The Claus Effect Page 10

  The staircase itself opened directly on the main living room of the cottage, so Emily approached it cautiously, calling on her Value-Securities training. “Stick to the walls,” Mitchell had emphasized. “Breath slow and deep, watch your back and hold your flashlight up here, like a gun.”

  Emily had no flashlight, but she certainly had a gun, so she made the necessary mental substitution and went forth. When she reached the top of the stairs, she pressed her back against the wallpaper and looked down.

  The room was empty. It looked as though the elfs had vacated it rather quickly. The coffee table was covered in papers, laptop computers and the remains of an overcooked breakfast and tiny elfish house slippers were thrown in a heap next to the empty galoshes rack, which appeared to have been knocked over in the midst of the hasty exit. From the kitchen, a three-minute egg-timer buzzed and buzzed; but other than that, the house was silent.

  Gun before her, back to the wall and checking behind her, Emily made her way down the stairs.

  From his position behind the van, Gunther couldn’t see whether Lars had hit the sentry, but he had no doubt the taciturn Swede had succeeded. The single gunshot from inside the house a moment before had puzzled Gunther; his team couldn’t be inside yet. It had not yet been time.

  Now, Gunther checked his Rolex and nodded, more to himself than anyone else.

  Now it was time.

  Gunther sprinted to the rear wall of the cottage, circled around the septic tank, and flattened himself against the wall beside the screen door to the kitchen. A high buzzing sound drifted out, but Gunther could hear no sounds of movement.

  A moment later, Ilsa was beside him, her own MP5 pressed against her chest. She signalled that she would take point.

  Reluctantly Gunther nodded, and quick as a cat, Ilsa was inside. Gunther followed.

  The kitchen was a mess—the twin sinks were heaped with dishes and laundry, and a half-eaten roast (from at least two days ago by the looks of it) sat on the counter amid discarded fruit rinds and old carrot stems.

  Aside from that, the kitchen was completely empty.

  Gunther and Ilsa spared one another a puzzled glance. Albrecht and Simon should have moved in on the front porch as soon as the sentry was down—and if the enemy wasn’t ready for a rearguard attack through the kitchen, there should have been at least some sounds of resistance from the front room.

  Gunther motioned for Ilsa to cover him, and he moved silently to the doorway to the cottage’s living room. It too was a mess, but his attention was drawn farther away, by what he saw through the enormous picture window, in the upper storey of the cottage’s red-and-white painted boathouse. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the girl.

  “Down!” he screamed in English, as he dove for the floor and the elfs in the boathouse opened fire with their Browning 50-calibre machine gun.

  Emily hit the floor.

  Over her head, the glass from the picture window exploded across the living room, the barest instant before she could hear the rapid chugging sound of the machine gun.

  The hail of bullets continued.

  The cottage’s cheap wainscoting exploded in clouds of splinters; the left antler of an enormous moose-head was severed by a bullet and crashed down onto an antique china cabinet, which exploded under more bullets an instant later; one of the chains supporting the huge wagon-wheel chandelier snapped, sending the massive assembly swinging wildly askew.

  A man wearing what had once been a white snowsuit fell in through the hole that used to be the picture window. He had been struck twice—once in the knee, once in the chest. There was a lot of blood, and Emily couldn’t look.

  A string of bullets cut across the bannister, sending more wood chips flying. The bannister creaked and fell, a few feet shy of Emily’s legs. For the moment, anyway, the gunfire had ceased.

  Sobbing, gun ready in a sweaty fist, Emily crawled on her stomach towards the kitchen.

  Someone was in there.

  Plaster dust fell through the kitchen like a snowstorm. The gunfire, Gunther realized, would be tearing at the very structure of the cottage; if the elfs wanted to, they could virtually level the place with that machine gun while he and what was left of his team huddled inside.

  Gunther allowed himself no illusions about Simon and Albrecht; if the two of them had followed orders—and he was certain they had—they would have been directly in the machine gun’s sights when the enemy opened fire. And sophisticated though it was, their body armour would have been a pathetic defense against the Browning.

