Главная страница | Классика фантастики | The Lost Labyrinth

The Lost Labyrinth
Will Adams
Fact collides with fiction in Will Adams third pulse-pounding adventure featuring the enigmatic Daniel Knox.Twenty years after vanishing without a trace, French archaeologist Roland Petitier makes a dramatic reappearance at a major Athens conference, promising an astonishing find - the legendary Golden Fleece.But before he can give his talk, he’s found dead in a hotel room; and an out-of-control policeman puts Petitier’s onetime protégé Augustin Pascal into intensive care, then later accuses him of Petitier’s murder. Only Augustin’s two closest friends, Daniel Knox and Gaille Bonnard can prove his innocence.However, rumours of the fleece’s rediscovery have spread, and. ambitious Georgian oligarch Nergadze is determined to get it first. He sends his psychopathic grandson Mikhail to Athens with orders to bring it back. Mikhail quickly becomes convinced that Dan Knox has it, and slowly moves in for the kill…



The Lost Labyrinth
Will Adams




To Robert, Eleanor and Grace

Table of Contents
Cover (#u62ff240b-9d58-5510-b3d4-7c10673e7470)
Titlepage (#u5d58a769-3e74-5962-b51f-98a5122d8a7e)
Dedication (#u8800f23c-bb81-5301-af84-5c750904db71)
Prologue (#u92455682-0e19-5274-8ed1-cf7fc21d0acf)
Chapter One (#uc1bd0b48-8886-562b-ac96-6a402fff52ca)
Chapter Two (#u468243fa-5c83-5309-9c85-a1f68444712c)
Chapter Three (#u878edfc1-4713-5ed1-ad90-fa7693569f44)
Chapter Four (#u100f8514-762a-5a10-8ebe-3ce67d264b3a)
Chapter Five (#ua7848463-2255-51ca-8d97-49c22646ab72)
Chapter Six (#u8f4b23bf-51bb-56bb-9f38-9a7b5b5d2f04)
Chapter Seven (#u0640abb7-5d47-5c60-8d1c-2f0b52c96b89)
Chapter Eight (#u39f06df0-b80a-59c3-ac96-e3a50fbdf920)
Chapter Nine (#u219f9edc-cfb9-56c8-802d-5b8f24f5692d)
Chapter Ten (#u80a75716-e316-58ac-aee2-ae2ac74af01e)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo)
About The Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Other Books By (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

PROLOGUE (#ulink_9e858632-d339-570c-96e2-db4f611b518c)
Crete, 1553 B.C.
The food hadn’t quite run out yet, but it would soon. And last night the snows had arrived, laying a white blanket over the plain, cutting off the pass. No relief would be coming now. Not for a month at least. More likely not until spring.
It was over.
The fire had gone out days before. There was no more wood. Not that Pijaseme needed a brand to navigate these caves. They were a natural labyrinth, yet he knew them better than any man who’d ever lived. He’d spent fifty-two summers in the service of the gods here, presiding for the last ten over the temple outside, during which time he’d led the discovery and consecration of three new galleries. But he kept his hand to the wall all the same. So much had changed these past years that it was reassuring to know that some things were immutable.
He could remember the moment still. It had emblazed upon his mind. For years, the goddess had been angry. For years, he and his fellow high priests had sought to understand their offence, the better to make reparation. But each of them had offered different solutions, and the goddess had grown unhappier. He’d been on the final descent to Knossos for the great harvest gathering when a light like sunrise had burst upon the northern horizon. For a moment he’d been euphoric: he’d prayed all his life that the goddess herself would come while he yet lived. But then he’d realised she’d come in anger.
And what anger!
Her roar had deafened him for days. Her hail of molten rock had set forests on fire all across the island. The waves she’d sent, as tall as mountains, had destroyed their fleets and ports. She’d blacked out the sky for many moons and assailed them with an extraordinary violence of storms. Ash had fallen calf deep upon their fields, killing their crops and trees and herds, blighting them with boils and deadly wasting diseases and causing this brutal, endless famine.
He reached the great gallery. It was brighter than he could ever remember, the sunlight that filtered through the thin crevice in its roof magnified by the mirrors of snow around its edges. A flake fell coldly against his temple, then ran like a tear down his cheek. He watched more arrive, fluttering slow as tiny feathers. Perhaps this was what the island needed. A purge of clean pure snow. Perhaps when it melted, it would take the ashes of the past with it, and the island would be born anew.
But Pijaseme wouldn’t be there to see it.
He’d already prepared the poppy-juice. Now he poured it into the goblet. A gust of wind played the crevice like a horn as he did so. The Minotaur was roaring. He looked up at it towering above him, set there by the gods themselves as guardian of the island’s oldest and most sacred labyrinth, which was why so many craftsmen and architects had made the pilgrimage here, to glean inspiration for their palaces. He poured a small libation in the basin at its feet before draining the rest in one go, grimacing against the taste. Then he walked down the corridor of axes to the great throne, where he set the bull’s mask and horned crown upon his head and tried to buckle the sacred robe around his throat. But he was too weak from age and hunger to bear its weight, so he left it draped over the throne’s high shoulders instead.
The poppy-juice began to ply its comforts. He felt his goddess smile, pleased by his choice of penance. He picked up the bone-handled knife and teased the wrinkled pale skin of his inner forearm with its tip.
It had been a fearful time, not knowing why the world had changed, or what to do. Survivors had converged on Knossos from every corner of the island, seeking comfort in numbers, terrified not merely by the cataclysms, but also by the knowledge that there was nothing now to prevent their one-time subjects coming here to take their revenge for all the casual cruelties they’d suffered at their hands. Nothing to stop them looting the holiest places of their sacred treasures, either.
It had been Pijaseme himself who’d suggested a solution to this latter problem—hiding all those treasures here, in the sure knowledge that no outlander would ever find them. He’d stood up before the council and given his oath that the goddess herself had visited him in a dream, and so ordered. They’d all been so eager for her forgiveness that they’d acquiesced at once. The treasures had duly arrived over the next few moons, Pijaseme giving each party in exchange a receipt for what they’d brought, along with a fired clay disc imprinted with signs so that their successors could find this labyrinth again, should none of them still be alive when finally the island recovered.
How he’d exulted as the treasures had stacked up! He’d been certain that the goddess would reward him. But her anger hadn’t died. If anything, it had grown more savage, more personal. While other communities had seemed to reach and pass through the worst of this blight, his own had suffered more and more. She’d taken his surviving children, and their children and grandchildren too, until only he and his beloved grandson Eumolpos had been left of their once great family. And finally he’d acknowledged in his heart the true reason for her fury. There had been no dream. He hadn’t brought these treasures here for her glory; he’d brought them for his own.
The exodus had taken place earlier that summer, when it had become clear that yet again there’d be no harvest. Eumolpos had taken charge, scavenging for wood in the mountains, dragging the timbers down to the coast, building a ship in which the few survivors had sailed north in search of a new land to settle. Their ancestors had arrived here from across the sea, after all. It seemed only fitting that they should leave that way too.
It had been a wrench to watch them go. Eumolpos had been Pijaseme’s heir as high priest at the temple. But there was no temple any more: Poseidon earth-shaker had seen to that. And at least this way Eumolpos would carry with him his memories, his knowledge of the sacred objects and rituals. At least this way, the goddess would still be worshipped. Before he’d left, Eumolpos had asked Pijaseme to go with them, albeit with lowered eyes. But Pijaseme was too old and proud. Besides, he’d taken a sacred vow to look after these treasures to the death. And, to the death, he would.
Despite the poppy-juice, the pain was fierce as he stabbed through the leathern skin of his wrist, then gashed jaggedly upwards along his forearm. He didn’t let it stop him though, not with the goddess watching. He switched the blade from hand to hand, then slashed his other forearm too. Blood fell in slow waterfalls to form red lakes upon the dusty rock.
It was fitting. It was as it should be.
It had been his life to please the goddess. And he had failed.

ONE (#ulink_83594498-f2b3-5a2c-9165-5ed228a56d8e)
Broward County Jail, Fort Lauderdale, Florida
‘Visitor,’ grunted the guard, heaving open the heavy steel door of Mikhail Nergadze’s cell. ‘Come with me.’
Mikhail took his time rising to his feet. It was a point of self-respect in places like these that you never gave the uniforms anything for free. Besides, he already knew who it would be. That court-appointed psychologist with her sneering upper lip and her aggressively folded arms. He’d always had an instinct for women like her. And sure enough, she was waiting impatiently for him in the dusty white-tiled interview room, dressed with her customary sharp-edged chic in a navy suit jacket and pencil skirt, her black hair cropped almost as short as his own prison crew-cut, just the faintest touches of perfume and make-up. Yet, he noted, faint though those touches of perfume and makeup might be, they were still there.
‘Mister Nergadze,’ she said sourly, enunciating each syllable like an insult.
‘Doctor Mansfield,’ he nodded. ‘This is a pleasure.’
‘Not for me, I assure you.’ She gestured curtly for the guard to remain inside the room, then invited Mikhail to take one of two facing chairs. She waited until he was seated, then put down her briefcase by the other chair, produced a micro-cassette recorder that she placed on the floor between them, and sat opposite him. Then she brought out a set of papers on which she began to make notes on with a bulbous green fountain pen, glancing at him every few moments, like an artist working at a portrait, hoping no doubt to pique his curiosity. But Mikhail refused to bite. He folded his hands loosely in his lap and waited. It was perhaps five minutes before she sighed and rocked forward, passed two stapled pages to him, along with a blunt stub of pencil, as though he couldn’t be trusted with her pen. ‘Look at these for me, would you?’
‘Why?’
‘Do you really have so many better things to do?’
Mikhail shrugged and took the two pages, ran his eyes down the list of questions, gave her a dry cold look. But he didn’t mind playing. The opposite, if anything. He knew it would tear at her all the more when his family’s army of lawyers finally got him out, which they would any day now; because without a body the police had nothing, and everyone knew it.
Failure to conform to social norms.
An easy starter. It never failed to astonish Mikhail that anyone should conform. Tick.
Regular bouts of irritability and aggression. Tick. Impulsiveness. Tick.
She had a nice figure, this shrink. He had to give her that. Terrific legs. Tan and shapely, long and smooth. Yet muscled, too. A ballerina’s legs. Ideal for clasping tight around a man’s waist. Making the most of them too, as far as professionalism would allow, at least, with her high heels and a slit in her skirt that showed rare flashes of thigh, and constantly drawing attention to them by folding one over the other, or allowing them to part just wide enough to offer a glimpse of the shadows beneath. Not much else to write home about, unfortunately. A face like a toad, with flared, upturned nostrils, and her complexion still raw from the ravages of teenage acne.
Disregard for the safety of others. Tick. Irresponsible behaviour. Tick. Multiple short-term marital relationships. Tick.
Her manner didn’t do her any favours either, all snorts and squints, as if her main ambition in life was never to let anyone get the better of her. But she was young and female, when all was said and done; and Mikhail had learned long ago to take what pleasures he could in institutions like these.
Lack of regard for promises, deals and agreements. Tick. Manipulative. Tick. Lack of empathy.
Mikhail paused. He’d always been slightly perplexed by questions about empathy. It was like colour-blindness. People who couldn’t distinguish between red and green, that was one thing; but how to know that his perception of yellow was the same as everyone else’s? Empathy was like that, almost impossible to judge relatively. Over the years, a number of psychologists had shown him pictures of people’s faces, as though they thought he suffered from Asperger’s syndrome or something. But Mikhail had never had any difficulty distinguishing happy from sad, surprised from intrigued, angry from lustful; and he understood what each of those emotions were too, having experienced them himself. Besides, people kept accusing him of being manipulative, and how could he manipulate people if he lacked empathy? He could be a bully, yes, or excessively demanding; but manipulative? Surely that demanded a certain level of fellow-feeling. So he’d always thought the real question was, did he give a fuck? With empathy, he reckoned you were supposed to give a fuck. He thought that was probably the whole point of it. And the answer was no. He didn’t give a fuck. But here was the nub: How could he be sure that that made him unusual? How did he know that other people gave a fuck (or at least, any more of a fuck than he did)? He only had their word for it. Perhaps he was just more honest than they were. The way he saw it, no one truly gave a fuck how other people felt. Not truly. All they gave a fuck about was how other people felt about them. That’s why they postured and pretended concern, because they thought other people would respect them or love them more. But, what the hell, he knew the answer she wanted. More to the point, it was the one that would gnaw at her most when he walked out of here a free man.
Lack of empathy. Tick. Lack of remorse. Tick.
Though he’d never really seen what the fuss was about remorse, anyway. Such a dishonest emotion. If you couldn’t live with the consequences of your actions, do something else, don’t wail about it. More to the point, don’t get caught. Mikhail couldn’t remember the last time anyone expressed remorse before they got caught? No, best left to politicians and TV evangelists.
Often in trouble as a juvenile. Though it had never been his fault. Tick.
A parasitic lifestyle.
He bridled a little at the choice of word. He was no parasite; people just understood that they owed him, because of the kind of man he was. But fuck it, he was on a roll: Tick.
He looked up at her. ‘Where do you live?’ he asked. ‘Somewhere around here?’
‘Just finish the list.’
‘Only we should get together for a drink when I get out.’
‘I don’t make dates fifty years in advance.’
Pathological dishonesty. He’d be lying if he said otherwise. Tick.
Cruelty to animals and other people.
‘When you say cruelty,’ he asked, ‘do you mean physical violence? Or do you include mental cruelty as well?’
‘Would it make a difference?’
Fair point. Tick.
Considers themselves outside or above the law. Tick.
He glanced up sharply enough to catch her staring at him. He smiled knowingly, and she tossed her head and looked away, haughty as a rich girl’s pony, as though she thought Mikhail was so far beneath her, it was an ordeal even to be in the same room as him, as though she had to steel herself. But he hadn’t forced her to visit. Nor had the court, not this time. No. She’d come here on her own account.
Rampant fantasies of personal prowess and triumph.
Yes, he thought. Last night I dreamed about coming after you, you bitch. Tick.
Exaggerated sexuality.
He paused again. ‘Do you mean that I exaggerate my sexuality? Or that my capacity for sex is uncommonly large?’
She smiled thinly at him, reluctant to give him anything. ‘The latter.’
Exaggerated sexuality. Tick.
‘Is that why you’ve been masturbating over me?’
‘Just finish the list.’
‘When you masturbate over me, do you imagine me naked?’
‘The list, please, Mister Nergadze.’
‘Mikhail, please.’
Demands immediate and complete compliance from those around them. Tick. Superficial charm.
He hesitated over this one, too. ‘Superficial?’ he asked.
She frowned, surprised he’d stumbled over such a common word. ‘Superficial means, er, like, er, on the surface.’
Mikhail felt himself being lifted up by a gentle wave of anger, that his Eastern European roots and accent had yet again been mistaken for stupidity. It had happened so many times during his years of exile in England and America that perhaps he should have grown used to it, but it still had the power to catch him by surprise. On the other hand, gaol had taught him to keep his safety-catch on, to bide his time for the chance that would soon come. He waited for the wave to subside again before replying. ‘I know what it means,’ he said. ‘What I’m asking is what you mean. Charm is, by definition, superficial, wouldn’t you say? I think the word you’re looking for is “false”, isn’t it?’
She coloured a little. ‘I suppose false would…yes, that would be fine.’
He crossed out ‘superficial’, wrote in ‘false’ instead. Tick.
Envious of others.
He frowned. Would he really switch places with anyone else? To get out of here, maybe. But what the hell. Tick.
Often bored. Tick.
He handed her back the questionnaire. A perfect score. She took the pages with a slight smirk, as though she’d just won a bet with herself. Mikhail smiled too. He liked cocky shrinks. They thought they were so insightful, so well-armoured. It fucked them up all the more when he got inside their heads. ‘You never answered my question,’ he said.
‘What question?’
‘Do you imagine me naked? When you masturbate about me?’
‘Masturbation, Mister Nergadze?’ she asked dryly. ‘Are you not confusing me with yourself?’
He looked into her eyes and held her gaze. She tried to stare him out; she didn’t stand a chance. When finally she broke and looked away, her throat turned lovely hot confused colours, and he felt a familiar stirring in his loins that confirmed to him the true reason she’d come back, which had nothing to do with his so-called disorder. At least, it had everything to do with it, but not in a way her professional association would approve.
She composed herself again, turned back to him, flint in her eyes, wanting pay-back. ‘So,’ she said, ‘you want to tell me what really happened that night?’
‘I already told you what happened.’
‘The real story.’
‘Oh, the real story.’
‘You want to, you know. In the end, men like you always boast about their…exploits.’
Mikhail nodded at the guard still standing by the door. ‘And men like him send us to the chair for it.’
She turned to the guard. ‘Leave us, please.’
The guard glowered at Mikhail. ‘You sure about that, ma’am? This one’s a mean son-of-a-bitch.’
‘I asked you to leave us alone.’
They both watched him out. Mikhail could tell she was pleased with herself; demonstrating courage and trust, just like they counselled in the textbooks. The steel shutter in the door shrieked open, and the guard put his eye to the viewing window, his face magnified and made even uglier by the glass.
‘What if he can lip-read?’ asked Mikhail.
‘You want to trade seats?’ she asked. ‘So as he can’t see your face?’
‘I want him not to watch at all.’
She went to the door, held a murmured but intense conversation. The door closed, then the shutter over the viewing window. She sat back down. ‘Well?’ she asked. ‘Ready to talk now?’
‘With your tape recorder on?’
‘This session is confidential. I assure you, nothing will be used against you.’
He snorted and raised an eyebrow. She sighed and switched off her machine. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you what you want to know. But I want something from you first.’
‘What?’
‘I want to know why you’re so interested in me.’
She studied him a moment, as if to assess him for sincerity. It always amazed him how credulous these people were: she seemed to have forgotten her checklist already. He kept his expression impassive, knowing she wanted to tell him, her own cleverness bottled like champagne bubbles inside her, pressing for release. When she began to talk, she quickly grew excited. She stood up, began walking back and forth across the narrow room, gesturing grandly. She was working on a paper for the journals, it transpired. Her subject matter was narcissistic sociopaths. That Mikhail was one would be obvious to any first-year student, of course; but most people with narcissistic personality disorder were either cerebral or somatic, which was to say arrogant because of their intelligence or because of their physique and athletic prowess respectively. He was both. That in itself made him a curiosity. But there was more. Most narcissists were, at heart, self-loathing. It was their very hatred for themselves that drove their desperate need for adulation and worship from the people around them, their need for what she called narcissistic supply, and which she talked of as though it were a drug. When they were deprived of that supply, their fantasies about themselves collapsed, they fell into depression and despair. But he, while displaying all the signs of classic narcissism, seemed immune to depression and despair, even when his narcissistic supply was denied him, and she wanted to know why. Criminal narcissism was her thing, and she sensed in Mikhail an opportunity for a real advance, because if she could find his secret, maybe it would offer a way to palliate self-loathing in others and so break the narcissistic cycle altogether. She got all excited and earnest, wobbling a little on her heels as she walked, red patches glowing on her throat and cheeks, like a litter of kittens seen through a night-sight. Finally she stopped and gave him one of those well, there it is shrugs, expecting him to honour his part of the deal, tell her how he’d raped and murdered that innocent little thirteen-year-old Lolita.
Innocent! Hah!
He stood and pushed back his chair, its feet growling over the bare cement floor. Then he started walking towards her. She produced a nervous smile, her pupils flickered, and she backed away until she was up against the wall by the door. He kept advancing, slowly, fixing his best unthreatening smile in place, as though she were some lapdog yapping at him, and he didn’t want to spook it, or he’d lose his chance to kick it.
She balled her fist up to pound on the door and summon the guard. She tensed her arm twice in preparation, but Mikhail kept advancing and in the end she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. Self-knowledge at last. She put both her arms down by her side, fingers splayed like sunbursts. He was standing right in front of her now, their bodies almost touching face, chest, knee, toe. He could hear her breathing patterns change until they were in synchrony with his. He rewarded her with a smile. He placed one hand on her left shoulder, the other, on her hip, began to gather up the charged fabric of her skirt. They stared each other in the eye. She neither stopped him, nor encouraged him, but when he slipped his hand beneath the skirt and up her thigh over her knickers to her pudenda, she gave an almost inaudible exhalation, like some pre-packaged grocery product being punctured, allowing that preservative air to escape. A moment of almost pure silence, except that he could hear the saliva washing around her mouth and throat, while a pulse flickered in her pussy, like some terrified rodent cowering in his palm. ‘Mr Nergadze,’ she croaked, in her best schoolmarm tone, as though to reprimand him. He waited, but she said nothing else, so he gave her a gentle encouraging squeeze and smiled more broadly at her. She smiled weakly back, a smile of complete concession, an invitation to do whatever he wanted.
He let go of her, stepped away, returned to his chair, sat back down and folded his hands once more in his lap. ‘Narcissistic, am I?’ he asked. ‘Or is it simply that I am beautiful?’

