Hollow Mountain (22 page)

The lighthouse rotated again, and for a moment Spike thought he saw a large vehicle moving slowly through the shadows. Clohessy and his team would be driving here from town; given the density of the fog, Spike would surely have seen their headlamps as they approached, even if they turned them off at the last minute. The beacon flashed again: the road was empty.

Ahead on the viewing platform, the Spaniard had reached his quarry. He crouched down, one hand on the rim of the cardboard box, dragging it steadily back towards his car like a jackal with carrion. Opening the passenger door, he took out a laptop and laid it on the roof of the car. As he raised the lid, a bluish light gleamed onto his face, but still the only features Spike could discern were the glasses and a neat fringe of grey hair. He connected a white lead from the computer to Spike’s phone, then carefully tapped at the keyboard.

Spike glanced around: most of the road was now entirely hidden by the fog. He could just make out the cricket net, the Rock rising above, the dark mouth of the tunnel disappearing inside it. Waves started to smash against the cliffs behind, and Spike looked back to see an oil tanker powering towards the Atlantic, oblivious of the small drama playing out above it.

The blue light from the car roof extinguished as the man shut the laptop and slid it back through the window of the car. ‘Is good,’ he called out. ‘You do not forward the pictures.’

‘I followed your instructions. Just like you told me to. Now let the boy go.’

The man dropped Spike’s phone to the ground. Three vicious stamps reduced it to a tangle of crushed plastic and low-alpha lead. When he looked back up, Spike caught a hint of a smile before another cloud of fog rolled in and he became just a disembodied voice. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Now you take the boy.’

Spike sprinted towards the car boot, almost losing his balance as the backs of his legs pressed to the low cliff wall behind. ‘Hurry,’ the man called out, waving him on from the road.

A muffled sound came from inside the boot, and Spike thought back to the first time he’d met Charlie Grainger – his chipped silver dinky car grating against a wall. He fumbled with the catch in the dark, then looked up to see the Spaniard standing just a few yards away from him. He reached into the waistband of his trousers and pulled out a small black pistol. ‘Message from Žigon,’ he called out, a first charge of emotion entering his tone. ‘You should not have followed him to Genoa. He does not forget.’ Another set of waves began crashing beneath the cliffs. ‘The boy’s mother . . .’ The man was forced to raise his voice to drown out the surf. ‘Before she die, she cry for her husband. Not for you.’ He took a step forward, and Spike could see that he moved easily now, lithely almost, his shirt flapping freely against his muscular body. ‘Tomorrow they find you under the cliff. The boy beside you.’ Malice sharpened his voice as he yelled above the breakers, ‘You know I meet Žigon’s girl one time. And he was right. She is a fucking great whore.’

The Spaniard held out the gun, pointing it at Spike’s head. He wore thin black gloves, Spike saw, as he heard the click of what he assumed was a safety catch, and closed his eyes.

Nothing happened. It felt as though time was slowing down, and Spike found himself wondering if this was some strange biological function intended to ease a man’s final seconds. But his breaths were still coming, quick and shallow. So he forced himself to open his eyes, and saw that the Spaniard was still pointing the gun at him, but that his face was turned away, forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. His glasses gleamed like coins, and Spike realised that he was being illuminated from behind rather than by the rays of the lighthouse. Where was the light coming from? Spike snapped to attention, ready to run from behind the car, when a new sound checked his progress. The deep, heavy roar of a diesel engine.

The Spaniard must have heard it too, as he started to swing the gun away from Spike. But he was too slow: emerging from the fog was the bonnet of a black van, headlamps on, moving at speed. The van veered off the road, wheels kicking up shingle before its bumper collided with the Spaniard’s waist. There was a nauseating crunch, and Spike watched as the Spaniard flew backwards, arms held gracefully aloft as he looped through the air, like a child playing at aeroplanes.

Spike ducked back behind the boot as he felt the Spaniard thump down next to him, rolling then coming to a final halt against the low cliff wall. The headlights of the van shone onto his face as he lay on the shingle, head turned towards Spike. His glasses were gone now, and Spike could see that he was probably in his early thirties, his handsome face marred only by a disdainful curl of the upper lip. With his dyed grey hair and cheap clothes, Spike might have passed him in town a hundred times, or never. The man gazed back, perplexed, frown lines still creasing his tanned brow. He tried to raise his head, but a gush of dark blood was starting to ooze from the back of his skull, his face covered in a clammy sheen. ‘
Puta
,’ Spike saw him mouth before he closed his eyes.