  He didn’t know about Lars. Ilsa was all right, though; she didn’t even appear shaken by the assault, God bless her. Gunther hoped he was holding out as well.

  If the elfs knew what they were doing, they had maybe three seconds before the next volley. He didn’t waste time signalling Ilsa to cover him. Keeping low, Gunther poked his head around the ruined doorframe and scanned the debris for the girl.

  “Don’t m-m-move.”

  Gunther started. The girl—Emily—was lying on her stomach, not ten feet away from him. He hadn’t expected she’d have been able to cover that distance.

  Emily was pointing an absurdly powerful .44 Magnum more or less at his face. Gunther glanced up at the boathouse gun emplacement; three elfs were fiddling ineptly with the belt feed mechanism. Good. Gunther revised his three second time limit.

  “Come back here,” he said. “We’re friends. Here to get you out.”

  To Gunther’s relief—armed civilians made Gunther uneasy as a rule, particularly when he was assigned to rescue them—the girl lowered the gun and scrambled towards him. When she was close enough, he gathered her up in his arm and dragged her the rest of the way into the kitchen. “Are you injured?” he asked.

  “No. I mean, I don’t think so. There’s a man in there…”

  “Like us?” asked Ilsa, with half an eye on the screen door.

  Emily nodded. “I think he’s dead.”

  “We have to pull out of here,” said Gunther firmly. “We’ll survey the damage from a safe distance.”

  “What about the backup team?” asked Ilsa. “They can’t fly into this.”

  “We’ll have to change the rendezvous point.” Gunther checked his chronometer. “There’s still time.” He opened his satchel and removed the Blaupunkt.

  “Tiger Den, this is Tiger Team Operations. Come in, come in. Over.”

  The Blaupunkt squawked. “This is Den, Tiger Team. What is your status? Over.”

  “Change to backup rendezvous location,” said Gunther, and rhymed off a set of co-ordinates. “Expect a welcoming committee. Over.”

  “Rendezvous confirmed, Tiger Team. Den over and out.”

  “They’re taking too long to reload,” said Ilsa. “Something is up.”

  Something caught Gunther’s eye then. He whirled in time to see two elfs as they rounded the ruined doorway to the living room. One of them raised what Gunther could have sworn was an antique Sten gun.

  Without thinking, he pointed the MP5 and pulled the trigger. The elfs ducked as a mountain of plaster and particle-board collapsed on top of them.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said. But Emily and Ilsa were already out the back door. Gunther shot a quick volley of covering fire into the living room and followed.

  The elfs’ van had not been struck by any of the gunfire, but Emily’s rescuers stayed clear of it anyway. The three of them ran directly for the treeline, always keeping the house between them and the machine gun. Emily could see the reasoning: the van would make an easy target, and from the looks of the damage the gun had already done, it would provide no protection at all.

  The machine gun fire started again as the three of them hit the treeline. Looking back, Emily could see fragments of the shingling flying high into the air, like pieces of ash.

  Then they were in the woods, circling back towards the lake. They came out from the trees behind a high rock. There were numerous supplies laid out here, almost as though for a c
amp—including, Emily noticed, six sets of skis.

  The woman took one set—complete with boots—and handed them to Emily.

  “You’ll need these,” she said, dropping another pair of skis onto the snow in front of herself. “We won’t have much time.”

  Emily’s boots did up with Velcro, and she was able to put them on in a few seconds. Still, the others were ready long before she was.

  “Hurry,” said the woman as they turned to the trail leading south.

  “I’m going as fast as I can,” said Emily.

  They had not gotten 100 yards when the sound of gunfire broke the forest silence again.

  “There!” Ilsa pointed towards the lake, and Gunther looked, at once crouching down and raising his MP5.

  The elfs didn’t have skis, but they were following on double-bladed children’s skates, skimming over ice that would have been too thin to support even a small child. There were three of them, armed with small handguns, and before they could fire again Ilsa and Gunther sprayed the area with submachine gun fire. The elfs disappeared behind cover. For the remainder of the haul Gunther ordered them to blaze a new trail, higher in the trees.