TWO (#ulink_0cee6244-f3a3-5b82-80a6-f461a48dceaa)
I
The Kastelli Hotel, Athens, Greece, two weeks later
The three of them were laughing hard at the sheer awfulness of Knox’s joke when Augustin swiped his hotel key-card through the lock outside his room and pushed his door open with his foot. But the laughter died at once.
It was the smell that did it for Knox: not that it was overpowering, just sour and ugly, but it provoked an immediate and visceral disgust, so that he knew something was badly wrong. He looked over Augustin’s shoulder and saw gouts of blood and vomit on the fibrous blue carpet, and then a naked elderly man lying on his back in the narrow aisle between the double and single beds, his right arm thrown out above his head. There were stains around his waist, where his bladder and bowels had vented. There was a great gash in his forehead, too, from which copious amounts of blood had spilled, and there was a look of such stark terror on his face that Knox instantly assumed that not only was he dead, but that he’d sensed his fate in the very moment it had overtaken him.
It was a real shock, then, when the man convulsed upon the carpet, a spasm that ran up his body like a flapped-out sheet. It was Claire who moved first, trained medic that she was. She pushed past Augustin and knelt down beside him. ‘Ambulance,’ she said succinctly. Augustin nodded and hurried around the single bed, then knelt on it to grab the bedside phone and dial the operator.
The man opened his eyes and gave a little croak, trying to speak, blood-frothed saliva leaking from the side of his mouth. Claire wiped it away with a corner of the bedspread. He spoke again. She shook her head to indicate that he should preserve his strength, but he kept persisting, so Knox pushed aside the bed to make room for himself on his other side, then knelt down and put his ear close to his lips. But the man’s voice was so weak that it was almost impossible to make out anything much more than the shape and thrust of the syllables. He frowned interrogatively at Claire. ‘Elysium?’ he suggested.
‘Maybe,’ she shrugged.
‘Who the hell is he?’ asked Knox, standing back up.
‘Roland Petitier,’ said Augustin, still waiting for the operator to answer.
Knox nodded. An old archaeology professor of Augustin’s who’d vanished without trace nearly twenty years ago, only to reappear unexpectedly a few weeks before, and who was scheduled to address the conference the following afternoon. ‘But what’s he doing here?’
Augustin gave a very Gallic shrug, as if to disclaim responsibility. ‘I hear a knock on my door earlier. I think it must be you, come to take me to the airport. But no, it’s him. After twenty years. He tells me his room isn’t ready yet and asks if he can stay here until it is. I tell him no. I tell him I am about to collect my fiancée Claire from the airport. He swears on his mother’s life he’ll be gone by the time we get back. On his mother’s life!’
‘You can’t exactly blame him for—’
Augustin held up a finger. The operator had finally picked up. ‘Emergency,’ he told them curtly. ‘Room five-thirteen. We need an ambulance.’ He listened a moment. ‘No. He’s taken a blow to the head.’ Another pause. He looked around the room. ‘No. I don’t think so.’
Claire had tilted Petitier’s head backwards, and put her ear against his mouth. ‘Tell them he’s stopped breathing,’ she said, with impressive calmness. ‘Tell them to bring a defibrillator.’ While Augustin relayed the message, she moved briskly into cardiopulmonary resuscitation, using both hands to pump Petitier’s chest hard. She clearly knew what she was about, so Knox stepped away to give her space, then took the opportunity to see if he could work out what had happened.
The room was virtually identical to his and Gaille’s on the floor above. The medium-pile blue carpet showed signs of wear; the double and the single bed both sagged a little in the middle. There were dark spots on the mirrors of the dressing table, and on the glass of the framed prints of the Acropolis, Mycenae and Epidaurus on the walls. A splashing noise was coming from the bathroom. He pushed open the door to see the shower spraying hot water into the bathtub, trapping thick clouds of mist against the ceiling. He made to turn it off, then paused at the startling realisation that this might be a crime scene, so he went back out and closed the door behind him.
A black laptop case was leaning against the bed, bulkier than Augustin’s, so presumably Petitier’s. Again, he left it untouched. The white net curtain billowed over the balcony door, pregnant with breeze, revealing a few red smears upon its fabric. He pushed it carefully aside. The sliding glass door was wide open. He went out onto the balcony. The moulded plastic table and one of the two matching chairs had been overturned, as if by a storm or a fight. An overnight bag was lying on its side, the old brown leather ripped open and leaking entrails: underpants, vests, shirts and trousers. He leaned out over the railing, looked down past lower balconies to the narrow alley far beneath, congested with rusting skips filled with multicoloured bags of hotel waste. He looked left and right. The neighbouring balconies were separated from one another by spiked railings, but it would be easy enough for anyone with a head for heights to swing around them; and there was precious little chance of being seen.
Back inside, Augustin was standing by Claire, wanting to help but not sure how. ‘I knew I should say no when he asks to stay,’ he told Knox.
‘So why didn’t you?’
‘He seemed so desperate. I mean he was really paranoid that someone was after him.’
‘Paranoid?’ asked Knox dryly.
‘He made me swear not to tell anyone he was here. That’s why I said nothing earlier.’
‘Did he give you any idea who was after him?’
‘No. But he’s found something, I know that much. In Crete, apparently. Some seal-stones and maybe some other things. I think perhaps he has them with him, because he won’t let go of his overnight bag, you know. I mean he hugged it against him like it was his only child.’
Lift doors opened down the corridor. There were shouts and the thud of heavy boots. Two policemen in the dark blue uniform of the Elleniki Astynomia appeared at the door, holding white crash helmets and truncheons in their hands, as though fresh from riot duty. The first was tall and powerful, yet his features were soft and unlined, making him look almost too young to be in the police. His partner was older, portly, wheezing from the run. He pushed past his younger colleague, sized up the situation. ‘Away!’ he ordered Claire. She didn’t even look up, too concentrated on giving Petitier CPR. ‘Away!’ he barked more loudly, angered at being ignored.
‘She’s a doctor,’ protested Augustin. ‘Leave her be.’
‘Away!’ he shouted a third time.
The younger policeman stepped forward, nettled by this lack of respect for his partner. He reached around Claire from behind, grabbing her breast as he did so.
The colour rose instantly in Augustin’s face; he punched the young policeman hard on his cheek, sending him sprawling. Then he turned to Claire. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
The young policeman got back to his feet, a look of pure fury in his eye. He lashed his baton so hard across Augustin’s cheek that a fragment of tooth flew from between his lips, and he cried out and fell to his knees, hands to his bloodied mouth. Knox hurried to intervene, but the older policeman seized him by the arm and held him back. And something seemed to release in his young partner, a kind of obscene rage. His face was almost purple as he smashed his baton down on Augustin’s crown, mercifully catching him only a glancing blow, yet still splitting his scalp so that the blood gushed even as he fell onto his side in the narrow gap between the bed and wall. Claire screamed and grabbed the policeman’s arm, but he threw her off easily, then turned back to Augustin and hit him again. But the way Augustin had fallen made it hard for the policeman to get at his head, so he pushed the bed aside and stepped around him to give himself a better angle of attack.
Finally Knox fought his way free. He hurried across the room and grabbed the policeman’s flailing wrist, twisting it sharply. The policeman yelped and dropped his baton, turning to Knox with a slightly dazed expression, as though uncertain what was going on. Then he looked down at Augustin lying unconscious at his feet, at the oily dark blood gathering in a shallow lake on the carpet, and at the red spatters of guilt already caking on his own hands, and a look of horror appeared upon his face, and he began to weep.

