Attila hesitated before the steep, narrow staircase, but he started to go down it carefully when he was given the signal. While preparing for the mission at Denise’s house, Ryan had thought of bandaging Attila’s paws to minimize the noise, but he decided it would make the animal hobble, and settled for clipping his claws. He didn’t regret the decision; the dog needed good grip on these steps, or he’d slip.
The main level was vast, stretching across all three of the buildings that made up the fortress. Ryan resisted the idea of exploring it: there was no time for that. He had to stake everything he had on one bet: the shelter in the basement. He stopped, listening in the darkness, with Attila at his side. In the absolute silence that reigned there, he thought he heard the voice of Abatha, the anorexic girl who had described that bizarre place so accurately from a clinic in Montreal. Spirits of the past are protecting Indiana, she had said. “I hope you’re right,” murmured Ryan.
The next flight of stairs turned out to be a little wider and more solid than the first. Before they went down it, Ryan took the plastic bag he was carrying out from under his T-shirt, took out Indiana’s beige sweater, and put it under Attila’s nose. He smiled at the thought that even he would be able to follow the trail of that smell that was so characteristic of her, a mixture of essential oils that she called the “scent of magic.” The dog sniffed the wool and lifted his head to look up at his master through his goggles, indicating he had understood. Ryan returned the sweater to the bag so as not to confuse the dog, and put the bag under his T-shirt again. Attila put his nose to the floor and went down the next flight of steps with the same caution as before. The Navy SEAL waited, and when he was sure the dog hadn’t come across anything alarming, he followed.
He found himself in an area with a lower ceiling and a concrete floor—it had probably been used as a storehouse, first for barrels of wine and later military equipment and fuel. He felt cold for the first time, and remembered his clothes were wet. As far as he could see with the goggles, there was nothing but scattered debris—barrels and other old junk, huge sealed crates, wooden wheels for winding hoses or rope around, an old refrigerator, and some chairs and desks. Indiana could be held hostage in any corner of this floor, but Attila’s behavior told him they need not waste time here: he was crouched down with his nose on the steps, awaiting orders.
The infrared image picked out an opening and the first steps of a twisted, dilapidated staircase, which according to the plans ought to lead to the shelter. The air stank of enclosed space and stagnant water. Ryan wondered if Attila would be able to follow Indiana’s scent in such contaminated air, but he got an answer immediately: hackles raised, every muscle tensed, the dog was ready for action. There was no way of guessing what Ryan would find in the air-raid shelter. The plans showed only four thick walls, a hole where the elevator had been, and the positions of some iron pillars. One of the navy plans had provisional partitions for a hospital, some offices, and the officer’s quarters drawn in. Those would complicate matters considerably: the last thing the SEAL wanted was to get lost in a maze of tarpaulins.
Ryan understood that he was finally, as Denise West had put it, in the Wolf’s mouth. In the ominous silence of the fortress, he could hear the beating of his heart like the ticking of a clock. The opening that led to the staircase was merely a hole, just a foot and a half wide. He would have to bend down to half his height to squeeze under a metal bar before he could get to the rusty iron steps. It was hardly going to be a graceful maneuver, he thought, given his size and the nuisance of his prosthetic leg. The infrared beam did not reach the bottom, and he didn’t want to give himself away by turning on his flashlight. He hesitated, torn between creeping down, careful not to make any noise, and hurling himself down into the hole to save time. He inhaled deeply, filling his chest with air, and swept all thoughts from his mind. From that moment on he would act only on instinct, propelled by hatred for the man who had Indiana in his power, and guided by the knowledge and experience written into him in fire and blood during the war—the automatic response that his instructor from Hell Week had called muscle memory. He breathed out, took the safety off his pistol, and gave his companion a few pats on the back.
Attila started to go down.