  It seemed a wise decision; the rest of the journey to the new rendezvous point, three cottages south, passed without incident.

  The man—he had introduced himself as Gunther—swore. “How in God’s name did they know we would be here?”

  A team of a dozen elfs were coming up from the docks. They carried a dizzying array of firepower—including, Emily saw, a surface-to-air rocket launcher!—and began to fan out around the immense, three-storey log-and-fieldstone cottage almost immediately.

  “It’s almost as though they’re using a spy satellite,” said the woman, Ilsa.

  They could be, thought Emily, thinking of the blue light that destroyed her Auntie’s house, less than 24 hours ago. “They could be,” Emily said aloud.

  “Stay quiet, Emily,” said Ilsa. “We have to think.”

  They were facing the rear of the mansion-cottage; unlike the previous building, there were no doors here. Most of this wall was taken up by a huge, black iron cylinder, two storeys tall. At its base was a row of valves at a console from which also branched multitudinous pipes. Each of these was wrapped in thick swaths of cloth, tarred hard and black. The pipes pierced the great log-and-stone wall at seemingly random intervals. A low gurgle filled the air.

  Gunther checked his chronometer. “Less than two minutes to rendezvous. Too late to change plans.”

  “We have to take them out, then,” said Ilsa. “Emily, you must remain hidden.”

  “We will be back presently,” said Gunther.

  And with that, Emily’s two rescuers disappeared back into the wilderness. In the distance, she was certain she could hear the steady chop-chop-chop of helicopter blades through the wintry air.

  Gunther tried to avoid using his gun for as long as possible. He took down a sentry watching the lake with his bare hands, and used his stiletto on a straggler coming up from the lake. When Gunther used the machine gun, he wanted to be better positioned.

  Ilsa was going to move in from the north, and as soon as both of them had the main house in their sights, they would both open fire.

  It would have to be soon; within minutes, the elfs would be too dispersed to take out in one assault. It would get messy; and Gunther had neither the time nor the manpower for a messy fight.

  He was about to open fire anyway when an elf shouted something that made his heart sink:

  “Found ’er!” He waved a sawed-off shotgun in the direction of Emily. “Found ’a gurlee!”

  Positioning be damned, thought Gunther. He sheathed his stiletto, raised the MP5, and charged up the ridge to the steps of the cottage. Two guard-elfs spotted him, but before they could lift their weapons he sprayed them with a burst from his MP5. They fell into the snow, ears covered and weapons abandoned. To his right, a trio of elfs setting up the rocket launcher dropped the machinery and reached for their sidearms. Gunther was quicker, though, and the rest of his clip sent the elfs scurrying.

  Instinctively, Gunther ducked low, an instant before the chupping of small-arms fire sent a rain of bullets whizzing over his head.

  As he ran he slammed another clip into the MP5. The gunfire was coming from the porch—a row of elfs lying on their stomachs with handguns aimed in front of them like marksmen. Gunther flipped the weapon to full automatic and fired in a spray, shattering glass and splintering wood. He felt like laughing, the way he always did when the blood of battle started pumping through his veins. Where was Ilsa? he wondered as he ducked behind a row of hedges. She was a fine woman.

  The snow at his feet puffed up as bullets dug furrows, and Gunther was off again. Focus, he told himself. You’re a team commander. They’ve found the girl Emily.

  He sprinted around the cottage, in the direction of Emily’s hiding place. Ahead of him, a half dozen elfs were making their way there, at another elf’s behest. Taking a second to first gauge the angle and make certain the girl wasn’t in any danger, Gunther raised the MP5 so he could sight along the barrel, and took aim. The cold December air was an elixir in his lungs.

  “Heyum.”

  Gunther turned, but not fast enough. The elf with his black hair slicked straight back and miniature flak-jacket zipped all the way to the top had already raised his Skorpion machine pistol.

  “Drop dyyd,” he said, and pulled the trigger.

  Emily raised the .44 Magnum, braced herself against a tree and pulled the trigger. Even though she prepared, the recoil nearly tore her arm off. The bullet flew wild. In the distance, there was a clang and a low hissing sound.

