A hand ripped the tape from his mouth.
‘Get up,’ Sarah hissed. ‘We don’t have much time.’ She turned him over and worked at the cuffs that were biting into his wrist. Christ, Houdini had nothing on her. With a click they came free. Then he remembered Gustav. Of course, Gustav would have had the key.
‘Gustav?’
‘He’s out, but not for long. Not like this guy.’
Jamie sat up and she helped him to his feet. Only now did he notice that the tall man was beside him, lying very still and with his head at an awkward angle. He had blood on his face and more was leaking from the back of his head to form a dark pool on the cobbles. He heard a gasp from above, and turned to find the German museum guide Magda looking down from the bridge, the expression on her face a mix of fear and horror. She was out of uniform in jeans and a tan jacket over a white T-shirt, and still held the shovel she must have used to brain Gustav. His mind told him she shouldn’t be there, and neither should the shovel, but Sarah didn’t give him time to think about it. She hauled him up the slope and across the road towards their escape route.
‘Hurry.’
Magda dropped her ironmongery and took Jamie’s other arm. ‘I came back for my keys,’ the German girl explained breathlessly. ‘I thought I had dropped them somewhere. Then I heard noises from the Obergruppenführersaal. I was frightened, but I decided to check. It was my duty, yes?’ Yes, Jamie thought, and thank Christ for that. ‘These men, they were saying terrible things. I think they would kill you both. So I had to do something. I am not brave, but I could not let it happen here again. You understand?’
Before he could answer Sarah muttered a curse and turned back.
‘Keep going,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll catch up.’
While Magda kept him upright on legs that still felt like rubber bands, Jamie glanced back to see Sarah rummaging beside the dark lump that must have been Gustav. As she did, a lamp clicked on in the courtyard and she was instantly bathed in bright yellow light. She straightened and ran towards them carrying her rucksack by its straps in her right hand. They had almost reached the trees and the slope that would take them back to the car, when they heard the first shout. Jamie would have stopped to help Sarah, but Magda pushed him forwards over the lip of the slope and into the first bushes. As he raised a hand to help her down, the blonde girl turned to check Sarah’s position. Apparently satisfied that the other girl would make it safely, she reached out to take Jamie’s hand. Her eyes met his and he could have sworn there was a twinkle in them; the eyes of someone caught in a great adventure and not quite sure what to make of it. Lips pursed as if she was trying not to smile at the ludicrousness of their situation.
It was just the faintest noise. A soft thud and the sort of ‘pffff’ you hear when compressed air escapes as a mechanic tests tyre pressure. Jamie felt fine liquid spray his face and Magda let out a short, outraged gasp. He would swear that he never heard a shot. A small spot of red appeared over the left breast of the museum guide’s T-shirt and he watched disbelievingly as it grew wider. Without another sound Magda toppled forward into his arms.
‘Move. They’re coming.’ Sarah came down the slope at the run, but slowed when she saw Magda’s limp body.
Jamie shook his head. ‘I—’
‘We have to keep moving, Jamie.’ Urgency made her breathless. ‘And you need to keep it together. It won’t do Magda any good if Frederick gets his hands on us again. Take her to the car and I’ll try to slow them.’
‘How?’
She shook her head. ‘Don’t argue. Just go.’
Reluctantly, he stumbled down the hill with the injured girl in his arms. His storm-battered mind fought to understand everything that had happened. A few minutes earlier they were about to be tortured to death. He had killed a man, or he might have killed him. Magda had been shot. He tried to check her pulse, but there was no response and he could feel the dampness on his chest where her blood had soaked through his shirt. With a feeling of hopelessness, he laid the body at the base of the slope, avoiding the dull, accusing eyes. My fault, he thought. I killed her. Not Frederick. Not Sarah. Jamie Saintclair killed her with his idiotic quest. And now . . . ?
The firecracker snap of a small-calibre weapon, followed instantly by a scream of agony, broke through his grief. It was a man’s scream. He bundled himself into the car and a moment later Sarah tumbled out of the darkness and jumped in beside him, throwing her rucksack on the floor at her feet. He put the engine into gear, accelerating away before the door was properly closed and praying that Frederick hadn’t left anyone to watch the road. Sarah glanced into the back seat and choked back a sob. ‘Where is Magda?’