If the Navy SEAL had hoped to make a surprise attack, the click of Attila’s claws reverberating in the depths of the cellar put paid to that. He counted the dog’s paces to get an idea of how far down the staircase went, and the moment he thought Attila had reached the bottom, he crouched low to get under the bar and hurtled down the stairwell, his pistol in his hand, with no regard for the noise it made. He made it down only three steps: the fourth gave way with a crash, and his prosthesis dug into the rusted metal. In a flash of clarity he realized that, if he’d still had his leg, the sharp edges would have ripped the skin right off. He tried to yank the prosthesis out, but the carbon-fiber foot was jammed between the pieces of the step, and he had to use his hand to loosen it. He couldn’t leave his prosthesis behind: he would need it. He had lost precious seconds, and the advantage of surprise.
In four long leaps he was at the bottom, crouched down and whirling in a circle to scan as far as his goggles allowed him to see, his Glock gripped in both hands. At first glance it seemed he was in a smaller space than the other floors, but he soon realized that the walls were hung with dark tarpaulins: the partitions he had feared. He had no time to evaluate the obstacle, because at that moment he clearly saw the silhouette of Attila stretched out on the ground. He called out to him, his voice choked. He could only guess what had happened: the shot might have been muffled by the step breaking, or by a silencer. The animal lay on his side, motionless, his legs stiff and his head thrown back in a strange position. “No!” cried Ryan, “no!” Overcoming the impulse to run toward the dog, he crouched, scrutinizing the small area around him for his enemy, who was doubtless close by.
He was at the foot of the staircase, by the metal grille of the elevator cage. He was exposed on all sides; he could be attacked from any angle. It could hardly be a worse scenario: the center of the shelter was a vast empty space, but the rest was divided up, creating a labyrinth for Ryan and the perfect lair for the Wolf. At least he could be sure that Indiana was close, though: Attila had identified her scent. He had not been wrong to guess that Winehaven was the Wolf’s hiding place, and where he was holding Indiana prisoner. As his infrared light, able to pick up human body heat, showed nothing, he worked out that the man must be hiding behind the canvas of one of the tents or partitioned rooms. Only the darkness and his black clothes protected him—as long as the Wolf didn’t have night-vision goggles too. He was too easy a target: he had to leave Attila for now and find some kind of cover.
The soldier hunched low and ran to the right. The position Attila had fallen in meant he had probably been hit from the left, so his adversary ought to be there. He reached the first enclosure, and with one knee on the ground he surveyed the terrain, thinking of his next move. Checking the enclosures one by one was not possible. It would take time, and he could not move between them, ready to fire, because the Wolf might be waiting in any of them, ready to use Indiana as a shield.
Of all the risks that Ryan had envisioned when he planned the Winehaven mission, losing his faithful companion did not feature. For the first time he regretted his decision to go and face the killer alone. Pedro had warned him more than once that arrogance would be his downfall.
The minutes seemed endless as he waited, alert to the slightest sound, the slightest disturbance, in the shelter. He needed to know the time, to know how long there was until midnight, but he didn’t dare take his watch out from under the sleeve of his sweatshirt; the dial would shine out in the darkness like a bright green searchlight. He decided to go as far as the wall to get some distance from the Wolf—who must be close to the staircase, where he had shot at Attila—and force him to show himself. He was sure of his aim: he could easily hit a moving target at twenty yards, even in limited visibility like
this. He had always been a good marksman, with a sharp eye and a steady hand, and since he left the army he had trained rigorously at a shooting range, as though somewhere in himself he knew he would need the skill again.
He stole along next to the tents, aware that he could have guessed wrong—his enemy might be inside one of them, able to attack him from behind—but with no better ideas. As quickly and as stealthily as his prosthetic leg allowed, with all his senses heightened, he advanced, stopping every two or three paces to assess the danger. He resisted thinking about Indiana or Attila, concentrating instead on the situation, and on his body. The adrenaline was making him pour with sweat, the shoe polish stung his face, and the straps of his goggles and headlamp pinched his skin—but his hands were dry. He felt in full control of his weapon.
