Caravan to Vaccares by Alistair MacLean Page A

hysteria. ‘For God’s sake, put it on. Please .’
    He detached her hand, put his arm round her and held her close. With a bit of luck, he thought, they might get some synchronization into their shivering, not as much perhaps as the ballroom champions on TV got in their dancing, but enough to be comfortable. When the vibrations had died down a little he said: ‘Notice anything different about this cavern?’
    â€˜There’s light! There’s light coming from somewhere.’
    â€˜There is indeed.’ They walked slowly forward till they came to a huge pile of rubble on the floor. The jumble of rocks stretched up and up until at the top they could see a large sqarish patch of star-dusted sky. Down the centre of this rockfall, all the way from top to bottom, was a narrow patch of disturbed rubble, a pathway that seemed to have been newly made. Bowman switched on his torch and there was no doubt about it: it was newly made. He traversed the base of the rockfall with the beam of the torch and then the beam, almost of its own volition, stopped and locked on a mound of limestone rocks, perhaps eight feet in length by three high.
    â€˜With a freshly made mound of limestone,’ Bowman said, ‘you can see the difference.’
    â€˜You can see the difference,’ she repeated mechanically.
    â€˜Please. Walk away a little.’
    â€˜No. It’s funny, but I’m all right now.’
    He believed her and he didn’t think it was funny. Mankind is still close enough to the primeval jungles to find the greatest fear of all in the unknown: but here, now, they knew.
    Bowman stooped over the mound and began to throw stones to one side. They hadn’t bothered to cover the unfortunate Alexandre to any great depth for inside a moment Bowman came to the slashed remnants of a once white shirt, now saturated in blood. Lying in the encrusted blood and attached to a chain was a silver crucifix. He unclipped the chain and lifted both it and the crucifix away.
    Bowman parked the Peugeot at the spot in the valley road where he had picked up Cecile and the cases. He got out.
    â€˜Stay here,’ he said to Cecile. ‘This time I mean it.’ She didn’t exactly nod her head obediently but she didn’t argue either: maybe his training methods were beginning to improve. The jeep, he observed without any surprise, was where he’d last seen it: it was going to require a mobile crane to get it out of there.
    The entrance to the Baumanière’s forecourt seemed deserted but he’d developed the same sort of affectionate trust for Czerda and his merry band of followers as he would have for a colony of cobras or black widow spiders so he pressed deep into the shadows and advanced slowly into the forecourt. His foot struck something solid and there was a faint metallic clink. He became very still but he’d provoked no reaction that he could see or hear. He stooped and picked up the pistol that he’d inadvertently kicked against the base of a petrol pump. Young Ferenc’s pistol, without a doubt. From what last Bowman had seen of Ferenc he didn’t think he’d have missed it yet or would be wanting to use it for some time: but Bowman decided to return it to him all the same. He knew he wouldn’t be disturbing anyone for lights from inside Czerda’s caravan still shone through the windows and the halfopen door. Every other caravan in the forecourt was in darkness. He crossed to Czerda’s caravan, climbed the steps soundlessly and looked in through the doorway.
    Czerda, with a bandaged left hand, bruised cheek and large strip of sticking-plaster on his forehead, wasn’t looking quite his old self but he was in mint condition compared to Ferenc to whose injuries he was attending. Ferenc lay on a bunk, moaning and barely half-conscious, exclaiming in pain from time to time as his father removed a blood-soaked bandage from his forehead. When the