II
A conference room, Tbilisi, Georgia
Conflicting emotions tussled in Edouard Zdanevich’s breast as he stood in front of the painting. It was executed in oils on black oilcloth, perhaps seventy centimetres wide by a metre tall, a portrait of a voluptuous woman in a rocking chair, nursing an infant through the folds of her blue-black dress, the barest hint of breast showing. Simple colours and themes executed with intense power and humanity. A Pirosmani, without doubt, as gorgeous as any in Tbilisi. Yet Edouard had never seen it before, had not even known it existed. And while it was a thrill for him merely to be in its presence, it infuriated him that these damned Nergadzes had it hanging here on their wall, when he doubted any of them knew what it was, or why it was important, or the first thing about the great man who’d painted it. All they ever knew or cared about anything was how much it cost.
Somewhere in the building, a door opened, allowing out a billow of raucous laughter. Another of the Nergadzes’ famously debauched feasts, no doubt. Edouard despised such wanton displays of gluttony, lechery and drunkenness—but it would be nice, he had to admit, to be able to despise them from the inside for a change.
A pair of glass cabinets stood against the wall, both filled with Colchian gold jewellery, vessels, ornaments and coins. The pieces were very familiar to him. They’d come from a trove discovered some decades earlier in an abandoned well in the hill-country of Turkmenistan, across the Caspian Sea, and had been on display in their national museum in Ashgabat. It had long been known that many of the pieces were Georgian, but only recently had the Turkmeni government countenanced a sale. Edouard himself had flown to Ashgabat, where he’d negotiated their purchase and repatriation. Though he’d used Nergadze money, the agreement had been clear: he’d bought the cache on behalf of the nation of Georgia, for display in her national museums. Ilya Nergadze had bathed in public admiration for days on the back of his generosity. Yet the gold pieces weren’t on display at any national museum. They were on display here, where ordinary Georgians would never have the chance to see them.
Footsteps approached briskly outside, then the double doors banged open and Ilya Nergadze marched on in, followed closely by his son Sandro and one of his small army of bodyguards. He went everywhere on the march, old man Ilya, like a general on the morning of battle. He was tall and extravagantly thin, with a high brow, a flat nose and a tight line to his mouth, as though life had been unforgivably cruel to him, rather than to everyone who’d come into his orbit. His hair and eyebrows, until recently a snowy white, now glistened with black dye, while his skin had been noticeably tightened by nip-tuck surgery and botox injections, an effort at youthfulness that should have made him look ridiculous, except that people like him somehow never looked ridiculous, particularly not in their presence, perhaps because everyone was too afraid to snigger.
‘I’m grateful you asked me here,’ said Edouard, joining them at the rosewood conference table. ‘We need to finalise the transfer of—’
‘All in good time,’ said Sandro, sitting opposite him. He was considered the diplomat of the family; which was why he’d been appointed head of his father’s presidential campaign.
‘But people are talking,’ protested Edouard. ‘My colleagues at the museum keep asking me when they’ll—’
‘He said all in good time,’ said the bodyguard.
Edouard looked sourly at him. Nergadze bodyguards typically knew better than to talk in the presence of their superiors. But this one looked more relaxed than most, perhaps forty or so, wearing a turtleneck sweater beneath his black jacket. He was unshaven, too, perhaps the better to show off the crescent scar in his cheek, where no stubble grew. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Edouard stiffly. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’
‘This is Boris Dekanosidze,’ said Sandro. ‘My head of security. I wanted you to meet him because you’re going to be working together over the next few days.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You’re leaving for Athens tonight. Directly after this meeting, in fact.’
‘I’m doing nothing of the sort,’ retorted Edouard. ‘I thought I’d made it clear that I won’t accept any more commissions until you honour your—’
‘You’ll accept whatever commissions we tell you to accept,’ said Ilya.
‘There’ll be plenty of time to complete the transfer of the cache once you return,’ added Sandro, in a more emollient tone. ‘But right now, we have an urgent situation, and we need your help.’ He nodded to Boris, who slid a manila folder across the polished rosewood. Edouard opened it reluctantly, then read through the correspondence inside with growing bewilderment. ‘This is a joke,’ he said finally. ‘It has to be.’
‘My grandson Mikhail is going to see the item in question tomorrow morning,’ said Ilya. ‘You will go along with him.’
‘But you don’t even have a grandson called Mikhail,’ protested Edouard.
‘Do I not?’ asked Ilya.
‘Boris will be with you too,’ said Sandro, into the ensuing silence. ‘He’ll pay for this item once you’ve authenticated it.’
‘If I authenticate it, you mean,’ said Edouard.
A look of profound irritation clouded Ilya’s face. ‘Please don’t persist in telling us what we mean.’
Another silence fell. Somewhere deep in the house, a burst of uproarious laughter was timed so perfectly that Edouard couldn’t help but think that Nergadze’s guests were watching him on CCTV. Not for the first time, he realised how inconsequential he was to these people. Their presidential campaign was in full swing, and Ilya was making good headway in the polls. Nothing else mattered to them. ‘You can’t seriously expect me to authenticate a fake,’ said Edouard.
‘It won’t be a fake,’ observed Sandro. ‘Not once a man of your reputation has verified it.’
‘It would ruin me. I won’t do it.’
‘You will do it,’ said Ilya.
Edouard forced and held a smile, aware he wouldn’t get anywhere by confrontation. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’d like to help. Really I would. But I can’t. Not this weekend. My wife is already furious about how much I’ve been away recently. She issued me with an ultimatum, as it happens. We spend this weekend together, or else. You know what wives are like.’
‘Don’t worry about your wife,’ said Ilya.
‘But you don’t understand. I gave her my word. If I fail to—’
‘I said, don’t worry about her.’
There was something in his voice. ‘How do you mean?’ asked Edouard.
‘I mean that your wife and your daughters will be very well looked after while you’re away. And that charming son of yours too.’
Edouard kept a family photograph in his wallet. He liked to take it out whenever he felt low. It came unbidden to his mind now: himself looking rather portlier than he’d like, yet undeniably grand in his chartreuse suit and yellow cravat, a quiet protest against the black worn by almost every other adult male in Tbilisi, as though their whole nation were in mourning. Nina in her gorgeous blue velvet dress. The twins Eliso and Lila in matching cream blouses and ankle-length black skirts. Kiko in the white-and-red rugby shirt signed by the Georgian national team. ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked.
‘They are to be my guests,’ said Ilya. ‘Just until you return from Athens.’
Edouard dropped his hand to his pocket, felt the contour and weight of his mobile phone against his thigh. A phone call, a text message, telling Nina to put the kids in the car, take them away somewhere, anywhere.
‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ said Ilya, reading his thoughts. ‘They already are my guests. My grandson Alexei is taking them to my Nikortsminda estate as we speak.’
‘They’ll be very well looked after,’ Sandro assured him. ‘We’re having a family get-together this weekend. It will be a holiday for them. Fresh mountain air, riding, sailing, good company, delicious food. What more could anyone want?’
‘And you won’t have them on your mind, this way,’ added Ilya. ‘This way, you’ll be free to concentrate all your energies on the successful conclusion of our project.’ He leaned forward a little. ‘Do I make myself clear?’
Edouard felt himself sag. Nina had begged him not to get entangled with these people. She’d begged him. The only time in their marriage that she’d gone down on her knees to him, taken his hands, kissed them and wept imploringly into them. But he’d gone ahead anyway. He’d known better.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Perfectly clear.’

III
Omonia Police Station, Central Athens
Chief Inspector Angelos Migiakis was not in a good mood. He rarely was when forced to defer afternoon visits to his mistress because of a call of duty. Even less so when that duty was to sort out yet another mess that threatened to engulf his crisis-plagued department. ‘So what did Loukas say?’ he asked.
‘He backed up Grigorias,’ replied Theofanis. ‘He says that this man Augustin Pascal attacked Grigorias for no reason, that Grigorias was only defending himself.’
‘Then what’s the problem?’
‘Because Loukas is lying, that’s what.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’ve known him fifteen years. This is the first time he won’t look me in the eye.’
‘Shit,’ muttered Angelos. He picked a glass tumbler up from his desk, made to hurl it against the wall opposite, checked himself just in time. Anger was a problem for him; but he was doing his best.
‘I think I can get him to tell me the truth if I push him,’ said Theofanis. ‘But I wanted to speak to you first. I mean, the last thing we need right now is another scandal.’
‘Yes,’ said Angelos caustically. ‘I’m aware of that.’ He put the tumbler back down, then looked across at Theofanis. ‘So what do you think did happen?’
‘Who can say?’ He nodded at the statement lying on the desk. ‘But for my money it’s like this guy Knox told me. Grigorias gave the woman a grope. The Frenchman saw it and got mad. She’s his fiancée, after all. Then Grigorias went crazy on him.’ He gave an ugly grimace. ‘You should have seen what he did.’
‘Not good?’
‘Not good at all.’ He took a long breath then added: ‘And I can’t even say I’m that surprised, the way Grigorias has been acting since his girl left him. I did warn you we should take him off the street.’
‘So this is my fault now, is it?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You know how understaffed we are.’
‘Yes.’
Angelos slapped his desk with both hands. ‘That fucking imbecile! That fucking imbecile!’ He took a deep breath, waited for the calmness to return. ‘Well, we’ll just have to hold the line, that’s all. They’re foreigners, aren’t they? No one will take their word against ours.’
‘They’re also archaeologists. They’re here for some kind of conference. So they don’t exactly fit the usual profile of troublemakers, do they? And this man Knox, the one downstairs, he’s the one who found the lost tomb of Alexander the Great, remember? And who brought down the Dragoumis family. He’s a national bloody hero.’
‘Christ!’ scowled Angelos. ‘I’m going to skin that malakas Grigorias.’
‘Not until this is over.’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘You say this Knox is downstairs now?’
‘Yes.’
‘And is he a reasonable man? Can we come to some kind of understanding?’
Theofanis considered this a moment. ‘He’s angry,’ he said. ‘But he’s scared too. For himself, yes, but more so for his friend Pascal. If we could offer some kind of guarantee of good medical care…’
‘How the hell am I supposed to do that with our fucking hospitals?’
‘Then I don’t know what to suggest,’ shrugged Theofanis. ‘Maybe you should meet him yourself.’
Angelos pushed himself to his feet. ‘Maybe I should,’ he agreed.

THREE (#ulink_068ef486-b703-550f-9c82-a30a04f6908f)
I
The Conference Pavilion, Eleusis
Nico Chavakis had learned to recognise the symptoms of an incipient attack, the accentuated heel-and-toe cadence of his heartbeat, the hot sticky flush of his cheeks and forehead, the nausea low in his gut and throat, and then, most unpleasant of all, that sudden light-headed rush that had toppled him more than once. He loosened his tie, popped his top button. ‘A chair,’ he said.
The girl Gaille Bonnard didn’t hesitate, bless her. She hurried over to the massed ranks of wooden folding chairs in the pavilion, grabbed the two nearest and returned to place them side-by-side behind him, then helped lower him onto them, a buttock upon each. He sat there with his legs spread and his hands upon his knees and breathed as he’d been taught, deep and regular, expanding his lungs, letting time do its usual nursing.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Do you need anything?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ he assured her. ‘Just give me another minute.’
‘I’ll get you a doctor.’
‘No need,’ he said. It was true enough. He was still in the tunnel, yes, but the darkness was lessening, he could glimpse the other end; and the last thing he wanted was to make himself conspicuous in front of all these people, as they sipped their drinks at the back of the conference pavilion. ‘Your news came as a shock, that’s all.’ No understatement there. Tragedies for Augustin Pascal and Roland Petitier, of course; but not so good for him either. Shameful to acknowledge such self-interest so soon after dreadful tidings, but he was only human, after all, and he had a conference to run. ‘My two main speakers for tomorrow, you see.’
All sympathy instantly left Gaille’s expression. ‘So?’ she asked tersely. ‘You’ll just have to cancel.’
‘You don’t understand.’ He looked bleakly up at her. He knew all too well what would happen if he did. The delegates would sympathise with his predicament, sure, but he didn’t need their sympathy, he needed their money. Those who hadn’t yet coughed up never would, and everyone else would demand refunds—to which, unfortunately, they’d be entitled. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I just can’t.’
She winced as though she’d read his mind. ‘You’re not bankrolling this yourself, are you?’
He closed his eyes. ‘You know what things are like. My sponsors pulled out. No one else would step in. What was I supposed to do? Call it off?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve never had a failure,’ he said. ‘My reputation is all I have.’
‘Look,’ said Gaille. ‘I’m really sorry, honestly I am, but I only came over to pass on what Claire told me, so that you can do what you have to about tomorrow. But I have to head back to Athens now. It’s not just Augustin—Daniel’s been arrested. Claire says they’ve put him in gaol, the bastards. So I really have to go.’ She touched the back of his hand. ‘You do understand?’
Nico was only half listening, his mind already working on contingency plans. He could take Petitier’s slot himself. He’d been intending to give his talk on grain-goddess iconography anyway before Petitier had got in touch. It would be simple to resurrect. That left Augustin’s talk. He looked up at Gaille, still standing there, waiting for explicit permission to leave. ‘They’ve put Knox in gaol, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘My sister-in-law’s a criminal lawyer,’ he said. ‘The finest in Athens. All the police here are terrified of her. She’s exactly who he needs right now. I’ll call her if you like.’
‘Would you? That would be fantastic.’
Another little thump of his heart. He held up his hand to ask her to wait it out with him, then kept it up to pre-empt the indignation to which she’d be entitled, once she’d heard what he was about to say next. ‘There is one thing,’ he said. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’ll call Charissa anyway, even if you say no…’
‘Say no to what?’
‘Augustin’s speech and slides are already loaded onto the teleprompter,’ he told her. ‘All it really needs is someone to read it out. Someone familiar with the topic. Someone who knows Alexandria well enough to have credibility with the audience and to answer questions intelligently. Someone the delegates will accept as a suitable replacement.’
‘Me?’ asked Gaille in surprise. ‘But I don’t know Alexandria anything like well enough. Honestly, I don’t.’
Nico stared blankly at her for a moment. The equality of women was a part of modern life he’d never quite got used to. ‘I wasn’t thinking about you so much,’ he said carefully. ‘I was thinking more about Knox.’
Her expression flickered, as though she’d read his mind; but then she nodded. ‘Get him out of gaol tonight and he’ll do it for you. You have my word.’
‘And you can speak for him, can you?’
‘Yes,’ said Gaille emphatically. ‘I can.’

II
There was a boiler in the top corner of the police interview room. Every so often it would click on and start heating up like a kettle, and its pipes would rattle and clank for a few moments before it abruptly switched itself off again. What with the only window painted shut, the room was unpleasantly humid and the walls were sweating like a fever. Knox, too, could feel moisture prickling all over him, disconcertingly like guilt. He rocked back in his chair and flexed his fingers together, striving to keep his memories at bay. But it was no use, they came at him like frames in a slide-show. Augustin on the hotel room floor, blood oozing from his scalp; the paramedics strapping him to their stretcher; Claire’s wails and ravaged face as she’d clutched his hand.
Knox had first met Augustin ten years before. The Frenchman had arranged a drinks party in honour of Richard Mitchell, Knox’s old mentor, inviting all of Alexandria’s leading archaeologists and citizenry. Richard, typically, had been waylaid at Pastroudi’s by a gorgeous young waiter with fluttery eyelashes and a slight lisp who’d kept bringing them pastries they hadn’t ordered, so he’d sent Knox on ahead to make his excuses. Augustin’s eruptions of Gallic temper were legendary, so Knox had feared for his eardrums; but it hadn’t been like that at all. He and Knox had got on from the start, one of those rare friendships that arrives fully formed, which they’d both known even then would endure. Any time Knox had been in trouble since, it had been to Augustin he’d turned first; and never once had he been let down. So what did it say about him that Augustin had taken such a savage beating while he’d just stood there and watched?
The door pushed open abruptly. Theofanis, the sprightly police officer who’d taken Knox’s statement earlier, walked back in. A second man followed. He was informally dressed, though from his manner and the way Theofanis deferred to him, he was obviously the boss. He came to stand in front of Knox and glared down at him. ‘You speak Greek, yes?’
‘I get by,’ agreed Knox. He’d studied the ancient language at Cambridge before adding its modern counterpart in less happy circumstances in Thessaloniki ten years before, running a failed campaign to gain justice for his murdered parents and sister.
‘I am Chief Inspector Angelos Migiakis,’ he said. He had an unhealthy, man-in-the moon kind of face, with a partial eclipse of black beard. ‘I am taking personal charge of this case.’ He jabbed Knox’s statement at his face. ‘Theofanis tells me you’re the one who found Alexander’s tomb. He tells me you’re quite the celebrity.’
‘I helped find Alexander’s tomb, yes.’
‘You think this entitles you and your friends to assault my officers while they’re carrying out their duty?’
‘Since when has it been the duty of the Greek police to grope women and put their husbands in hospital?’
‘There was a dying man in the room. My officers were taking charge of the scene, as they’re supposed to do.’
Knox closed his eyes. It was the first confirmation he’d had that Claire’s efforts to keep Petitier alive had failed. ‘He’s dead, then?’ he asked.
‘Yes. He’s dead. And I want to know why someone should want to kill him.’
‘How should I know that?’
Theofanis had gone over to the boiler, looking in vain for ways to turn it off. He gave it an irritable thump and then turned around. ‘You said he tried to tell you something before he died. Could it have been his killer’s name?’
‘I suppose,’ acknowledged Knox. ‘It sounded like “Elysium”, but I wouldn’t swear to that.’
‘Elysium?’ frowned Angelos.
‘Where virtuous and heroic souls spent eternity in Greek myth. The Elysian Fields. They were a kind of paradise.’
‘You’re not trying to tell me that Petitier thought he was off to paradise, are you?’ scoffed Angelos.
‘I don’t know,’ said Knox. ‘I never knew the man. But I’d say it was more likely it had something to do with his talk tomorrow.’
‘His talk?’
‘Yes. We’re all in Athens for a conference on the Eleusinian Mysteries.’ He paused to look for any sign of recognition on Angelos’ face, but didn’t see any. ‘They were a very important religious festival that took place at the port you now know as Elefsina, but which used to be called Eleusis.’ The Mysteries fully warranted their name, for the ceremonies that had taken place there had been protected by high walls, closed doors and an almost pathological insistence on secrecy that had worked so successfully that almost nothing was now known about them. It was a tantalising ignorance, not least because Sophocles, Pindar, Aristotle, Cicero, Plato and many other sophisticated, intelligent and sceptical people had considered the Mysteries to be among the greatest experiences of their lives. All the experts therefore agreed that something remarkable must have taken place there; the trouble was that no-one knew precisely what. ‘Eleusis was very closely associated with Elysium by the ancient Greeks, partly because their names were so similar, but also because the Mysteries were believed to offer celebrants a glimpse of life after death.’
‘And Petitier was due to give a talk to the conference tomorrow afternoon,’ nodded Angelos. ‘On what aspect, precisely?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Knox. ‘The organisers wouldn’t say, other than vague hints about how sensational it was going to be. But I’m sure they’d tell you, under the circumstances. Or maybe the text is on that laptop of his you took.’
Angelos raised an eyebrow at Theofanis. ‘Laptop?’ he asked.
‘I gave it to Stelios to check out.’
‘Go see if he’s made any progress, would you?’ He waited for Theofanis to leave, then turned back to Knox. ‘Your friend Augustin was also to give a talk tomorrow, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘But he lives in Egypt, as I understand. A Frenchman who lives in Egypt. How precisely is he qualified to give talks on ancient Greek ports?’
‘The Mysteries weren’t just celebrated here in Greece,’ replied Knox. ‘When Alexander the Great went conquering, he set up offshoots all over the ancient world, including Egypt. There’s a whole district called Eleusis in the southern part of Alexandria, and Augustin has been excavating there recently. That’s what his talk was to be on. My girlfriend and I have been helping him with it, so we decided to come along too, make a holiday of it.’
‘Your girlfriend?’ asked Angelos.
‘Gaille Bonnard,’ said Knox, nodding at his statement. ‘She was at the conference all afternoon.’
‘So why weren’t you with her?’
‘I wasn’t in the mood. Besides, I promised Augustin I’d drive him to the airport to pick up Claire.’ He suffered a sudden memory of her emerging from the arrivals hall with Augustin, incandescent with the joy of reunion, clutching a huge bouquet of white roses against her chest, while Augustin pushed a trolley laden with luggage. ‘Travelling light, huh?’ Knox had grinned, kissing her cheek, catching a distinctive chemical-lemon whiff of disposable face-wipe.
‘The damned shipping people!’ she’d exclaimed. ‘They screwed up like you wouldn’t believe. I had to bring everything with me. It’s cost me a fortune in freight!’ She’d shaken her head and turned to the trolley. ‘Pathetic, isn’t it? My whole life, and that’s all I’ve got to show for it.’
‘Your life’s with me now,’ Augustin had said.
Her eyes had glittered; her complexion had turned a glorious glad red. ‘Yes,’ she’d agreed. ‘It is.’
The interview room door opened and Theofanis came back in. ‘I need a word,’ he told Angelos.
‘What about?’
His eyes darted to Knox. ‘Not in here,’ he said. They went out into the corridor, where Theofanis explained something to his boss in a voice too low for Knox to overhear. But it clearly wasn’t good news, if the cry of exasperation that Angelos gave was any guide, or the sound of something glass smashing against a wall.
The door opened again a few moments later and Theofanis came in, looking a little shaken. ‘I’m to take you down to the holding cells,’ he told him. ‘We’ll pick this up again later.’