Ryan had gone nine yards when he saw, at the far end of the cellar, a bright, shimmering glow he could not identify. The night vision goggles were magnifying the light; he pushed them up onto his forehead and tried to adjust his eyesight. A second later he recognized what it was, and a strangled cry rose from his belly. In the far-off depths of that enormous black space was a circle of candles whose flickering flames cast their light on a crucified body. The figure hung at the intersection of a pillar and a crossbeam, its head slumped onto its chest. He recognized the golden hair: Indiana. Without a second thought, he ran toward her.
The Navy SEAL did not feel the impact of the first bullet in his chest, and he managed several more paces before he fell to his knees. The second shot struck him in the head.
Can you hear me, Indiana? It’s Gary Brunswick, your Gary. You’re still breathing. Look at me. Here I am, at your feet, where I’ve been since I first saw you last year. Even now, at the hour of your death, you’re so beautiful. . . . That silk shirt, it flatters your figure—it’s light, elegant, sensual. Keller gave it you for making love in, and I’ve put it on you so you could wear it while you atone for your sins.
Lift your head a little, and you’ll see your soldier: he’s that heap on the floor where I’m shining my flashlight. The dog fell farther off, at the foot of the stairs, but you won’t be able to see it from here. The Taser finished off that awful creature—the electric shock is lethal in an animal that size. Your soldier’s hardly visible, all in black. Or can you see him? It doesn’t matter—he can’t interfere with our love now. This has been a tragic love story, Indiana, but it could have been a beautiful one if only you had let it. In this week we’ve spent together, we’ve gotten to know each other as though we’d been married for years. I gave you the opportunity to listen to the whole of my story, so I know you understand me now. I had to avenge the baby that I was, Anton Farkas, and the child I was—Lee Galespi. It was my duty, my manifest moral duty.
Did you know I haven’t had a migraine in three weeks now? We could conclude that your treatments have finally turned up some results, but there’s another factor we can’t ignore: I’m free of the burden of revenge. I’ve been bearing that responsibility for years—imagine the damage it’s done to my nervous system. You know those migraines better than anybody. I’ve suffered from them ever since I started to plan my mission. The killings gave me this delightful feeling: I felt light and euphoric, as though I had wings; but within a few hours the headaches would start up again, and I thought I would die of pain. Now that everything’s done, I think I’m finally cured.
I admit I wasn’t expecting visitors so soon—Amanda’s smarter than I thought. I’m not surprised the soldier came on his own, though: he thought he could easily beat me, and he wanted to make a show of rescuing his damsel in distress. When your ex-husband arrives with his bunch of halfwits in tow, I’ll be far away. They’re going to keep looking for Anton Farkas, but at some point Amanda will realize that the Wolf is Gary Brunswick. She’s observant: she recognized Carol Underwater in a photograph of me from when I was Lee Galespi. My guess is she’ll keep thinking about those photographs and eventually put two and two together, and understand that Carol Underwater is also Gary Brunswick, the man she played chess with.
I’ll repeat what I told you yesterday, Indi: once I’d finished taking revenge, I was looking forward to telling you everything, explaining to you that your friend Carol and your most faithful client, Gary Brunswick, were the same person; that my birth name is Anton Farkas, and that under any identity, as a man or a woman, whether Underwater, Farkas, Galespi, or Brunswick, I would have loved you just the same, if only you had let me. I dreamed of us going to Costa Rica. It’s a welcoming place, peaceful and warm, and we would have been happy there; we could have bought a little hotel and lived off the tourists. I offered you more love than any man you’ve had in all your thirty-three years. Hey—I’ve just realized you’re the same age as Jesus was when he died! I’d overlooked that little coincidence. Why did you push me away, Indi? You humiliated me, made me suffer. I wanted to be the man of your life, and instead I’ve had to settle for being the man of your death.
It’s very nearly midnight, when your Calvary will end, Indi. Just two minutes now. It ought to be a nice, slow death, but as we’re in a hurry and I can’t hang around, I’m going to give you a little help dying—although the sight of blood makes me queasy, as you know. No one could accuse me of being bloodthirsty. I’d like to spare you the pain of these last two minutes, but it’s the moon that will dictate the exact moment of your death. It’ll be nice and quick, a shot to the heart: none of that spear-in-the-side stuff that the Romans did to their convicts on the cross, who always took so long to go. . . .
