Detonator Read Online Free PDF Page B

the front of it – a set of antlers, two pillars and a crown, and the words ‘
Città di Brindisi
’.
    ‘
Don’t leave a thing that betrays your presence
…’ The Jock voice again. I wrapped it in my T-shirt and shoved it in the side compartment of my day sack. Then I put a hand on each of his shoulders and looked into his troubled eyes.
    ‘Stefan?’ I gestured back towards the road. ‘The car … Your dad, right?’
    His face crumpled.
    I gripped him more firmly. ‘What about me? You know my name. Why am I here?’
    I wasn’t getting anything back.
    I showed him the Hotel Le Strato matchbox. ‘Have we been to this place? Did we stay at this hotel?’
    I finally got something. A shake of the head.
    I felt my teeth chew at my bottom lip.
    In the movies, this is where the hero slaps the kid to bring him to his senses. It doesn’t work. Why did I know that? I knew that because when I was his age my stepdad did the slapping. It either triggered a major meltdown or just prolonged the silence.
    I realized I’d asked the wrong question. The Le Strato had rung another bell because I’d driven past it. Not last night, maybe, but some time, on his dad’s business. I needed to broaden my target area.
    ‘So, not the hotel. But Courchevel, yeah? You’ve got a place in Courchevel? A chalet with a green room? A green room with no windows?’
    A green room with a desk. And monitors. And photographs.
    A green room where Frank had told me what was on his mind.
    Stefan’s mouth stayed shut but I saw his jaw start to work like he was chewing something he didn’t fancy before swallowing it.
    I was beginning to think I should go the slapping route after all when it opened.
    ‘Cour-che-vel …’
    For a moment, I thought he might be correcting my pronunciation. Then a strobe sparked up in my head. I pictured, in rapid succession, the sign for ‘Centre Village’, the Verdons ski lift, the entrance to Frank’s chalet.
    We were in France.
    Something else sprang at me, fuck knew where from. ‘And a pool, yeah? An indoor swimming-pool?’
    For a moment, the tension seemed to leave his body.
    ‘I love … to swim …’
    I sat him down and took out the French map and the Silva compass. After a few false starts and a bit of head scratching, I zeroed in on the Haute Savoie, then the stretch of road that seemed to match the reference points – tunnels, curve, waterfall, layby – of the killing zone. It would have taken us to Turin.
    I reckoned Courchevel was fifteen Ks or so as the crow flew. But I wasn’t about to bring out the crampons and karabiners, even if I’d had some with me. So maybe three times that, if we went round the peaks instead of over them.
    I was about to fold the corner of the page when the Jock voice came back into my head. ‘
Never mark a map. Why tell the enemy where you’re going and what you’re doing?
’ I buried the matchbook and put the map and compass back into my day sack. The passports went in there too. I looped the binoculars strap around my neck.
    ‘Right. We’re sorted.’ I kept it simple. ‘I’m going to get you home.’

6
     
    I planned to tab as far as we could down the valley, then we’d make our way to Courchevel. After what had happened to his dad, I wasn’t expecting it to be a place of safety, but I needed answers to the questions that were buzzing around in my head, and I had nowhere else to start.
    ‘Do you think you can walk?’
    Another nod.
    I loaded myself up again with my day sack and his rucksack, and he reached for my free hand. His palm was cold and a little bit clammy. I gripped it and aimed us at the point where the stream looked like it exited the trees.
    The gradient was still steep, but the ground was solid and we made steady progress. Every so often he grabbed a low-hanging branch to help him keep his footing.
    There was a sheer drop at the edge of the treeline, but only for a couple of metres. I lowered the bags, transferred the pistol to the back of my