III
Olympia’s arms were aching as she looked up Ayiou Konstandinou for any sign of her bus. The schoolbooks she’d borrowed from Demetria were growing heavier by the minute, but the pavement was too wet from the recent shower to set them down. She longed to take the weight off her feet, but there was only one bench nearby, and the man sitting there was watching her out of the corner of his eye, his hand in his lap, tickling himself with his thumb. And while it excited her when handsome young men stared at her that way, creeps like this merely left her feeling soiled.
The gold Ferrari caught her eye at once. It wasn’t just that it was absurdly sexy with its low deep growl and long bonnet and polished bodywork, it was the way the driver handled it, straddling lanes and dawdling like a parade lap, showing off his trophy. She watched enviously as he drew nearer, for she liked nice things, Olympia. It gave her something of a shock, then, when the car swerved across traffic and pulled up alongside her. She stooped by the window, assuming the driver wanted directions. But he got out instead, slammed closed his door, smiled pleasantly at her.
‘Do I know you?’ she asked.
He didn’t answer directly. Instead, he walked around to join her on the pavement, his hands held unthreateningly down by his sides. He was a little taller than medium-height, burly and blessed with the kind of tough good looks that made her feel a little strange inside. Mid-to-late twenties, from the look of him, perhaps ten or twelve years older than her. A high forehead and a flat nose and a thin goatee beard, his dark hair cropped short as a soldier’s—though how many soldiers could afford cars like that? Wolfish sharp canines and eyes of such dazzling pale blue that she assumed he had to be wearing contact lenses. A perfectly tailored suit over an open-throated white silk shirt, his shoes soft sheathes of calfskin-leather, his gold watch a little loose around his left wrist, so that it jangled like a bracelet. ‘Let me help you with those,’ he said in correct yet heavily-accented Greek, taking the top two books from her.
‘What are you doing?’ she protested. But she couldn’t exactly stop him, not while still holding the rest of her stack. Besides, there was just something about him, the kind of man who’d do exactly as he wanted, whatever anyone said. He popped his small boot, stowed her books inside and came back for the rest. She watched as he packed those away too, then slammed the boot closed. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked again.
He rejoined her on the pavement, still smiling blandly, as though this was all the most natural thing in the world. But the hammering of her heart assured her that it wasn’t natural at all. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked, her voice crumbling just a little. She looked around for someone to help, someone from the world of adults. But they were all involved in their own business: even the creep on the bench was now looking the other way. ‘Please give me my books back.’
‘They won’t come to any harm in there,’ he said.
‘But they aren’t even mine.’
‘They’ll be fine,’ he told her, taking her hand. ‘Trust me.’ His skin was faintly scratchy to the touch, like the finest imaginable sandpaper. He smiled into her eyes with a directness and self-assurance that made her feel ridiculously weak, like on those mornings when her pillow fell to the floor and she couldn’t even grasp it to pick it back up. He nodded as if he understood exactly, and wanted her to know that she shouldn’t worry, because it was going to be okay. Then he opened the passenger door of the Ferrari and made the tiniest gesture for her to get in. She hesitated, aware she’d have to be crazy to comply, but somehow she found herself doing so. He slammed the door emphatically, walked around to the driver’s side, climbed in beside her. ‘Your seat-belt,’ he said, reaching across her to click it into place. ‘We wouldn’t want you coming to any harm, would we?’
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
‘My name’s Mikhail,’ he told her. ‘And yours?’
She hesitated a moment. ‘Olympia.’
‘Charmed to meet you, Olympia,’ he said. He looked at her in that unblinking way he had, reached across and brushed a strand of hair on her temple back behind her ear, then gently stroked her cheek with his thumb. Her skin tingled where he touched her, her heart twisting and dipping on a fairground ride. There was a moment of almost complete stillness as he smiled more broadly and she found herself smiling in response, unable to help herself. ‘You’re very beautiful, you know, Olympia,’ he said. ‘You’re going to break a lot of hearts.’
She didn’t reply to that. She didn’t know what to say. He settled in his seat, turned on the ignition. The engine made a glorious roar, like some savage beast caged at the zoo. He released the hand-brake, glanced over his shoulder for a gap in traffic. Unfamiliar sensations cramped inside her, hot and icy, sharp and sweet. Strange thoughts had been coming to her at night recently, thoughts of men just like this. But not for a moment had she imagined that one would come into her real life. A voice in her head, her mother’s voice, beseeched her to get out while she could, yet she knew she wouldn’t. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked. But really she was asking: ‘What are you going to do with me?’
‘You’ll see,’ said Mikhail, as he pulled away.

FOUR (#ulink_99cbaf79-f86b-5a45-b32c-2a8f15695c06)
I
A young man with flaming orange hair watched intently as Knox was led into the holding cells. He frowned and sat forward, the strangest expression on his face, as though he recognised Knox and had something of vital importance to tell him. Then he promptly vomited onto the floor.
A mop was brought, but the orange-haired youth simply lay shivering on his side on the wall-bench. None of the cell’s other occupants seemed bothered, so Knox cleaned it up himself. The main door opened at regular intervals, police escorting suspects in and out of the various steel cages. A forty-something man arrived, struggling with his police handlers, accusing them of stitching him up; but, the moment they left him there, he laughed and winked as though it were only a game. A youth with a swollen lip kept testing his front tooth to see if it was loose. An elderly man in a shabby suit wiped his face with his handkerchief in an effort to hide the fact that he was crying. But then the main door opened one more time and Gaille came in, talking intently with a policeman. Knox’s heart leapt, he jumped to his feet and hurried over to the cage door, waited impatiently for the policeman to open it.
‘Christ!’ he muttered, taking her in his arms, hugging her tight, not realising until now quite how much he’d needed to see her. ‘What news of Augustin?’
She gave a little grimace. ‘He’s in intensive care at Evangelismos Hospital. He hadn’t regained consciousness last I heard. Claire’s out of her wits. I promised we’d go straight over, if that’s okay?’
‘I’m free to go?’
‘You will be any moment. Nico called in his sister-in-law.’ She glanced around, lowered her voice, wary of being overheard. ‘Her name’s Charissa. She’s only about two foot tall, but my god! We were getting nowhere until she turned up, and suddenly the police were jumping through hoops and barking like seals.’ Her brow knitted. ‘It is seals that bark, isn’t it?’
‘Dogs have been known to, as well.’
She took his wrist. ‘Listen, I had to make a promise on your behalf. I’ll explain later, but I gave my word you’d stand in for Augustin tomorrow morning and give his talk. Is that okay?’
‘Is that how you got the seal-trainer to come?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Then it’s fine,’ said Knox.
Nico appeared at the door, dabbing his throat with a green-and-white handkerchief. He was about the unhealthiest-looking man Knox had ever met, fat to the point of caricature, mere stubs of arms and legs, so that in his dark shirt and suit he looked like some gigantic anthropomorphic beetle, a character from a children’s book brought miraculously to life. ‘My dear Knox!’ he exclaimed. ‘I can’t believe they put you in such a place!’
‘Don’t worry about it. And thanks for coming.’
‘Of course. Of course.’ He stepped to one side, revealing the woman hidden behind him. She was short, slim, stern and unmistakeably formidable. ‘This is Charissa,’ he said. ‘My dear brother’s wife.’
‘Gaille just told me what you’ve been doing,’ said Knox. ‘Thanks so much.’
She waved his gratitude aside. ‘I spend too much time in conference rooms. Places like this do my heart good.’
‘Not mine,’ said Knox. ‘How soon can I get out?’
‘At once,’ she told him. ‘It’s a disgrace they brought you here at all.’
‘Thank Christ!’
‘I’m afraid that concludes the good news, however. The police seem to have it in for your friend Pascal. They intend to charge him the moment he regains consciousness.’
‘Those bastards!’ scowled Knox. ‘They started it. One of them groped Claire, I swear he did. They’re just covering their arses.’
‘I’m not talking about that,’ said Charissa. ‘I’m talking about Petitier.’
‘How do you mean?’ frowned Knox.
‘You may not know, but he was pronounced dead on arrival at hospital. And the police are planning to charge your friend with his murder.’

II
An apartment, Tbilisi, Georgia
The thumping started again in the flat above, Rezo and his wretched home improvements. Nadya Petrova glared up at her ceiling. She kept going up to remonstrate with him, but there was something about him in his dungarees, with his dusty, paint-spattered hair and his crinkled, cheerful smile, that made her forget her indignation. Until she came back down again, at least, and he resumed his banging.
She sighed and finished her article a little more abruptly than she might otherwise have done, read it through and posted it on her blog, then turned off her laptop. That would have to do for the day. She’d been working monstrously hard this past week, had promised herself the night off. She sat there a moment longer, staring out of her high window, contemplating the rundown yet beautiful buildings on the steep hillside beneath her, their twisted brick chimneys and sloping roofs overrun by ivy and those violet flowers that hung there like bunches of grapes: and for a moment she glimpsed a metaphor for her beloved city that she might use in one of her upcoming newspaper articles, but her mind was too tired to hold onto it, and then it was gone.
She pushed herself to her feet and made her way through to her kitchen. Her limp, the result of riding pillion with an idiot biker trying too hard to impress her, was always more pronounced after a day at her desk. She had soup left over from lunch. She turned on her gas stove to heat it up, then took a bottle of white wine from her refrigerator. She didn’t open it at once, savouring the moment. Remarkably, it still gave her a mild illicit thrill to uncork the first bottle of the night. The promise of happiness, or at least of respite. She looked thoughtfully back up at her ceiling. Maybe Rezo would like a glass. At least it might keep him quiet.
Her telephone began to ring before she could decide. Her nape instantly stiffened; she hated her phone. She told herself to ignore it, let voicemail do its work. But she was a journalist at heart, and you never knew. ‘Yes?’ she sighed. ‘Who is this?’
‘It’s me. Gyorgi.’
‘Gyorgi?’
‘From Airport Operations, remember?’
‘Forgive me,’ she said, reaching for her notepad and pen. ‘It’s been a long day.’
A mirthless laugh. ‘Tell me about it. I came on at six this bloody morning. And what time is it now?’
‘Is he coming home, then? Is that why you called?’
‘No. But the Nergadze Gulfstream is about to leave for Athens again. I thought you’d like to know. Four passengers out, no return yet scheduled. You want details?’
Nadya uncapped her pen with her teeth. ‘Please.’
‘Same terms as before, right?’
‘Sure,’ she said. She couldn’t remember what she’d paid him last time, but he sold himself cheap, she remembered that much. Gambling problems, so Petr had said. But who was she to criticise?
‘Okay, then. Departing Tbilisi International 6.45 p.m. our time. Flight time ninety minutes, arriving Athens Eleftherios Venizelos private jet terminal 7.15 local, thanks to the time difference. Passenger names are Boris Dekanosidze, Edouard Zdanevich, Zaal Markizi, Davit Kipshidze. Mean anything to you?’
‘No.’ In fact, Nadya recognised three of the names, but she had no intention of telling that to a man this indiscreet. ‘I don’t suppose I can get to Athens before them, can I?’
‘What am I? Your travel agent?’
‘I was only wondering.’
‘There aren’t any direct flights from Tbilisi to Athens,’ he sighed. ‘You’d have to change in Istanbul or Kiev. And you won’t get there tonight, not setting out this late. Maybe tomorrow morning.’
‘Thanks. I’ll see you get your money.’ She put down the phone and sat there a minute, massaging her temples. The wine was beckoning. She was exhausted, and fully entitled to her exhaustion too. She’d earned tonight off. There was no way she could beat the plane to Athens, so what could she hope to accomplish? But then she remembered that salty look in Mikhail Nergadze’s eye at the press conference, and it was like touching the shallow puddle around her kettle and jolting from the shock.
She sat up straight. Maybe she couldn’t get to Athens before the Nergadze plane, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have someone waiting when it landed. It was what the Internet had been invented for. With a sigh, she put her white wine back in the freezer, then limped through to her study to switch her laptop back on.

FIVE (#ulink_8f8e8b75-f385-5a57-bd6d-b2595a539a72)
I
There was one advantage working for the Nergadzes, reflected Edouard, as he and Boris were chauffeured out from Tbilisi International’s Jet Aviation Terminal to the waiting Gulfstream 550. They knew how to look after themselves. The co-pilot welcomed them aboard and escorted them back to the luxurious main lounge, where two more Nergadze toughs were playing cards. Boris introduced them all briskly. Zaal was a short, lithe man with restless, suspicious eyes, as though he’d lived his whole life on the run. Davit, by contrast, was a smiling giant with cauliflower ears and a Zorro nose. There was something distinctly familiar about him too, though Edouard couldn’t work out why.
He hesitated after shaking their hands, expecting to be invited to join their game, as Boris was. But no invitation came, so he shrugged and sank into a white-leather seat across the aisle, stretched out his legs, watched the crew go into departure protocol. They were taxiing almost at once, no nonsense about waiting for other aircraft, before launching into the twilight skies above Tbilisi. He watched through his widescreen window the scattered bonfire of the city gradually going out beneath him, doused by a few thin wisps of cloud. Then lamb cutlets were served on silver plates by a disturbingly androgynous flight attendant, along with vintage champagne in black crystal Fabergé glasses.
His sinuses began to squeeze as they approached Athens, his ears blocking, his eyes watering: he held his nose and blew gently to equalise the pressure until they were safely down. Two immigration officers came out to the plane to process them. His ears were still plugged, he had to lean forwards and frown to make out what they were saying. A pair of Mercedes SUVs with tinted windows were waiting on the tarmac, keys already in the ignition. Boris took a folded sheet of note-paper from his pocket. ‘This is Mikhail Nergadze’s address,’ he told Edouard. ‘We’ll meet you there.’
‘But I don’t know Athens. How will I find it?’
‘The cars have SatNav,’ said Boris. ‘You do know how to use SatNav, I trust.’
‘Yes, of course. But where are you going?’
‘None of your damned business.’
Edouard flushed. It was one thing to be treated rudely by Ilya and Sandro Nergadze, another by their staff. ‘I asked you a perfectly civil question,’ he said. ‘If you can’t answer it in a manner that—’
‘Your mobile and wallet,’ said Boris, holding out his hand.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard me,’ said Boris. ‘Your mobile and wallet.’
‘But what if I need them?’ protested Edouard.
‘We’re here on a sensitive mission,’ said Boris. ‘Secure communications only. Your mobile isn’t secure, so give it to me.’
‘What about my wallet? Isn’t that secure either?’
‘Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be,’ said Boris. ‘It won’t do you any good.’ He nodded to Davit, who wrapped him in the straitjacket of his arms while Zaal rifled his pockets, pulled out his mobile and wallet, handed them to Boris.
‘What if I break down?’ asked Edouard feebly.
Boris reached into his back pocket for a wad of euros, peeled off two twenties that he stuffed contemptuously in Edouard’s breast pocket. ‘I’ll want them back,’ he said, ‘or a receipt showing how you spent them. Understand?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, just climbed into the back of the first Mercedes, while Davit and Zaal went up front, and then they were gone, leaving Edouard standing there, with only humiliation for company.

