Free The Prisoner by Robert Muchamore Page B

limp as he approached the gate.
    ‘Haven’t seen you in a while, son,’ the guard on the gate noted.
    It would have been better not to have been remembered, but Marc was happy enough as he trotted down eight concrete stairs and along a short corridor before passing into the main hall.
    To save electricity the cavernous space was barely lit. The high ceiling and shafts of light had an eerie stillness, as did the endless pallets, drums and boxes stretching over several football pitches worth of concrete floor.
    ‘Haven’t you heard of a shower?’ a pot-bellied Frenchman grumbled, as he buried his face behind his arm.
    He was having a sneaky cigarette break with two fellow prisoners, who pinched their noses shut like five-year-olds smelling a fart. Marc couldn’t smell himself, but it was an unwelcome reminder that the filth soaked into his clothes made him stand out.
    He cut between the piles of goods, moving as purposefully as his physical limitations allowed. If tonight was anything to go by, prisoners working the nightshift at Großmarkthalle had an easier job than most. About a dozen men were rolling huge drums of copper wire on to a goods wagon, but twice that many seemed to be sitting about.
    There was no sign of a train steaming up ready for departure. Even more disappointingly, all but one of the doors where trucks and carts backed in to deliver goods were shuttered, so his chances of sneaking out that way were nil.
    Nobody had paid much attention so far, but it was only a matter of time before someone asked Marc what he was up to. He did his best to look purposeful and had almost walked the entire length of the market when noise broke out on the metal stairs leading up to the offices.
    It was near dark, but Marc still dived behind a stack of boxes, before peeking up to see a dozen agitated Gestapo men bolting down from their fourth-floor offices.
    Clanking treads drowned most of what they said, but they were clearly men in a hurry and Marc caught the German words for perimeter and guard , so he was sure they’d been sent out looking for him.
    The streets would be much more dangerous now, and with four guards either dead or seriously wounded Marc knew they’d use round-up tactics, where everyone on the streets would be scooped up on sight and brought in for detailed interrogation.
    But it was no less dangerous hanging about on the market-hall floor and if Marc couldn’t leave, the only choice was to hide. His first thought was to sneak under a pile of sacks, or make a crawl space between boxes, but it was a short-term solution at best, and his smell would work against him.
    Then Marc considered the fifth-and sixth-floor offices where he used to work. He couldn’t decide if it was genius or the worst idea ever. But his kidney was burning, his knees were getting weak and alternative plans weren’t exactly forming a queue.
    After giving the Gestapo team half-a-minute to clear out, Marc cut around the edge of the empty Gestapo prisoner pen and started up the stairs. He was on the fifth flight of twelve when a trio of Gestapo men started belting down the stairs, one with a machine gun slung over his shoulder.
    ‘It’s Baron Von Osterhagen’s grandson,’ one of them said, as they closed on Marc. ‘He owns half of Frankfurt. Heads are going to roll.’
    ‘Serves the rich little prick right for draft dodging,’ another officer said harshly.
    ‘You might be right, but I wouldn’t voice that opinion too loudly. Nobody messes with the Baron in this town.’
    Marc paused on the next landing, trying not to shudder as the three Gestapo men swept past, giving him looks of utter condescension. He half expected to hear a gun click, or someone to turn back and say, hang on a minute , but Marc’s undernourished teenage frame clearly didn’t fit the officer’s mental image of someone who’d just taken down four guards in a daring escape.
    Marc walked to the sixth floor, because the archives were always quieter than