  Fellwither grinned and stepped forward. “Wyll wyll wyll, girlee, whatsamattar? The guun too byg fyr ye wee daynty haynds?” The Skorpion was out and ready.

  “You won’t kill me,” said Emily. “Claus wants me alive.”

  “Whosez?” chortled the elf. Three others had joined him. “Better alive, bu’ nuffin’ wrong wy’ dead.”

  Emily raised the gun again, despite her aching shoulder. “This time I won’t miss,” she said, in her best snarling voice.

  Fellwither slicked back his oily scalp and laughed in that same, wheezy tone as the night before.

  “I’ll take you with me,” said Emily.

  “Ye kin’t hit the brad side o’ a bairn,” said Fellwither.

  “I warned you.” Emily raised the gun and fired. The bullet went wild again. There was another clang, and then a sound like wood warping in the cold, after a humid summer.

  Fellwither smiled and raised his machine pistol.

  “Fyyle ye’re dyume, Emily Elf.”

  As he was about to pull the trigger, the Seaton family septic system went off.

  The explosion could be heard for miles. After seventy-two years without a man in to look at it, the intricate system of pipes and valves and holding tanks designed by old Thornton Seaton in 1919 had built up a truly prodigious pressure differential. Only Thornton’s ingenious design and an unusually skilful line of welds on the inner casement lining had prevented leakage or some similar disaster from happening many years earlier.

  Thanks in large part to that skill and ingenuity, the force of the explosion was for the most part directed skyward, and the brownish geyser climbed nearly six hundred feet into the air before it subsided. It was high enough to be seen from Huntsville, many miles distant, and it was clearly visible from the small peninsula on which the Seaton party was resting, midway through their Christmas cross-country skiing expedition.

  Winifred began to moan almost immediately, even before the geyser had reached its full height and the rest of the family realized what was happening. It was almost as though, Mrs. Seaton commented some days later, odd old Winifred had known it was going to happen. As though, she added unkindly, she had perhaps had something to do with the mishap.

  The geyser only lasted a few seconds, and then a second explosion set a ball of blue flame twice as high. Back in
Toronto, Mr. Seaton would explain that this was no doubt caused by the vast and highly combustible quantities of stored methane in the septic system, coming into contact with the pilot light from the natural gas cookstove.

  When the explosions finally stopped, for the first time that anyone could remember the Seaton family had nothing to say to one another. Some sat, some stood, some lay prone on the cold stone; but the agreeable banter that made Seaton family Christmases such a memorable time for all concerned was entirely absent on this occasion. Even as the long, black helicopter passed low over their heads, landed near the remains of their house across the lake and took off again to the south, there was not so much as a politely inquisitive noise from any of the thirteen shell-shocked skiers.

  The Seaton Family Christmas, all agreed at a much later date, had been ruined—utterly beyond repair.

  Arctic Peril

  Finding north was easy: you just kept Polaris where you could see it without craning your head too far back, and though the rest of the sky revolved around it, you stayed steady on. The ice was mostly featureless and Neil and Amoco were lucky to have no appreciable wind for the first day, so they made good progress.

  The next day was harder, with a stiff western wind kicking up the loose powdered snow, causing frequent whiteouts. Amoco tied the skidoos together and navigated by compass, seemingly unconcerned—though he did move slowly, examining the ground ahead for hidden fissures and ice walls. Though they were moving and the engine of the skidoo produced a bit of warmth, Neil was still made nervous by the lack of visibility. It gave him that inside-the-ping-pong-ball feeling again. He caught himself dozing off several times, and had to recite the alphabet in Morse code to himself to stay alert.

  On the third day they came to an area where huge basaltic outcroppings rammed up through the snow. This was some kind of arctic island. Amoco led them through a series of low valleys, then the land rose in a huge swelling rampart of snow-licked tundra. Neil followed close behind Amoco, watching the skidoo’s red taillight bobbing and weaving under diamond stars. When it stopped he nearly drove into it, compensating at the last instant and sliding to a perfect stop inches behind Amoco.