II
There was an awkward moment as Knox was being discharged from the police station, when Theofanis tipped up the translucent pouch into which he’d earlier placed Knox’s belongings, so that they all spilled out across the varnished pine counter: his mobile, his wallet, his keys and the little red-leatherette ring box he’d been carrying around these last few days. He glanced at Gaille; she feigned distraction long enough for him to slip it away in his pocket. Then it was down the steps and out the front, wending between parked police cars and bikes.
Night had fallen. The pavements gleamed from a recent shower. A party of students engulfed them for a moment, boisterously shouting out competing plans for the evening. An elderly lottery-ticket salesman lowered his notched stick like a car park barrier across Knox’s chest, promising him a great fortune for a mere five euros. Exotic birds squawked outside a pet shop, while dogs lay listlessly in small cages behind the windows, like so many Amsterdam whores. They reached a silver BMW 5-Series; a lawyer’s car, not an archaeologist’s. Charissa duly unlocked it and took the wheel, her seat moved as far forward as it would go, so that she could reach the pedals. Nico climbed in the passenger side, while Knox opened the back door for Gaille, then got in alongside her, taking and pressing her hand to thank her for being there.
The BMW’s interior was all polished walnut and pale leather, yet it smelled of fast food and there was a colouring book half-hidden beneath the front seat, along with a few discarded sweet-wrappers. The glimpse of family life made Knox warm to Charissa even more than her getting him out of gaol had done. ‘What now?’ he asked.
‘We go see Augustin,’ said Gaille.
‘I’ve spoken to a contact at the prosecutor’s office,’ said Charissa, pulling away. ‘The police have been uncharacteristically active. They must want a quick result very badly. They’ve already reviewed the hotel’s fifth floor CCTV tapes, for example, and established a provisional timeline of movements. May I run it by you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank you. A little before two this afternoon, Professor Petitier arrived outside Augustin’s door. He had his laptop over his shoulder and was clutching an overnight bag, and he kept looking around as though he was worried he was being followed. He knocked. The door opened. He held a brief conversation, presumably with Augustin, though he’s out of view, then he disappeared inside and the door closed again. At two-fifteen you showed up and knocked on Augustin’s door, then called out.’
‘I told him we needed to get moving.’
‘Augustin appeared a minute or so later,’ nodded Charissa, looking at Knox via the rear-view mirror. ‘Did he give any sign there was someone inside?’
‘No.’
‘Did you hear or see anything?’
‘No.’
‘You walked together to the lifts. A few guests came and went, but no-one left or entered Augustin’s room until you and Augustin reappeared with Claire and a lot of luggage a few minutes after four. You went inside Augustin’s room. The first two policemen arrived several minutes later. Does that sound accurate?’
‘Pretty much. But if the police know that, how can they suspect Augustin?’
‘They claim he killed Petitier before you left for the airport.’
‘That’s ridiculous!’ protested Knox. ‘He was alive when we came in. He had a convulsion on the floor. He even spoke to us, for Christ’s sake!’
‘Calm down. I’m only telling you the police’s current working hypothesis. They think Augustin assaulted Petitier before you both left for the airport, but that his assault wasn’t immediately fatal, and he was still alive when you returned.’
‘No way,’ protested Knox. ‘No way had Augustin just done that to a man. I’d have noticed in his manner.’
‘You’re his best friend,’ observed Charissa. ‘So you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ She glanced up again, anticipating his indignation. ‘Don’t misunderstand: I’m not telling you what I believe. I’m telling you the case the police are making.’
‘I know.’
‘Shall I continue?’
‘Please.’
‘Okay. A preliminary examination suggests that Petitier was killed by a single blow with some hard, heavy blunt instrument. They found no such implement in the hotel room.’
‘What about Petitier’s laptop?’ asked Knox.
‘No traces of hair or blood on it,’ said Charissa. She grunted with wry amusement. ‘And you won’t believe what they’ve done. Some idiot policeman started it up. When it asked him for a password, he typed in a few wild guesses. The damned thing only started chewing up its data.’
‘Hell!’ snorted Knox. That must have been what Theofanis had told Angelos outside the interview room. ‘How much have they lost?’
‘They don’t know yet. And they may still be able to retrieve it. It’s not like we don’t have computer experts here in Athens. But whether they’ll bother…’ She gave an expressive shrug to suggest that they’d bother if it would serve their purposes, but not otherwise. ‘Anyway, Petitier’s overnight bag was ripped open, and some of its contents appear to be missing, because there’s not enough to have made it look as bulky as it did on the camera. They’re considering the possibility that the murder weapon came originally from Petitier’s case, but that Augustin took it away with him when he left for the airport. CCTV footage apparently shows him carrying a bag. Is that right?’
Knox frowned. It was right. A large cream canvas bag with something bulky inside. ‘What’s that?’ he’d asked. ‘Mind your own business,’ Augustin had retorted. Knox felt a first chill of anxiety. ‘It didn’t look heavy,’ he told Charissa. ‘I mean, nothing to brain a man with.’
‘How do you know that? Did you take it from him?’
‘This is ridiculous!’
‘I’m only asking you what the police will ask. What happened to it?’
Knox sat back, striving to remember. He’d stayed with the car himself, wanting Augustin and Claire to enjoy a private reunion. ‘He took it into the terminal,’ he said.
‘You’re sure?’
Knox nodded. ‘I remember him holding it aside when he met someone coming the other way.’
‘What about when he came back out?’
Knox frowned and shook his head. ‘He had all Claire’s luggage stacked up on a cart. It may have been amongst it, but I can’t remember.’
‘Think,’ urged Charissa.
‘This is preposterous,’ protested Knox. ‘This whole thing is preposterous.’
‘You have to understand something, Mr Knox,’ said Charissa. ‘Last year, our Athens police shot and killed a fifteen-year-old boy. You may remember—we had riots right across Greece. The situation here is still extremely tense. The authorities will be praying that nothing happens to exacerbate it; they’ll be desperate to show that Augustin only got what he deserved. If that means being selective in their investigation, or smearing him or leaking incriminating details to their pet journalists, then that’s what they’ll do. Our job right now is to anticipate every move they might make, and be ready. So I ask again: did he bring this bag back out?’
‘I can’t remember,’ said Knox. ‘But isn’t this all beside the point anyway? I mean, Augustin had no earthly reason to kill Petitier. Aren’t murderers supposed to have a motive?’
It was a rhetorical question; he didn’t expect an answer. So it was something of a shock when Nico half turned in his seat and pulled an apologetic face. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I hate to say this, but I’m rather afraid your friend did have a motive after all.’

III
Nikortsminda Castle, Georgia
Kiko Zdanevich had never seen anything quite like it, not outside of school trips and history books, at least. A moonlit fortress of ivy-covered stone with high battlements for its archers and towering pointed turrets from which brave knights-errant like himself could rescue beautiful imprisoned princesses, all set on a small island close to the edge of an ink-black lake, surrounded by ancient forest and snow-capped mountains. He pressed his face against the window as they wound along the country lane toward the island, watched open-mouthed as the drawbridge lowered for them, and the great wooden gates creaked open. ‘Is this really where we’re staying, Mama?’ he asked.
‘I suppose it must be,’ she said sternly, as though offended by his excitement. She’d been in a strange mood ever since Alexei Nergadze and the men in black suits had come for them earlier with a message from their father that they were to spend the weekend with the Nergadzes.
They passed through the outer gates into a vast central courtyard, spotlights illuminating lawns and interior battlements, open flights of stone steps up to them, a chapel with a tall spire and a long line of white-painted stables and garages, not to mention the central keep of grey stone, outside whose front doors they now stopped.
Liveried servants hurried down to collect their luggage from the boot, while Alexei Nergadze led them inside, then down a long and gloomy gallery of stern-faced portraits to a high-stepped spiral staircase. Kiko’s heart swelled briefly at the prospect of sleeping in one of the turret rooms, but they headed along another corridor instead to a rather shabby bedroom with two sagging single beds. ‘The girls will be sleeping in here,’ he said, nodding to them to stay while one of the servants unpacked their luggage.
‘What about me and Kiko?’ asked his mother.
‘You’re further along.’
‘We want to be together.’
‘We have a full house this weekend. This is the best we can do.’
‘Then we’ll all be fine in here, thank you.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Alexei. ‘My grandfather would never forgive me if I didn’t make you all as comfortable as possible.’
‘But I assure you we—’
‘You’re coming with me,’ said Alexei. They followed him and the second servant to another set of stairs. ‘I don’t like this, Mama,’ murmured Kiko. ‘I want to go home.’
She put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Everything’s going to be fine, sweetheart, I promise.’
Alexei showed them next to Kiko’s room. It was grander by far than his sisters’. It had its own fireplace and chairs and desks and tapestries on the wall and huge cream curtains that could be opened and closed by pulling on a rope, and a four-poster bed hung with pink silk decorated with roses. He threw his mother a pleading glance as Alexei led her off to her own room. She gave him just the hint of a wink before she left, asking him to play along for the time being, promising it would be all right.
It was another ten minutes before he heard footsteps outside and then she came back in, carrying her bag. ‘You’re staying with me?’ he asked eagerly.
‘The bed’s big enough, isn’t it?’ she smiled.
‘It’s big enough for a king!’ he cried, climbing up onto it, then jumping up and down.
‘Careful, now,’ she admonished. ‘We don’t want to break anything.’
Kiko nodded and went to the mullioned window, cupped his hands around his eyes, the better to see. Three black limousines with tinted windows were coming in across the drawbridge, their headlights sweeping across the castle’s interior. A canvas canopy had been erected outside the keep’s front steps since they’d arrived, and the cars stopped one by one beneath it. He could hear their doors opening and closing, the cheerful chatter of guests as they made their way inside.
‘What’s got you so riveted?’ asked his mother, putting her hands upon his shoulders, laying a kiss on his crown.
‘People,’ said Kiko. ‘Lots of them.’
‘Wow!’ she said. ‘There are a lot, aren’t there?’
‘What do you think that canopy is for?’ he asked.
‘I suspect it must be to keep all these guests dry from the rain.’
‘But it’s not even raining.’
‘Yes. But they weren’t to know that when they put it up, were they?’
‘I think it’s to stop those cameras in the sky from seeing who they all are,’ declared Kiko, who had a fondness for spy films.
His mother ruffled his hair affectionately. ‘You do have an imagination, don’t you?’ she said, drawing the curtains and leading him away.
‘Yes,’ he smiled. ‘I suppose I must.’

SIX (#ulink_aa886556-9338-5603-a0f7-64c963c94b44)
I
Edouard tapped Mikhail Nergadze’s address into his Mercedes’ SatNav, only to discover that someone had been making mischief, downloading a husky-voiced woman to deliver breathy doubleentendre instructions. ‘After eighty metres, unnh, turn hard left,’ she urged, triggering in Edouard a sudden welcome memory of the one time he’d ever come even close to infidelity, tempted into a seedy Kiev escort bar by boredom and a leather-clad whore in icing-sugar make-up, then having to spend an exorbitant sum on champagne before he could negotiate his escape.
‘Right turn ahead. Get ready. Yes. Yes. Yes. Now!’
He turned her down as low as he could, then lost himself in a brown study, brooding on Nina and the kids, how to help them. Maybe he should get in touch with Tamaz. They weren’t particularly close, but they were still brothers. Tamaz had invited him over for a drink a few weeks before, had introduced him to a man called Viktor, then had left them alone together. Viktor’s pitch had been simple and direct: give him Ilya Nergadze and name his price. Edouard, still believing back then the Nergadzes’ own view of themselves as victims of government propaganda, had stormed angrily away and hadn’t spoken to Tamaz since, but maybe—
‘Left turn, unh, coming up.’
He shook his head. It was madness even to think of it. For all he knew, Viktor was a Nergadze mole, out to test his loyalty. He turned on the radio, punched channels until he found some music to soothe him. He drove for forty minutes, skirting eastern Athens to its northern foothills. The roads grew narrow and quiet. Through gaps in walls and fences, he caught glimpses of expensive villas. He reached a high stone wall topped with broken glass, a row of pines behind, like troops at the battlements. A private drive was flanked by ‘Keep Out’ signs, but the gates were open and his SatNav siren urged him on, so he crunched up the gravelled track to a whitewashed mansion lit by discreetly positioned spotlights, a gold Ferrari parked obliquely outside, its passenger door hanging open, as though someone had been in a hurry to get inside.
Edouard pulled up behind it, then sat there for a while, hoping Boris and the others would arrive. He didn’t fancy going in alone. But the minutes passed and there was no sign of them, so he got out and went to the front door, which was fractionally ajar. A Nino Chkheidze love song was playing inside. A Georgian, then; this had to be the place. He knocked twice, but no one answered. The song set out on its familiar crescendo, came finally to its end. He knocked again before the next song could begin. Still nothing. He went cautiously inside, into a vast open-plan atrium two storeys high, topped by a magnificent glass dome, through which he could just about see the night sky. There was a gleaming white-and-chrome kitchen to his left, a polished mahogany dining table and chairs to his right; and, straight ahead, a semicircle of black leather sofas and armchairs facing a huge plasma TV tuned mutely to the 24-hour news. Marble staircases rose on either side of him to a first-floor landing that girdled the atrium like a belt. Numerous doors led off this landing, presumably to bedrooms and bathrooms.
‘Hello!’ he called out. ‘Anyone here?’ But he could hardly be heard above the music, so he made his way over to the music centre. A glass coffee table was covered with the debris of an impromptu celebration, two empty champagne bottles, some disposable patisserie trays, an overflowing ashtray and an enamel box of white powder that he hurriedly closed and tried to pretend he hadn’t seen. A skirt was lying discarded on the floor, a torn white blouse, white knickers, a blue sport’s bra. He found several remote controls, pressed mute buttons until finally there was silence. ‘Hello!’ he called out again. ‘Anyone home?’
A door opened above and a man appeared on the landing, naked except for a saffron towel tucked around his waist. His torso and arms were lean and muscled like a middleweight boxer, and he had a crude prison tattoo on his right biceps. A Nergadze for sure, Edouard knew, partly from his characteristic broad nose and high forehead, partly from the swagger with which he held himself, but mostly from the calm yet purposeful way he was aiming a sawn-off shotgun down at Edouard’s face.