On the road above, Spike heard the van door slam. He kept his head down behind the SEAT, trying not to look at the Spaniard’s body, the wiry arms twisted at a grotesque angle, gloved hands open and empty. Where was the pistol?

Footsteps crunched across the shingle. Spike fumbled on the ground around the car, desperately feeling for the gun. The footsteps stopped, and Spike heard a scraping as the van driver crouched to pick something up. Then a metallic click as the barrel of the pistol was expertly checked, and the walking resumed. Spike lay still and held his breath.

A stiff, familiar figure loomed above the body of the Spaniard. ‘Fucking hell fire,’ Jardine murmured as he stared down at the stranger he had just run over. A faint knocking came from above Spike’s head, and Jardine swung round and trained the gun on the boot of the SEAT. It was then that Spike decided to run.

Chapter Fifty-two

Jardine was thrown off balance as Spike sprinted out from behind the car. He felt the shingle turn to tarmac beneath his feet, and knew he had made it up onto the road. Breaking the fog to his left was the mangled netting of the cricket pitch; Spike headed towards it as a first shot rang out, the bullet fizzing off the road just a few yards in front of him. His joints and muscles responded automatically, and he veered the opposite way.

Another gunshot, an impact to Spike’s right, so he changed direction again, sensing the beam of the lighthouse sweep over the back of his head, revealing the Rock in front, rolling with mist, massive and powerful, beckoning with a promise of safety.

The van door slammed, and Spike pulled off the road, running uphill through the Rock scrub, nostrils filling with the reassuring scent of pine resin and musty ape spoor. An engine revved, and he slipped in fear, gashing his knee on a ridge of limestone. Another gunshot thudded into the loose soil above Spike’s head. He lurched sideways, vaguely aware – despite his panic – that either Captain Jardine must be a terrible shot or was deliberately steering him towards a particular location.

The van was trailing him now along the coast road, perhaps looking for a clearer line of fire. The Rock began to grow steeper, and Spike crouched by an outcrop, pausing for breath. The lighthouse rotated again. He glanced up and saw the track that led up to the tunnel mouth. The grille was open.

Another shot; Spike waited for the burning pain that would bring an end to it all, grateful at least that Jardine was focusing on him rather than the small boy still locked in the boot of the SEAT. Then he realised that no one else knew Charlie was there, and he increased his pace, moving crabwise through the scrub, pushing apart the claws of an agave until he found himself standing on the loose flattened earth of the track.

Another blast, this one so close that it blew dust onto Spike’s bloody knee. He clambered upwards to the tunnel mouth, climbed inside then grabbed hold of the hinged bars and pulled them towards him. Below, the headlights of the van dazzled his eyes as it fought its way up the slope. The grille closed and Spike reached for the clasp. The padlock was gone.

The van was just ten yards away. Spike glanced back into the tunnel, seeing a broad concrete roadway, wide enough for a lorry. He realised now why the grille was open. The van must have driven out of it: that was how it had appeared so mysteriously beside the viewing platform. Judging by the speed with which it was now approaching, the driver was planning a return visit. Spinning on his heel, Spike started to run down the tunnel, plunging deep into the belly of the Rock.

Chapter Fifty-three

A distant glow came from the end of the tunnel. Spike ran towards it, feeling tepid water from the roof dripping onto his head, soaking his hair – last year’s rainfall finally working its way through the limestone. The tunnel was broad and straight, heading westwards, Spike calculated; it ought to come out by Little Bay, though whether the grille would be open on the other side was a different question. He heard the rumble of the van behind him and peered back, seeing two bright beams of yellow piercing the darkness. The engine roared, deliberately over-revved. Then the van began accelerating down the tunnel towards him.

Spike stumbled on, feet splashing on the damp floor, glancing left and right at the sidewalls as the light from the van began to leach along them. The limestone had been concreted over, a rusty handrail running up one side. Could Spike dive under it? Out of the van’s path? Not enough room. The engine revved again, and Spike increased his speed, seeing a crisscross shape twenty yards ahead. Another grille, blocking the tunnel midway down.