Attila brought Ryan back from the dead with two licks to his face. The dog had taken the full force of the Taser charge as he reached the last step of the staircase, where Brunswick lay in wait. He was unconscious for a few minutes, utterly paralyzed for a few more, and it took him a while longer still to struggle to his feet, shake off the confusion the electric charge had triggered, and remember where he was. Then he felt the call of his most powerful instinct: loyalty. His goggles had ended up on the floor, but his sense of smell led him to the spread-eagled body of his master. Ryan felt Attila nudging him with his head, trying to bring him around, and he was still disoriented when he opened his eyes. But the last thing he had seen before he fell was fresh in his mind: Indiana on the cross.
Not since he had come back from the war five years ago had Ryan so needed recourse to the extraordinary determination that had allowed him to become a Navy SEAL. The most powerful muscle is the heart: that much he had learned in Hell Week. It was not fear he felt then, but a great sense of clarity. The head wound must be superficial, he thought, or he would be dead—but the wound to the chest was clearly serious. No tourniquet in the world is going to save me this time, he thought. I’m fucked. He closed his mind to thoughts of the pain and all the blood he must be losing, shook off the immense feeling of weakness that kept telling him to rest, to abandon himself, as he had in Indiana’s arms after they made love. “I’m not ready yet,” he told death, pushing it to one side. With the dog’s help he raised himself up on his elbows, looking for his weapon, but he couldn’t lay hands on it; he assumed he must have dropped it as he fell, and there wasn’t time to look for it now anyway. He wiped the blood from his eyes with his sleeve, and saw, some fifteen yards away, the Golgotha scene that was burned into his retina. Next to the cross stood a man he did not know.
For the first time, Ryan gave Attila the signal he had never given before in earnest; one that they had practiced when they were playing or training. A sharp clap on the back of the neck, as he pointed to the man in the middle distance. It was an order to kill. Attila hesitated for a moment, torn between the desire to protect his friend and the obligation to obey. Ryan gave the signal a second time. The dog leapt forward, swift and true as an arrow.
Gary Brunswick heard the sound of running and figured out what was happening. He turned and fired into the darkness, hoping to hit the beast that was already in the air, leaping right for him. The bullet was lost in the vastness of the cellar, and the dog??
?s fangs closed around the arm holding the weapon. Brunswick screamed as the pistol fell from his hand, and desperately tried to free himself, but the weight of Attila knocked him to the ground. Releasing the man’s arm, the dog sank its titanium fangs into Brunswick’s throat, shaking its head savagely, tearing at the wound. Brunswick lay splayed on the floor, his throat ripped out, blood pulsing ever more weakly from his jugular.
Meanwhile, using his arms Ryan dragged himself along—approaching Indiana with excruciating slowness, calling to her and calling to her again, his voice growing fainter. He would lose consciousness for a few seconds, and as soon as he came to, he would drag himself a little farther. He knew that he was leaving a trail of blood on the cement floor. He made the last few feet thanks to Attila, who dragged him by his clothes. The Wolf had not nailed his victim to the cross, as the pillar and the beam were made of iron; instead he had lashed her wrists to them, suspending her a couple of feet from the floor with her arms outstretched. Ryan kept calling, Indiana, Indiana, but there was no reply. He did not try to ascertain whether she was still alive. With a superhuman effort, the Navy SEAL managed to get to his feet, leaning on the pillar and supporting himself with his carbon-fiber leg; the other was failing him now. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve again, but realized it was not just blood and sweat that were clouding his vision. He unsheathed his KA-BAR knife, and proceeded to cut one of the ties around Indiana’s wrists. He kept the knife razor-sharp and knew how to use it, but it took him more than a minute to cut through the leather strap. Indiana’s lifeless body fell on top of him, and he was able to support it only because her other wrist was still lashed to the beam. He held her up with an arm around her waist while he attacked the other strap. With the last of his strength, he finally cut through it.