II
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ demanded Knox angrily. ‘There’s no way on earth Augustin killed Petitier.’
Nico held up a palm. ‘You misunderstand,’ he said. ‘I’m not suggesting he did. All I’m saying is that the police might be able to establish a motive.’ He shifted even further around in his seat, as far as his bulk would allow, squeezed between the door and the hand-brake. ‘Do you know why I offered Petitier the chance to give a talk?’
‘No.’
‘I was originally planning to take that slot myself, but I stood aside for him. I didn’t do that lightly, I assure you. I like to talk.’ He gave a self-deprecating chuckle. ‘It’s one of the reasons I organise these conferences, frankly, because no one else ever invites me. But I had a good reason to stand aside this time. You see, Petitier emailed me six weeks or so ago, demanding I let him address the conference. Very abrasive, very arrogant. I hardly even remembered him, though he used to be quite close to one of my colleagues at the university.’
‘And?’
‘I thanked him for his interest, but told him I’d already filled all the speaking slots. Which was true, of course; these things get finalised months in advance. I said he was welcome to speak at one of our roundtables. He insisted that wasn’t good enough and assured me it would be worth my while, that he had something extraordinary to share with the world. I asked him what; he refused to say. I assumed I’d hear no more. You always get these cranks hanging around conferences, convinced they’ve solved all the riddles of the ancient world. But then a package arrived at my office. A note from Petitier, along with ten Linear A and Linear B seal and seal-stone fragments wrapped in cotton wool. They’re not my specialty at all, so I took photos and emailed them around: because if these fragments were already in the public record, one or other of my colleagues would have been bound to recognise them. But none did. So it looked as though Petitier had at the very least found some new seals, and thus very probably an important new site too.’
‘Even so,’ said Knox. ‘That scarcely merits a platform at a conference like this.’
‘No,’ agreed Nico. ‘But there was something else. It slipped past me, because I’m no language expert. But one of my colleagues picked up on it at once. You see, while none of the Linear A seals were decipherable, two of the Linear B seals were. Or, at least, one word on each of them was.’
‘And?’
‘The first word is “gold” or “golden”.’
‘And the second?’
A somewhat sheepish look spread across Nico’s face. ‘It means “fleece”,’ he said.

SEVEN (#ulink_bf7623a0-968f-5a60-991b-d64fc8673b1f)
I
Edouard raised his hands numbly as Mikhail Nergadze pointed his shotgun down at his face. ‘Please don’t shoot,’ he begged.
‘Give me one good reason.’
‘My name’s Edouard Zdanevich,’ he swallowed. ‘I work for your father. He sent me to—’
‘The antiquities expert.’
‘Yes.’
Mikhail kept his shotgun aimed at Edouard’s face a moment longer, perhaps assessing the story, more likely to emphasise who was in control; but then he lowered it and held it down by his side. ‘I was expecting Boris and some others.’
‘They’ll be here soon. They had an errand to—’
A muffled cry came unexpectedly from the room behind Mikhail. A woman, in obvious fear and distress. Edouard looked up in bewilderment. She cried out again, louder and clearer, as though she’d managed to spit out a gag. She sounded young. ‘Who’s that?’ he asked.
‘And that’s your business because?’
The girl’s shouting continued, anxious, beseeching, panicked, her Greek too fast for Edouard’s limited grasp, but the gist all too clear. He hesitated. Mikhail smiled down at him, aware what must be going through his mind, curious how he’d respond. He couldn’t just stand there, so he climbed the stairs, suppressing his fear as he walked past Mikhail, then stopped in dismay when he saw the girl lying naked on the bare mattress, all the sheets, pillows and duvet having spilled to the ground. She saw him and tried to cover herself with her right arm and by turning onto her side. Her movements were so awkward that they drew attention to her left wrist, handcuffed to the bedpost. From her modest breasts, fat hips and fluffy pubis, he guessed she must be about fifteen years old, the same age as his own twins. There were multiple livid bruises on her upper arms and chest, and what looked like a cigarette burn near her navel, and a livid redness around her throat, as though she’d been nearly asphyxiated. She would have been pretty, except for the accidental mask of hair glued by her own tears and blood to her face. There were spatters of red on the mattress too, along with other motley stains that Edouard had no desire to analyse. He turned appalled to Mikhail. ‘What the hell have you been doing to her?’ he demanded.
‘Nothing she didn’t want.’
‘How can you say that? Look at her! She’s begging you to let her go.’
‘What a person says isn’t necessarily what they want.’
Edouard shook his head. ‘How old is she?’
‘How would I know that?’
‘Didn’t you think about asking?’
Mikhail laughed. ‘Look at you! You just want her for yourself, don’t you?’
‘You’re sick.’
‘Go ahead. She won’t mind, believe me. She’ll enjoy it.’
‘What kind of man are you?’
‘The kind you’d be, if you had any balls.’
‘I’m letting her go,’ said Edouard. ‘Where’s the key?’
‘I’m not done with her yet.’
‘Yes, you are.’ He spoke boldly and locked gazes with Mikhail, certain that righteousness would be enough. But Mikhail’s ice-blue eyes punctured his confidence, and he realised too late that this was a different kind of man to any he’d ever dealt with before, even to the other Nergadzes. His heart began to race, he felt a dryness in his throat, smelled a faintly rancid odour that he intuitively recognised as his own fear. It triggered an unwelcome memory: waiting to be seated at a Tbilisi restaurant many years before, a drunken man tripping over his own feet and bumping into a second man sitting on a barstool nursing a glass of malt liquor clanking with ice, making him spill a little over his hand. His apology had been too slow, too dismissive. The strangest look had passed over the seated man’s face. He’d shattered his crystal tumbler on the marble bar-top, then turned and thrust its splintered base into the drunk’s face before giving it a sharp leftwards twist, shredding the man’s eyeball and ripping his nose and cheek apart, blood spurting and spattering across the bar and around the restaurant as he’d crashed howling into tables. Over the years since, Edouard had forgotten the victim’s ravaged face, but not the chill calculating look on the assailant’s face in the half-second before he’d attacked, as though rage was an army within his control, a force to be deployed at will.
The girl must have seen the shift in power; her sobs grew louder, more despairing. Her fear infected Edouard. He felt beads of sweat on his forehead, and trickles running coldly down from his armpits. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, lowering his eyes submissively. ‘I didn’t mean anything.’
For a moment he feared his apology wouldn’t work, but then the intensity of the moment seemed to slacken, and just as suddenly it was gone altogether. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ shrugged Mikhail. ‘We do have business to discuss.’ He picked up his trousers, fished out a small steel key, tossed it across.
Edouard’s hands were shaking as he struggled to unlock the cuffs; but finally they snapped open and the girl grabbed a sheet to cover herself, hurried sobbing to the bathroom. ‘I’ll get her clothes,’ said Edouard, heading back out onto the landing. Boris and his men had just arrived, were taking seats around the coffee table, lighting cigarettes. He gave them a sour look, for they must have heard his confrontation with Mikhail. But you needed a thick skin to work for the Nergadzes; you needed to know who was boss. ‘Maybe we should give her something,’ suggested Edouard, when he went back up. ‘To keep her mouth shut.’
‘She won’t talk,’ said Mikhail.
‘How can you be sure? I mean, what would your grandfather say if this got out?’
‘I didn’t do anything to her that she didn’t agree to. Ask her if you like.’
Edouard knocked on the bathroom door. ‘I’ve got your clothes.’ The door opened a fraction, her hand shot out and grabbed them. He stood there, all too aware of Mikhail watching him, until the door opened again and she emerged, her face washed but pale, her hair brushed, holding the rip in her blouse.
Edouard put an arm around her shoulder and led her towards the bedroom door, but Mikhail stepped in front of her. He had his white jeans in his hand, and now he pulled his leather thong belt free from its loops. The girl’s face crumpled at the sight. ‘No,’ she begged. ‘Please no.’
Mikhail smiled reassuringly. ‘Don’t be alarmed. I just wanted to make a point to our friend Edouard here. He thinks you’re going to tell people what happened tonight. But you’re not, are you?’
‘No. No. I swear I’m not.’
‘Not even if they try to force you?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you know where I live,’ she said, as if repeating lines. ‘Because of what you’ll do to me and my parents and my brother if I do.’
‘Exactly,’ said Mikhail. And he stepped out of her way.
Edouard steered her out the door, to the stairs and down. ‘Where do you live?’ he asked.
‘Piraeus,’ she said, her whole body shuddering wildly, as though she’d just come in from a blizzard.
‘I’ll get one of the guys to drive you.’
She grabbed his arm. ‘Can’t you take me? Please.’
Mikhail emerged onto the landing, now dressed in the white jeans, a maroon silk shirt and a black leather trench-coat. Boris rose to his feet. ‘Great to see you again, boss,’ he said. ‘It’s been too long.’
‘Who are those two with you?’
‘Davit and Zaal,’ said Boris, indicating them in turn. ‘They’re good men. I chose them myself.’
‘You brought the money?’
Boris nodded and cleared space on the coffee table, then laid a large steel case flat upon it. He entered combinations into the two locks, then opened it up and turned it around for Mikhail to see. There were fat bundles of euros within, every denomination from 50s to 500s, more cash than Edouard had ever seen. Even the girl gave a little gasp.
‘How much?’ grunted Mikhail.
‘Four million,’ said Boris.
‘I asked for ten.’
‘This is all we could arrange at such short notice. Besides, you know how negotiations are. If you show up with ten million, then ten million is what they’ll—’
‘Is that what my grandfather told you to tell me?’
‘Yes.’
There was a moment of silence as Mikhail absorbed this response. It was like watching a land-mine that had just made an unexpected noise. ‘Fine,’ said Mikhail, finally. ‘It will do.’ He walked downstairs and over to the case, took out a bundle of 50-euro notes, rolled it up into a cylinder. Then he went to the girl, hooked a finger into her bra, tucked the bank-notes inside. ‘Buy yourself something pretty,’ he told her. ‘A dress or a necklace or something. You can wear it for me when you come back tomorrow.’
‘Come back?’ she asked, appalled.
‘You will, you know.’ He turned to Edouard. ‘Women always fall for their first man. It’s in their genes or something.’
‘I’m not coming back,’ she protested. ‘I’m never coming back.’
‘That’s what they all say,’ he grinned. ‘But then they come back after all. They just can’t help themselves.’ He turned to the others. ‘Davit. I want you to drive her into town. Find her a taxi. Make sure she’s well taken care of. Then come back here. We’ve got work to do.’
‘Yes, boss.’ He came across and took the girl by her elbow.
‘What about my books?’ she wailed. ‘Can’t I at least have my books back?’
‘You can pick them up tomorrow.’
‘But you promised. They’re not even mine. They’re Demetria’s.’
‘I said tomorrow,’ said Mikhail. ‘Get here around five. We’ll be busy until then.’
‘But tomorrow I’m going to—’
Mikhail’s face darkened. ‘Don’t make me come looking for you, Olympia,’ he warned. ‘I will if I have to; but you’ll regret it, I promise.’ He watched Davit escort her out the door, then turned back to Edouard and the others. ‘Well, then,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Perhaps we should get down to some business.’

II
‘You’re kidding,’ said Knox dazedly. ‘Petitier had found the golden fleece?’
‘That’s not what I said,’ replied Nico carefully. ‘And it’s not what he said either. At most, he implied that he’d found it, or something to do with it. He left himself plenty of room to back away from it, if he so wished. He could have put it down to a misunderstanding. He could have claimed it was pure coincidence that those were the only two words on the seals that we could read.’
‘He was a Minoan scholar. No one would have believed him.’
‘No,’ agreed Nico. ‘Which is precisely why I agreed to step aside so that he could give his talk.’
‘And Augustin knew about this?’
‘I can’t say for sure, but it’s certainly possible. You see, I—’ He broke off as the BMW bumped onto the kerb and pulled up outside an imposing-looking building.
‘Evangelismos Hospital,’ said Charissa economically. ‘You all go on in. I’ll find somewhere to park.’
Nico shook his head. ‘I have to leave you, I’m afraid. I need to go to the hotel, tell all our delegates about tomorrow’s revised programme.’ He pulled an anxious face. ‘You do understand?’
‘Of course,’ said Knox. ‘But maybe we could meet up later? For dinner, say?’
‘Excellent idea. Do you know the Island?’
‘No.’
He kissed his fingertips. ‘It’s in Exarchia. Charissa knows where. The best seafood in Athens, and not too expensive. Not for what it is, at least. I’ll book us a table, if you like.’
‘Sounds perfect. What time?’
He checked his watch. ‘Nine-thirty, say. That should give me enough time. If I can find a taxi, at least.’
‘You two go on in ahead,’ said Charissa. ‘I’ll drop Nico at the hotel, then come back.’
Knox and Gaille made their way through an archway into the staff car park. A TV crew and a couple of journalists were having a cigarette and a laugh together at the foot of the front steps, waiting for something to happen. In the evening gloom, it was easy enough for Knox and Gaille to slip past them and up the marble steps. The woman behind the information desk was remarkably square-looking, as though someone had thrown a rug over a washing machine. They asked her about Augustin. She directed them to ICU One, but warned that the police weren’t allowing him any visitors other than his fiancée.
Bulbous lamps glowed like multiple moons in the high, wide corridors. Hard heels clacked like dominoes on the meander-patterned tiles. Monitors, gurneys, laundry baskets and other hospital paraphernalia were stacked against walls painted pastel yellows and blues, a worthy attempt at cheerfulness that had long-since faded into drabness. A wail pierced the hush: someone struggling with fear or grief. Knox flinched at a decade-old memory, walking to another ICU unit in a different Greek hospital, saying goodbye to his sister Bee on the day he’d been told she was going to die. The muffled, oppressive echoes of these places, the brutal whiteness of the equipment, that numb, dreamlike sense of wafting rather than walking, of being unable to protect the ones you love.
A policeman was sitting on a hard chair outside the ICU’s double doors, reading a magazine. ‘Damn,’ muttered Knox. He’d hoped the police had merely issued edicts against visitors, not actually put someone on watch. A heart-monitor was on a trolley against the wall. ‘Distract him,’ he told Gaille, as he grabbed it.
She nodded and went to ask a question. The policeman shook his head. She asked him something else, smiled and touched his arm. She had the most disarming smile, Gaille. It could melt glaciers. The policeman rose to his feet and walked a little way with her, then pointed her up the corridor, laughing and waving his hands, barely glancing at Knox as he ducked his head and pushed the monitor through the ICU department’s double doors. He left it against the wall, washed his hands with gel at a basin, dried himself off, opened the door to the ward itself. Two nurses behind the reception desk were squabbling in hushed low voices; he caught something about missing supplies. Claire was in the far corner, sitting on the far side of one of the four beds. Even though Knox had braced himself, it was still a shock to see Augustin, the tubes and monitors of life-support, the cage over his chest to keep the bedclothes off his upper body, the white bandaging around his skull, the oxygen mask over his mouth and nose, his cheekbone swollen and tinted lurid inhuman colours.
Claire must have sensed his arrival, for she looked up, haggard, grey and harrowed, no remnant of her earlier joy. She frowned and blinked to see him standing there, as though struggling to place him. Then she touched a finger to her lips, got to her feet and came to join him outside.
‘How is he?’ he asked.
‘How does he look?’
Knox didn’t know what to say, what Claire needed from him. Situations like these rendered normal language and the conventions of human behaviour inadequate. He put his arms around her, held her against him, stroked her hair. It took a moment for the sobs to arrive, but once they’d started she couldn’t stop, her shoulders shaking with grief, anxiety and fear—and not just on Augustin’s account, he imagined. It was one of the crueller aspects of tragedies like this, that they made good people like Claire worry about their own futures, so that they’d later lacerate themselves for their selfish thoughts while their loved ones lay dying. He put his mouth close to her ear and murmured: ‘It’s going to be all right. I promise.’
She stiffened at once, so that he knew it had been a mistake. She broke away, took a step or two back, wiped her eyes. ‘All right?’ she asked. ‘Are you an expert on traumatic brain injury, or something?’
‘I didn’t mean—’
‘Augustin’s skull has almost certainly been fractured, and his parietal and frontal lobes violently traumatised. His blood-brain barrier will have broken down. Cerebral oedemas are going to form. Do you know what they are?’
‘No.’
‘They occur when blood and other fluids are pumped into the brain faster than they can be removed. The whole head swells up, like a sink filling when the plughole is blocked. First it will affect his white matter, then his grey matter. It’s one of the most common causes of irreversible brain damage, and it’s happening to Augustin right now, and there’s nothing I can do about it, except hold his hand and pray. And you’re telling me it’s going to be all right.’
‘I’m so sorry, Claire.’
She nodded twice, wiped her eye again with the heel of her hand. ‘I’ve worked in a hospice,’ she told him. ‘I’ve seen car-crash victims and gunshot victims and people with brain tumours. You think I haven’t gone through this before? The doctors are putting Augustin into an induced coma: who knows if and when he’ll come out of it? And then what? Traumatic brain injuries don’t kill at once. Did you know that? They take their own sweet fucking time about it, while the body just falls apart piece-by-piece around them. And even if he should pull through, he’ll be at increased risk for the rest of his life from tumours, depression, impotence, epilepsy, Alzheimer’s, headaches, you name it. So please explain to me just how it’s going to be all right.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ repeated Knox helplessly.
‘What good is that? What good is being sorry? What are you going to do about it?’
‘Everything I can.’
She nodded briskly, as though this was what she’d been working for. ‘One of the nurses overheard the police earlier. They want to move Augustin out of here. They want to take him into custody. He’ll die in custody. That’s what they want, of course. They want him to die, because they think this whole incident will go away with him. So if you really want to help, do something about that. Stop them from moving him.’
‘I’ll do my best. I promise.’
‘Your best? Like when that fucking monster was beating Augustin half to death?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean you could have at least tried to stop him. You could at least have tried. He would have done, if it had been you. He’d have done anything for you. But you just stood there.’
Silence fell. Knox looked helplessly at her, feeling sick. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.
But she turned her back on him and didn’t look round until after he’d left the ICU.

