Ice Claw Read Free Page A

she blew moist air to warm her gloves. Her shoulders hunched against the icicle-snapping cold. Max wondered, for all of a nanosecond, whether he should put his arm around her.
    “An endangered South American bear was shipped out of Venezuela, through Spain and into France,” she said. “Buyers pay a huge premium for anything endangered.”
    “Why? Do they have private zoos?”
    She shook her head.
    “Trophy hunters. They kill the animals. Shoot them. And one day one of the killers will be the luckiest hunter of them all. He’ll be able to say he shot the very last animal of its species.”
    They reached the corner of the pension , the small hotel where she had a room. A car eased along the street behind them; its exhaust growled as the studded tires purred into the layered snow and ice. Max eased Sophie behind him into a shadow. It was a black Audi A6 Quattro—high-powered, four-wheel drive, fast, sure-footed and expensive. As it came to the intersection it stopped. A tinted window slid down. Two men: the driver and his companion. They wore black leather jackets over black roll-neck sweaters. They were big men. Dark cropped hair, their faces unshaven for a couple of days—designer stubble or tough blokes? Max settled for tough. Their cold, hard stares went right through him.
    The window glided upwards; then the car eased away. Maybe they were just tourists looking for their hotel late at night, but there were no ski racks on the car, and they didn’t look as though they were into snowball fights for fun.
    “Do you know those men?” he asked.
    “No. I have never seen them before.”
    “Probably nothing,” he said, smiling to reassure her, despite his own sixth sense warning him otherwise.
    The night porter shuffled towards the pension’s door on the third ring of the bell.
    “I can order you a hot drink, if you would like. Before you go?” she said.
    “No. Thanks. I’ve gotta get back. Big day tomorrow.”
    “Of course. Good luck for that.”
    The sallow-faced porter stood waiting silently.
    She lowered her voice. “Thank you, Max. If there is anything my family can ever do for you, my father would be honored.” She went up on tiptoe, placed a hand on his shoulder and kissed his cheek. Max’s head bobbed to meet her lips and, uncertain where to put his hands, he fumbled and dropped his snowboard. He felt the heat rising into his neck and face.
    The night porter gazed at him in bored pity.
    She stepped through the door and smiled again. “Sure you don’t want a drink?”
    “No. Honest. Thanks. I’ve … I’ve got ironing to do,” he muttered uselessly.
    She said nothing, then nodded and turned, walking farther into the half-lit reception area, as the porter, now with unconcealed disdain, latched and bolted the door in Max’s face.
    Cheese teeth and ironing. What a disaster.
    The truth was he did have ironing, but it had nothing to do with making himself look any less untidy.
    Max’s snowboard rested across the two single bed bases inthe room he shared with Sayid at the hostel. The mattresses had been shoved to one side on the floor. A towel and a newspaper were spread out beneath the board, and holding the pointed end of the iron downwards, he pressed a stick of wax against the hot surface and dribbled the melting liquid across the board, which was badly scratched from sliding across the road.
    The heat opened the board’s pores and allowed the wax to penetrate. Twenty minutes later, when it cooled, he scraped off the excess wax and rubbed hard with the back of a pan cleaner, buffing the surface.
    His kit was as ready as it could be. All he had to do now was secure a place in the top three of the wildwater kayak race next morning and he’d be ready for the final in the freestyle snowboarding event.
    He checked the alarm clock.
    The wake-up call was only three hours away.
    Max slumped onto one of the mattresses on the floor, fully dressed. He pulled the duvet over himself and fell sound