He shook the bars, lungs burning, gulping for air. This time the padlock was in place. He looked around: the van was still coming, slower now, as though the driver had realised that less force was needed to crush a man than to run him down. But in the light of the headlamps, Spike saw a smaller tunnel branching to the left, beginning at chest height, disappearing into darkness.

Moments before the van was upon him, Spike dived into the side tunnel and drove himself onwards. The blackness was total, then a single yellow beam began to emerge from behind. The light flickered: a handheld torch.

‘Keep going, Gibbo,’ came Jardine’s amused voice.

Spike could only obey, crawling now. The floor grew softer, moist and clay-like. It started to widen out, so he rose to his feet, hand flailing to the sidewall, recoiling sharply as what looked like a butcher’s hook pierced his palm. A line of S-shaped prongs ran up the walls – cable-holders for cables that were no longer there.

He almost missed the opening to his right: a broader tunnel with caged strip lights on the roof, extending like cats’ eyes on an inverted motorway. There were more roads inside the Rock than out, he remembered – thirty-three miles in total. A few of the ceiling lights were on, so he veered inside, relieved finally to be able to see where he was going.

The temperature fell as the tunnel sank deeper inside the Rock. Spike glanced back, dreading the sound that would mean Jardine was gaining. But he heard no footsteps, saw not a flicker of a torch. Suddenly he made out a new noise, not from behind, but from in front, a low ghostly wail. The tunnels were said to be haunted: even the apes would not go in – if a baby monkey strayed inside its parents would remain at the mouth, frantically chattering, unable to follow. A group of estate kids had snuck through an open grille off Castle Road last year. But the cries they’d heard had turned out to be British soldiers, covertly training in cave warfare before being deployed to Afghanistan. It was a miracle the children hadn’t been shot, the papers said.

The wailing persisted, louder now, and Spike forced himself to move forwards, T-shirt clinging to his chest, soaked with stinking water and sweat. The amorphous sound began to form itself into voices, and now he could tell where they were coming from: to his right, a newer-looking gate gave off the tunnel into a large, well-lit chamber. Spike crouched beside it, staring through the bars in amazement. Inside, on the concrete floor, lay tens of grey plastic tubs; beyond, by an old army Nissen hut, two white vans were parked, rear doors open, ‘Europcar’ marked in green on each side. The Stay Behind Cave, Spike realised. From the back of one of the vans stepped a tall lean man in wipe-clean clothing.

‘Get a move on,’ Clohessy barked, and Dougie the Scot appeared at once from the Nissen hut, three heavy crates stacked in his arms. So Neptune were getting the salvage out of Gib early. But how? Spike remembered talk of a private plane. Yet all aircraft were grounded due to Charlie’s disappearance. By land? The border with Spain was closed.

‘You there, Gibbo?’ echoed a call from behind. Spike had time to see Clohessy swivel at the sound of Jardine’s voice before he sprinted away past the gate.

The tunnel started to climb upwards inside the Rock. The roof lights suddenly went out. Spike fumbled for a handrail, then pressed on in the dark.

A few yards on, a dull glow threw a little light on the tunnel floor, revealing a smaller shaft angling upwards, the air inside cleaner-smelling, pinpricks of what looked like starlight at its end. Spike hauled himself inside. If this was a ventilation shaft, as he suspected, then it would emerge on the side of the Rock, hopefully with no grille to block it.

Tiring now, Spike started to drag himself along the passageway, feeling the uneven surface of the stone beneath his palms, a sign that the shaft had been bored by hand, part of the original eighteenth-century network built to defend the Rock during the Great Siege.

The roof lowered, forcing him to crawl again, his injured knee dragging blood along the floor, his steady rhythmic progress allowing his mind to wander, first back to Tangiers, when he’d rescued Zahra from the path of the jeep, then to Malta, where an ancient escape route beneath a knight’s palazzo had saved him from a fire. A warm, salty breeze started to blow onto his face, and at last he was able to draw in the sweet air of Gibraltar, of home. The tunnel broadened again, and now he could see the moon above, hear the distant sounds of the city, the murmur of waves at the foot of the Rock.