EIGHT (#ulink_e7945511-754d-502e-baee-62effcc87cac)
I
The log fire threw flickering light around the castle’s great hall, tinting the stone walls orange-grey. It burned so strongly that Sandro Nergadze could feel its warmth on his back through his shirt and jacket. Yet he felt a distinct chill all the same. ‘Would you care to repeat that,’ he said tightly.
‘You’ve got to understand something,’ said General Iosep Khundadze. ‘What you’re talking about is a situation where the normal army command will break down.’ He nodded at the two media magnates seated further along the oak table, who’d just outlined their plans. ‘Even if these two can make their vote-rigging charges stick—’
‘We can make them stick,’ said the newspaper tycoon named Merab. ‘If we get the exit-poll data we’ve been promised, at least.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ demanded Levan Kitesovi, head of Georgia’s largest independent polling agency, angrily. ‘Isn’t my word good enough now?’
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ said Sandro. ‘We have to trust each other. That’s why we’re all here.’ Everyone was a little on edge. Rumours were swirling of a new intelligence department set up specifically to investigate the Nergadze campaign. Their security arrangements had been duly tightened, because it could be awkward for their guests to explain what they were doing here this weekend. They’d swept all the rooms for bugs, had taken additional precautions against aerial surveillance, had hired more guards. But such security measures were a double-edged sword: they always made people feel more nervous.
He turned back to the general. ‘Can we please assume that the first part of our plan has worked. Otherwise, there’s really no point us discussing it. It’s election day. The media use the exit polls to announce a come-from-behind Ilya Nergadze victory. But then the government declares victory. We flood the radios with stories of government lackeys carting off ballot boxes in mysterious vans. Our sources inside the ministries leak corroboration. Our friends across the world denounce the president as corrupt. The Supreme Court, Church and police…’ he leaned forward to acknowledge their representatives ‘…will speak out on our behalf, or at least remain deadlocked. And so everyone will look to the ultimate arbiters of power in such situations: the army. Last month you assured us that you could bring your colleagues with you; enough of them to make the difference, at least. What’s happened to change your mind?’
A faint sheen had appeared on the general’s brow. When he’d made his promises, Ilya Nergadze’s cause had still seemed hopeless. ‘As I was saying,’ he growled. ‘Even if you can make all this happen, even if it looks like the president is stealing victory, the whole army won’t suddenly switch sides. At best, what you’ll get is factions. I can certainly help you exploit those factions.’
‘I should hope so,’ muttered Sandro, sitting back in his chair, looking up at the family portraits that liberally decorated the walls of the great hall, dating from the reign of Erekle II right down to the present day. All had the characteristic Nergadze features; all were shown as noble and brave and powerful; all were signed by one or other of the great masters of Georgian art. And all were fakes he’d commissioned over the past few years, to give their family a necessary patina of heritage and respectability. The whole world was a fraud; some people knew it, but most didn’t.
‘But that’s not enough,’ continued the general. ‘You need to understand how the army works. When the usual chain of command breaks down, as it will in this situation, you become dependent upon other factors. In particular, you become dependent upon the will of the soldiers themselves. They’ll no longer have to obey orders so much as choose which orders to obey. And they’ll follow the officers they admire and trust, not the ones with the most pips and stripes. Those are the people we need on our side; and it may surprise you to know that bribes will only go so far with such men. It may surprise you to know that men like this, the soldiers that other soldiers most look up to, actually value notions like honour and courage and patriotism.’
‘Spare us the sermon,’ said Ilya. ‘Get to the point.’
‘Very well,’ said the general, meeting Ilya’s gaze. ‘The point is this. They won’t do it. Not for you, at least. They don’t like you enough.’
‘Why not?’ asked Ilya.
‘Because they think you’re corrupt. And they won’t risk civil war just to replace one corrupt politician with another.’
There was a shocked silence. No one spoke to or about Ilya Nergadze that way. ‘How dare you?’ burst out Sandro. ‘My father’s not corrupt.’
‘Really?’ replied the general dryly. ‘Then why the fuck does he pay me a hundred thousand dollars every month?’
A ripple of laughter, evident admiration for such blunt talk, was quickly stifled. ‘Very well,’ said Ilya, who knew when to bully and when to listen. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘Our country is still bleeding from the Russian fiasco,’ said the general. ‘People are desperate for change, but not just any change. They want change with hope. They want change with honour. Convince them that you’re the man of destiny Georgia is crying out for, and the army will flock to you like to a saviour, I won’t need to persuade anyone. At the moment you’re head of a political party; you need to become head of a movement. You need to inspire people. You need to hold up a flag for them to follow. Until then…’ He shook his head.
Silence fell around the table following this sober assessment. Everyone knew in their hearts it was true, not just for the army, but for Georgia as a whole. Ilya leaned forward. ‘A flag for them to follow,’ he murmured. ‘There is something.’
‘What?’
He glanced at Sandro. ‘My son is working on it as we speak.’
Everyone looked Sandro’s way. He felt his gut clench. Surely it was too early to float the idea of the golden fleece. If nothing came of it, they’d be a joke. He looked up, seeking inspiration, at the great shield on the wall opposite. It was so brightly polished that he could see the blur of his own reflection, and the orange glow of the fire like a halo behind him. It carried the Nergadze family crest, a lion rampant holding a spear. He’d commissioned that too, along with all the other weaponry and suits of armour that bedecked the walls. Curious about how convincing these fakes were, he’d taken several to Tbilisi where he’d arranged for Edouard, their tame historian, to come across them as if by accident. How the great expert had drooled! How they’d laughed at him once he’d gone! But if Gurieli could fool someone like him…‘I need to speak to some people before I can share this with you all,’ he said. ‘But, believe me, you can expect to hear some very exciting news indeed.’
The meeting broke up soon afterwards, everyone trading cheerful banter as their mouths watered in anticipation of another Nergadze banquet. Ilya tugged Sandro back by his sleeve. ‘You’d better get me my damned fleece,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry, father,’ Sandro assured him. ‘I’ll get it for you. One way or another, I’ll get it.’

II
‘To success!’ toasted Mikhail, as they stood around the coffee table with their shot-glasses of vodka straight from the freezer.
‘To success!’ they echoed.
The icy viscous liquid chilled and warmed simultaneously Edouard’s throat and chest. His eyes began to water so that he had to blink. He wasn’t used to such strong liquor, but refusing wasn’t an option. Boris refilled their glasses, then Mikhail threw himself into an armchair and put his feet up on the coffee-table. ‘So do you all know what you’re doing here?’ he asked.
‘I do,’ said Boris.
‘Me, too,’ said Zaal.
Edouard settled on the far arm of the sofa, the furthest he could get from Mikhail. ‘I only know what your father told me,’ he said.
‘And that is?’
Edouard allowed himself the faintest of smiles. ‘That we’re here to buy the golden fleece.’
‘You think this is a joke?’ frowned Mikhail.
‘The fleece doesn’t exist,’ said Edouard. ‘It never existed. It was only ever a legend, that’s all.’
‘You’re wrong,’ said Mikhail. ‘It existed. It exists. And we’re going to buy it tomorrow.’
Edouard spread his hands. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘your father and grandfather asked me to come here because I’m an expert in these things. And, as an expert, I’m telling you that there never was any such thing as the golden fleece. It was just a mishmash of local traditions and fanciful storytelling and—’
Mikhail’s face darkened. He pushed himself to his feet and walked over to where Edouard sat on the arm of the sofa. ‘I’m telling you that the golden fleece exists. Are you calling me a liar?’
‘No,’ said Edouard, dropping his eyes. ‘Of course not. I only meant that—’
‘Only meant?’ scoffed Mikhail. He placed the tip of his index finger on the bridge of Edouard’s nose, then gently pushed him backwards. Edouard tried to resist, but there was something inexorable about Mikhail, he felt himself tipping and then he overbalanced and went sprawling, his vodka spilling over his wrist and the floor. ‘You intellectuals!’ said Mikhail, coming to stand above him. ‘You’re all the same. You sneer at everything. But let me tell you something. I spoke to a man this morning, a professor of history as it happens, because I know such things matter to your kind. He’d seen this fleece for himself. He’d travelled to Crete just last week, specifically to see it, to make sure it was for real. He’d held it in his hands and he’d weighed it and felt its texture. It’s for real. He swore on his life that it was for real.’
‘He told you that?’
‘And he had no reason to lie, I assure you.’ Mikhail stared down at him, his pupils triumphant pinpricks of blackness. ‘The fleece is coming here to Athens,’ he said. ‘It’s coming because I’m in Athens, and it’s my destiny to bring it home to Georgia. Some things are written. This is written. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ croaked Edouard.
‘Tomorrow morning, we’re going to see it. Tomorrow morning, we’re going to buy it. And then we’re taking it home. Any more questions?’
‘No.’
‘Good,’ said Mikhail. He turned away from Edouard, leaving him lying there feeling limp and soiled.
‘So what’s our plan, then, boss?’ asked Boris, splashing out more vodka.
‘The man who has the fleece is planning to unveil it at a talk tomorrow afternoon. So we’re going to go visit him first thing in the morning, and persuade him to sell it to us.’
‘He’s expecting us, then?’
‘Not exactly. But I know where he’s staying.’
‘What if he doesn’t want to sell?’
Mikhail laughed. ‘He’ll want to by the time I’m through with him, believe me. He’ll be begging us to buy it.’
‘Then why pay for it at all?’ grumbled Zaal. ‘Why not just take it?’
‘Because this isn’t just about the fleece,’ Mikhail told him. ‘This is about the election too. It’s about my grandfather buying the fleece on behalf of the Georgian people, however much it costs, because that’s the kind of patriot he is.’
Edouard’s heart-rate had resettled. He got to his feet, refilled his own glass with vodka, tossed it back, restoring a little courage. ‘This professor you spoke to,’ he said. ‘The one who went to Crete to see it. If I’m to verify the fleece for you, I’ll need to speak to him myself.’
‘Really?’ asked Mikhail. ‘How?’
‘Give me his address. I’ll go visit him.’
‘And what good will that do you?’ asked Mikhail. ‘Unless you take a Ouija board, of course.’
‘Oh Christ!’ muttered Edouard.
Mikhail laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.’ He turned to Boris, like a doctor discussing an intriguing case with a colleague. ‘I even got him to write his own note. Amazing what people will do.’
‘So who’s the guy with the fleece, then?’ asked Zaal. ‘The one we’re going to see in the morning, I mean?’
‘His name’s Roland Petitier,’ said Mikhail. He threw Edouard another disdainful glance. ‘Another professor, as it happens.’
The plasma TV was still tuned mutely to the news, showing footage of a white-sheeted body on a trolley being loaded onto an ambulance, while banner headlines ran across the top of the screen. Edouard felt a touch of reckless, almost childish glee as he drew Mikhail’s attention to it. ‘You don’t mean him, I suppose, do you?’ he asked.

III
As Knox returned from the ICU, the lamps in the hospital lobby went into synchronised spasm, shuddering like lightning. Gaille was on a wooden bench, deep in conversation with Charissa. They both looked up as he approached. ‘Well?’ asked Gaille. ‘How is he?’
Knox shook his head. ‘Not so good. But at least he seems to be stable.’
‘And Claire? How’s she holding up?’
‘She’s a bit shaken, as you’d expect.’
‘Any chance that she could talk to the press?’ asked Charissa. ‘Only we need someone sympathetic to be Augustin’s spokesperson.’
‘Not tonight,’ replied Knox. ‘She’s too upset. Maybe tomorrow.’
‘How about you, then?’
Knox took a step back to allow past a porter pushing an elderly woman in a wheelchair, her head tipped to the side, silently weeping. ‘Isn’t spokesperson a lawyer’s job?’
‘I’ll be beside you, believe me,’ said Charissa. ‘But right now our most important task is to get the public on Augustin’s side; and the public has a habit of making assumptions in cases like these. They assume, for example, that only guilty people need lawyers. And they further assume that lawyers will say anything for a fee.’
‘Aren’t you exaggerating?’
She shook her head emphatically. ‘Did you know that the jury system started as a popularity contest? The party with the most supporters won the case, on the basis that good people had more friends. Public opinion still works that way. We need to demonstrate that Augustin has friends who believe in him and who’ll stick by him even in terrible situations. Right now, that means you and Gaille. And, of the two of you, you’ve been his friend much longer.’
‘Fine,’ said Knox. ‘What do I say?’
‘Start by establishing your credentials. You’re Daniel Knox, you discovered Alexander’s tomb, you brought down the Dragoumises. Don’t boast, just let viewers know you’re a man of substance. Then tell them much what you told me: that you’ve been Augustin’s friend for many years, and that the idea of him being responsible for anyone’s death is absurd, but that you know for a fact he couldn’t have been responsible for this death because you were with him all afternoon, collecting his fiancée—not his girlfriend, mind, his fiancée—from the airport, and Petitier was still alive when you found him. Explain that Augustin himself called the emergency services, and that none of this would have happened if a policeman hadn’t groped Claire, leaving him with no choice but to defend her honour. We Greeks understand honour.’
‘Okay.’
‘Try to keep the blame as focused as possible for the moment. One rogue policeman, not the whole department. And, whatever you do, don’t make out like it’s a case of foreigners against Greeks. You’ll lose all sympathy in a heartbeat.’
‘Understood.’
‘Good,’ she nodded. ‘Then let’s go do it.’

