your shoes and clothes off,’ he ordered. ‘And you,’ he told the Turk. ‘Shoes and clothes off right away.’

  ‘I can’t,’ the Turk complained. ‘You’ve broken my fucking arm …’

  Matt stepped in on him and crashed the butt of the gun down on the top of his head, eliciting a howl of pain. ‘Shoes and clothes off right away,’ he repeated, ‘or I’ll break your other arm.’

  The less clothes they had on, Leoni noticed, the more cooperative the men became. By the time they’d removed their underpants there was no fight left in them.

  Now Matt produced a pocket knife and handed it to her: ‘We’re going to tie them up. Cut their shirts into strips. Make gags and blindfolds as well.’

  Matt made the two men lie face down and when Leoni had finished cutting up their shirts he blindfolded and gagged them, then trussed and bound them with the strips of cloth. He concealed their guns in the pockets of his baggy trousers and hurled their shoes and clothes up onto the roof of the deserted building

  ‘Come on,’ he said and led Leoni away.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Bont’s remark plunged Ria into turmoil but she was careful not to show it. ‘Burnt to death?’ she said. ‘That’s horrible. Why?’

  The big man shrugged and scratched his head: ‘I’m not sure. It’s a new idea of Murgh’s. Set an example to other Uglies, I think. Teach them not to trespass.’

  ‘My guys weren’t trespassing,’ Ria protested. ‘They were helping to bring Hond back to camp – you saw that!’

  But Bont held up his hand to stop her: ‘Not my problem,’ he said. ‘You’ll be in front of the assembly of elders in the morning. Explain it to them.’

  Ria nodded: ‘Count on it, Bont, I will.’ She looked around, trying to seem casual. ‘You said you killed one of the Uglies tonight. Which one?’

  He shrugged again: ‘How should I know? They all look the same.’

  ‘Then show me the body.’

  Bont gave her a suspicious glance: ‘You really do care about them, don’t you?’ he said. ‘You’re making me wonder if maybe what Grigo said is true after all.’

  ‘That I took an Ugly lover? That I had them murder Duma and Vik? That’s complete shit, Bont, and you know it. I thought that’s why you stood up for me just now …’

  His friend Ligar interrupted: ‘We stood up for you because of Hond …’

  ‘And out of respect for your father’s memory,’ said Vulp.

  ‘And because you deserve a fair trial,’ added Bahat. ‘We’re going to make sure you get one.’

  ‘I’m grateful to you,’ Ria said, lowering her eyes.

  She knew that other braves had also spoken out against Murgh’s plan to lynch her, but she had no doubt that it was to these four – Bont and Ligar, Vulp and Bahat – that she really owed her reprieve.

  They would be Ria’s guards, marching beside her for what was left of the night, until they reached camp in the morning.

  She would try to make them her allies.

  To footslog a hundred men at night through rough country and keep everyone together was no easy task but the Clan had been warlike for as long as anyone could remember and the braves Murgh had recruited organised themselves into disciplined ranks for the march back to camp. Having been ambushed by them, Ria felt not so much anger as a perverse sense of pride at how formidable, cunning, and ruthless her people could be. If she could get them thinking straight, they would make redoubtable foes for the Illimani.

  Ligar and Bont were in the rank in front of her, roughly in the middle of the column, while Vulp and Bahat marched on either side of her. At first Ria said nothing. Just kept her head down, gritted her teeth against her many aches and pains, and waited for the right moment. But her opening didn’t come until they climbed out of the valley and began a long, hard trek across a huge expanse of moonlit moorland. Then Bahat turned his grizzled head to her and said: ‘I’ve known you since you were born. You’re a good girl – adventurous, perhaps, but you have a good heart. I don’t believe a word Grigo said about you, so what adventure brought you together with the Uglies?’

  His voice was kindly, reminding Ria of her childhood. She was just about to tell him the whole story when she noticed Grigo. He had fallen back from his place beside his father at the front of the column and somehow infiltrated himself into the rank behind her from where she sensed him listening in and giving her the evil eye.

  She whirled round to glare at him: ‘Why are you spying on me, Grigo? Afraid I’m going to expose your shitty little plot?’

  ‘What plot?’ he blustered. ‘The only plot here is the one you’re in with the Uglies …’

  Ria laughed: ‘I know about you and the Illimani,’ she said. ‘I know what you’re doing for Sulpa. I know why you had Duma and Vik killed. It’s all going to come out at the trial.’

  She was bluffing, goading Grigo to test his reaction. Now he launched himself at her and tried to lock his arm around her neck, but Bont was on him in an instant and sent him tumbling with a series of tremendous cuffs about the ears. ‘Fuck off, Grigo,’ he said, wagging a massive finger. ‘You’ll get your chance in the morning. Nobody harms the prisoner until then.’

  Ria looked out for Grigo after tha
t. But he was nowhere to be seen – was he even still with the column? – as the rest of the night passed and she answered Bahat’s question with the simple truth of what had happened to her in the last two days. She took her time describing every detail she could remember. Bahat listened, saying nothing, but sometimes nodding his head, and she saw that Vulp, Ligar, Bont and others round about were listening to her too.

  She didn’t feel her most important task was to persuade them that she was innocent of the ludicrous charges Grigo had brought against her, or even to implicate Grigo himself. That could wait until tomorrow. What mattered was that it was the Illimani, not the Uglies, who had killed Duma and Vik and it was the huge threat posed by the Illimani she wanted to impress on her Clansmen. So she told them about the battles she and the Uglies had fought with the outlanders in the past two days. How Rill had been killed. How Hond had been injured. How the Uglies had saved them at the cost of many dead. She described the Illimani, the way they looked, the way they fought, what a terrible enemy they were, and why she was certain the Clan would soon have to face them in their thousands.

  Vulp questioned her closely. To be sure, she’d fought a war band of savage marauders. He was prepared to accept that. But why did she think there were more of them?

  Ria figured he wasn’t ready for explanations involving the spirit world and the ghost of an Ugly’s deceased father. What she told him instead, not hesitating over the lie, was that a group of Ugly hunters had spotted the main Illimani force and estimated it to number more than five thousand men.

  ‘Where is this force?’ demanded Bahat, in a tone of complete disbelief. Five thousand fighting men was a staggering figure, a larger number by far than the Clan or any of the neighbouring tribes could muster.

  ‘Just a few days’ march from us,’ Ria improvised. ‘The Uglies know the place. If we befriend them instead of burning them they can lead our scouts there …’

  ‘Befriend the Uglies?’ said Ligar. ‘I hope you’re not serious …’