NINE (#ulink_9ab75608-4cfd-5e66-9f02-13d0e06e88d3)
I
For a moment, Edouard feared he’d made a dreadful mistake, bringing the news of Petitier’s death so gleefully to Mikhail’s attention. But Mikhail was too perturbed by what he saw to worry about that. He grabbed the remote, turned up the volume. A studio anchor was discussing latest developments with a reporter on location outside Evangelismos Hospital; but then the reporter broke off and turned to the front steps, down which two women and a man were now walking, their night-time faces a strobe of flashbulbs.
‘That’s Daniel Knox,’ muttered Edouard.
‘Who?’ asked Mikhail.
‘The Egyptologist. He found Alexander the Great and then Akhenaten. You must remember. And that woman to his left. That’s his girlfriend Gaille Bonnard.’
‘She’s pretty,’ muttered Mikhail, his hand drifting to his crotch. ‘I like a girl who makes the most of herself.’
Edouard sat back, intrigued. Knox and Bonnard had turned the world of archaeology upside down with their recent discoveries. Suddenly the prospect of the fleece being genuine seemed significantly higher.
In brisk Greek, Knox introduced his companions, gave his own background, before launching into a spirited attack on the notion that Augustin Pascal had had anything to do with Petitier’s death, not least because he’d been with him all afternoon. Then he looked direct into the camera and added: ‘I love Greece. I love the Greek people. I love being here in Athens. So I’d like to believe what happened to my friend was the handiwork of one rogue policeman.’ He jerked his head at the hospital. ‘But I heard something disturbing just now in Intensive Care. I heard that the police have been arranging the transfer of my friend into their custody, even though they have no way of looking after him properly. So I have a question for those policemen, if they’re watching: why would you want to take him into custody, unless what you really want is for him to die?’
There was an audible grunt from one of the journalists, taken aback by so direct an accusation; flashbulbs popped even faster and a clamour of questions were thrown in English and Greek. The woman lawyer threw Knox a fierce look then tried to downplay the accusation, assuring everyone that Augustin was receiving the finest medical attention Athens had to offer, and would continue to receive it. Then she thanked the press for coming and promised updates in the morning.
The camera switched back to the reporter who wrapped up and handed back to the studio, who switched instantly to another reporter who was with a Chief Inspector of police, identified as Angelos Migiakis. ‘That’s an outrageous slur,’ he stormed, when Knox’s allegation was put to him. ‘Our first priority this afternoon was securing treatment for Mr Pascal. We took him to Evangelismos ourselves. We’d never do anything to put his life in danger.’
‘But you must acknowledge that it was your officer who—’
‘I acknowledge nothing. We’re conducting a thorough investigation, and when it’s finished then we’ll know what happened. But I want to make two points. Pascal wasn’t the only victim today. Professor Petitier was brutally murdered. Let’s not forget that. We owe it to him to find out who killed him. And the hotel CCTV shows quite clearly that no one entered or left Augustin Pascal’s room other than Pascal himself and this man Knox. So you tell me, eh. Who else should we be looking for?’
‘Are you accusing Daniel Knox of being involved in Petitier’s murder?’
‘And let me say something else,’ went on Migiakis. ‘Items were taken from Petitier’s overnight bag. We know that for sure. We also know that Pascal had a bag with him when he left for the airport. What was in it? No one will tell us. What happened to it? No one knows. It mysteriously disappeared while they were at the airport. So I ask again, who else should we be looking for, other than these two?’
The reporter handed back to the studio; the anchorwoman moved to the next story. Mikhail muted the volume, then turned to Edouard and pointed at the screen. ‘The fleece,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘That’s what was in the bag. My golden fleece. Those two fucking archaeologists murdered Petitier for it. Then they stole it.’
‘I suppose it’s a possibility.’
‘It’s not a possibility, as you put it,’ said Mikhail. ‘It’s what happened. Weren’t you listening? They took it to the airport and then they hid it.’
‘You can’t know that,’ said Edouard. ‘Not for sure.’
‘You’re wrong. I can know it.’ He touched his chest. ‘I know it in here. I’m never wrong when I know something in here.’
‘Yes, but what if—’
‘Are you questioning my instincts?’
Edouard dropped his eyes. ‘No. No. Of course not.’
Mikhail turned to Boris. ‘I want to speak to this man Knox,’ he said. ‘I want to speak to him now.’
‘But we don’t know where he is.’
‘That press conference was outside Evangelismos Hospital, wasn’t it? You’ve heard of phone books, haven’t you? You’ve heard of the Internet? Your cars have SatNav, don’t they? Or is it beyond you to find a single fucking hospital?’
‘The press conference is over,’ said Zaal. ‘They’ll be long gone.’
‘Maybe,’ acknowledged Mikhail. ‘But Knox’s best friend is lying in intensive care, remember. He’ll be back soon enough, believe me. And we’re going to be waiting for him.’

II
‘What the hell was that?’ scowled Charissa, once she, Knox and Gaille had walked out of the hospital grounds, and the cameras were no longer on them. ‘The police are planning to take Augustin into custody?’
‘Claire was scared they’d try something,’ Knox told her.
‘They wouldn’t dare.’
‘They certainly won’t now.’
Charissa shook her head angrily. ‘I can’t represent you if you’re going to provoke the police unnecessarily. I have to work with these people on other cases. I have to keep good lines of communication open. How am I supposed to do that if you start throwing out wild accusations?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Knox. He followed Charissa down a short flight of steps into a small park, where a young woman with lank dark hair stood on an upturned beer-crate and warned that Jesus was come, He was alive. ‘You’re right. It was stupid of me. It won’t happen again.’
‘It better not,’ she warned. They emerged from the park onto a main road, turned right. They walked in stony silence to Charissa’s car, bumped up on the kerb behind a truck. ‘I’ll drop you off at your restaurant,’ she said.
‘Aren’t you coming?’
‘I like to see my children at least once a day, if I can,’ she said. ‘And then I’ve got some calls to make, to smooth down those feathers you’ve just ruffled.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Knox again. But this time he meant it.
‘It’s okay,’ she sighed. ‘I’ll sort it out. And I’ll see if I can’t find out some more about what the police are up to.’
‘We should talk about your fees,’ said Knox. ‘We need some idea of what to expect. We’re only archaeologists, after all.’
‘Nothing so far,’ Charissa assured him. ‘Nico asked me to help, so I helped. But of course if you should want me to stay on the case…’
‘We do,’ said Gaille, taking her wrist. ‘Absolutely we do.’
‘Then maybe you should come by my office tomorrow morning. We can talk about it then.’
‘Not in the morning,’ said Knox. ‘I’ve got Augustin’s talk to give.’
‘The afternoon, then.’ She handed him her card. ‘Call ahead of time; my assistant will find a slot. And don’t worry. We’ll manage something. I don’t charge the earth, not for cases like this. Frankly, they do my profile good. But you should be aware that it’s not just my fees you have to consider. We may need expert medical opinions on Petitier’s injuries, for example. We may need private investigators to shadow the police investigation. They’re dealing with one of their own here, after all. At the very best, their officers will be hoping Augustin is guilty. It’s human nature that they’ll look for evidence that implicates him and exonerates their colleague. So perhaps we’d be prudent to make our own enquiries. This man Petitier, for example. Who is he? Why did he contact Nico? Is there anything to this golden fleece business? What was on his laptop? What was taken from his bag? If we can answer such questions, we’ll be in a far stronger situation.’
‘Gaille and I could look into it,’ suggested Knox. ‘We have some experience of this kind of thing.’
‘This isn’t a game,’ said Charissa sharply. ‘Petitier was murdered earlier today. Don’t forget that. And whoever did it is still running around free—unless you believe it was your friend Augustin, of course. Do you really think they’ll just stand back and let you two poke your noses into their business, particularly if you start getting close?’
‘No,’ acknowledged Knox. ‘I guess not.’

III
There was a garage beneath Omonia police station, private parking for the senior officers. But Angelos Migiakis had no intention of using his own car for this. He took the wheel of a police cruiser, put it into first gear, then nosed it against the garage wall and roared its engine furiously, his foot pressed upon the brakes, so that the tyres burned in a futile effort at forward motion, filling the air with the stench of things scorching.
Theofanis banged upon the passenger-side window, then opened the door and climbed in. ‘Got to you a bit, eh, that interview?’
‘Did you hear that bastard Knox?’
‘I heard.’
‘He suggested we’d take Pascal out of intensive care! How dare he? How dare he?’ He revved the engine into the red to emphasise his fury. ‘What kind of people does he think we are?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
There was something in Theofanis’s voice. Angelos relaxed his foot on the accelerator and glared at him. ‘You didn’t. Please tell me you didn’t.’
‘Didn’t what, sir?’
‘You know damned well what: shoot your mouth off about transferring Pascal into our custody.’
Theofanis pulled a face. ‘I only asked what the procedure would be.’
‘Jesus!’
‘You did want us to put pressure on Knox to come to some kind of arrangement. I thought this would help.’
‘Yes. An absolute bloody triumph!’ The smell of scorched rubber that filled the car suddenly felt almost corrosive, as though it was eating into his clothes and skin. He turned off the engine and climbed out, marched back inside the station and slammed the door so hard that the officer on duty jumped. He turned to Theofanis, his temper under control again, his mind back on practicalities. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘this is what I want. No more press conferences for Knox and his lawyer outside that fucking hospital, reminding everyone that Pascal’s inside. Understand? And, while we’re at it, Knox said he’d heard this inside Intensive Care. How the hell did he get in? I thought you had a man on the door.’
‘He must have slipped by. I’ll see it doesn’t happen again.’
‘It had better not. And I want a proper presence at that hospital. Anyone nosing around, journalists or anyone, I want people in their faces, I want to know exactly what they’re doing there. We need this damned story closed down before it gets out of hand. You hear me?’
‘Yes, boss. I hear you.’

TEN (#ulink_6ad1c476-e52f-549b-890d-415f3af94791)
I
The Island was boisterous and crowded, all the tables taken, the barstools too, with several more people milling around just inside the door, waiting to be seated. The moustached head waiter flinched a little when he saw Gaille and Knox arrive, as though this level of success was too much for him. He looked around, perhaps hoping that some miracle would create space for another table, but there seemed little chance of that. Apart from anything else, it was an awkward shape for a restaurant, all arches and alcoves and sharp corners, and every possible square inch was already pressed into service, the diners packed so close together that the larger ones had their table-edges jammed into their midriffs.
‘Here!’ yelled Nico, getting to his feet in the far corner, enthusiastically waving them over. They sucked in their stomachs and wended between tables to an alcove that allowed Nico a bench-seat all to himself. ‘Wine?’ he asked, holding up a half-empty carafe.
‘Please,’ said Gaille.
‘Not for me,’ said Knox.
‘I took the liberty of ordering,’ said Nico, slopping the resinous yellow wine into all three glasses, despite Knox’s answer. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’ He put a hand upon his stomach, as if it were days since he’d last eaten.
‘I’m sure you know what’s best.’
‘I’ve taken another liberty too.’ He reached into his jacket pocket, produced some stapled sheets. ‘Augustin’s speech,’ he said, passing them to Knox, the white paper smeared with sticky fingerprints. ‘In case you should want to read it through later.’
‘Thanks,’ said Knox, folding the pages away. ‘That’s very thoughtful.’
‘Don’t mention it.’ His gaze slid past Knox; his face lit up. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘What perfect timing.’ A waiter and a waitress cleared space upon their table, then began setting down brushed steel platters of succulent seafood, baskets of warm crusty bread and a palette of dips and side-dishes. Nico rested his fingertips upon the edge of the table for a few moments, like a priest about to give a blessing, then reached with surprising grace for the fried taramasalata, scooping a good third of it straight onto his plate, garnishing it with three grilled king prawns, their blackened pink skins glistening with garlic-butter glaze. He picked one up, bit straight through its crisp shell, his lips glossing with juices. ‘We have the best seafood in the world here in Greece,’ he declared grandly. ‘You know our secret?’
‘What?’
‘Salt!’ he exulted, waving his hand. ‘The Mediterranean is like a great marinade of salt, preparing these fish all their lives for our tables. And still there are people who don’t believe in God!’
Knox smiled. ‘Just a shame we’re not supposed to eat salt any more.’
‘Speak for yourself, my dear boy. Speak for yourself. The great privilege of a condition like mine is that you no longer have to worry about such things.’
‘Condition?’ asked Gaille. ‘What condition?’
‘Forgive me,’ frowned Nico. ‘I assumed you knew. Everyone does. It’s hardly a secret. My heart, you see. Too many steroids as a youth. I was a weight-lifter. A good one, though I say so myself. I had the physique, of course: more wide than tall. Not quite as wide as I am now, admittedly. Useless for football, my other great love, but perfect for weights. We always had weights around the house. A family tradition. I started lifting before I started reading. I was something of a prodigy, if you can be a prodigy at something so prosaic. I made the national squad when I was fifteen. My coach started talking about the Olympics. I began dreaming of medals. I began dreaming of gold. I’d have sold my soul for that. Steroids seemed an insignificant price. Now look!’ He barked out a laugh. ‘And of course I didn’t even make it to the Games. My shoulder popped on me!’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Gaille.
Nico waved away her concern. ‘My own fault. I was a cheat. People keep telling me that I was just a child, too young to make such decisions for myself, that my…my coach must have bullied me into it. But I wasn’t that young. I knew full well it was cheating. Why else all those furtive trips to our training camps in East Germany? Why else all the sworn secrecy? I didn’t care a jot. In fact, I was more eager than anyone. I insisted on it. I thought I was destined, you see. Besides, I’m still alive, aren’t I?’ He spoke in short bursts, and out of one side of his mouth, leaving the other free for eating. He reached across the table with a crust of lavishly buttered bread, scooped up a scallop. ‘It’s my old team-mates I feel sorriest for. They all went long ago. Heart disease from those damned steroids. All but one, at least. He couldn’t bear the waiting any longer, so he used painkillers instead. It can be a terrible thing, waiting.’ He smiled more brightly, crunched his way through a grilled sardine. ‘That’s one reason I do these conferences. They give me something to think about. Having a purpose, that’s the key. And it seems to work. My doctors keep assuring me I only have a few months left, but then they first told me that seven years ago. So what do they know?’ He laughed and waved a hand. ‘And once you accept the notion, once you get past the dread, it’s strangely liberating. No painkillers for me, that’s for sure. I plan to make the most of what I have left.’ He reached across the table for the stuffed crab. ‘Everyone keeps trying to put me on a regime. “You mustn’t smoke,” they tell me. “You mustn’t drink. You mustn’t eat so much.” “Why on earth not?” I ask. “I’m doomed anyway, aren’t I? Can’t I at least enjoy myself while I wait?”’ He laughed again, speared some octopus with his fork, chasing the oily coriander sauce around the dish until it glistened and dripped, then chewed hungrily upon it.
‘You take it very well,’ observed Knox. ‘If that had happened to me, I’d have wanted to kill my coach.’
‘Yes, well,’ shrugged Nico. ‘He didn’t know the damage steroids would do. No one did back then.’
‘You were only a child,’ said Gaille angrily. ‘He had a responsibility.’
‘It’s history now.’
‘How can you say that? Is he still alive, this coach of yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you still see him?’
He shook his head, from the look of him wishing he hadn’t raised the subject. ‘We had a falling out,’ he said. ‘When Tomas died. My friend Tomas. The one who took the painkillers. My coach…he gave one of the eulogies at his funeral. All those fine words. I don’t know, I didn’t believe them, I suppose; or perhaps I was just angry that he hadn’t paid a price himself. Anyway, I stood up and accused him flat out of murdering Tomas, and of handing me a death sentence too. As you can imagine, that was the last time we spoke.’
‘Good for you.’
Nico didn’t look so sure. He pulled a mournful face. ‘Maybe,’ he said. Then he added, by way of explanation: ‘He wasn’t just my weightlifting coach, you see. He was my father too.’

II
They took both Mercedes into Athens, Mikhail going in the first with Boris and Davit, leaving Edouard to drive Zaal. At least this way he could turn off his SatNav and just follow the car in front. It started to cloud over and then spit with rain as they reached the city centre, pedestrians wrapping their jackets tighter around themselves, walking closer to the buildings to take advantage of the awnings and avoid the splash of traffic.
‘Boris says you’ve got twin daughters,’ grunted Zaal.
‘And a son,’ said Edouard proudly.
‘How old are they?’ asked Zaal. ‘The girls, I mean?’
Edouard slid him a sour look. ‘Fifteen. Why?’
‘No reason.’
They pulled up against the kerb outside Evangelismos Hospital. The place was swarming with police. They got out to confer. ‘You know what Knox looks like,’ Mikhail told Edouard. ‘You stay here and watch for him. When he shows, call me.’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/will-adams/the-lost-labyrinth/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.