Lara Croft and the Blade of Gwynnever

by Dan Abnett

  She picked up her cell phone and dialled.

  “Carter? Where are you?”

  They met up at a coffeehouse off the busy main square. Trucks full of separatist troops grumbled by outside, honking at livestock and barrow-traders. Across the street, Lara could see a disused church where migrants were gathering in the hope of jobs or Red Cross parcels.

  “You sounded pissed,” said Carter. He was beaded with sweat. The coffee, dark as tar, was served in small glass bowls with brass handles.

  “I met Zizek,” she said.

  “Really.”

  “Piece of work. He wants us out of here.”

  Carter frowned.

  “Did he give any reasons?” he asked.

  “No, but I can guess,” said Lara. “Someone knows we’re here, and someone knows what we’re after. They don’t want to risk us getting hold of it. They certainly don’t want to risk us making the winning bid at the auction.”

  “So what? They’ve paid Zizek off? Got the authorities to lean on us?”

  “Yes, rather than take us out directly. Zizek doesn’t want to lose face. He doesn’t want violence breaking out and ruining the reputation of his vaunted market. So he’s taken a backhander and he’s applying the pressure himself.”

  “That’s hardly a level playing field,” said Carter.

  Lara looked at him, deadpan.

  “You really think corruption is an issue anyone in this city cares about?” she asked.

  Bell shrugged.

  “The item’s still up?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And no luck locating Strand?” she asked.

  “None at all. The keepers may have him in protective custody. I don’t know why they don’t just arrange a direct transaction with the someones who are so keen to—”

  “Zizek isn’t stupid,” said Lara. “What Strand’s got is worth a lot. So the keepers place a watch on him. But they want his merchandise in the next sale. Open bids. The sky’s the limit. Zizek earns his money from the commission he takes on every sale. A private sale limits his profit potential. Open sale, top-dollar return.”

  “I suppose,” said Carter. “I wish we knew who we were up against.”

  “I wish we knew how we were going to get into the saleroom,” she replied. “Zizek’s denying us permits.”

  “I may have a lead on that,” said Carter, “but you’re not going to like it.”

  They walked to the northern quarter of the town. In a quiet residential street, Carter knocked on a yellow door, and a housekeeper let them into a shaded inner courtyard.

  A man was sitting in a wicker armchair on the far side of the courtyard, reading from a tablet device. He looked up as they entered and rose with a smile.

  “Lara Croft,” he said.

  Lara glared at Carter.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I don’t like it. Let’s go.”

  “Ah, Carter,” the man said, coming forwards. “You didn’t tell her?”

  “Just that she wouldn’t like it,” said Carter. “And I was right.”

  “We’re leaving,” said Lara. “Goodbye, Denny.”

  Denny Sampson grinned his trademark grin at her.

  “Come on, Lara. Won’t you even stay for a drink? For old time’s sake? I have beer. Bottled, imported. More importantly, I have a refrigerator to keep it in.”

  Denny Sampson, born in Canada but raised in the Midwestern United States, was approaching sixty. He was past his physical prime and going to seed, but his roguish charm had not diminished, and his paunchy, jowly appearance could not entirely hide the fact that he had once been devilishly handsome. He was tanned and well-dressed. He looked to Lara like a once-popular film star whose career peak was behind him, but still turned up for memorable cameos in TV shows.

  He was, by trade, an archaeologist, but Lara knew that title was also merely euphemistic. They’d met before. It had never gone well.

  “Carter tells me you’re trying to get into the auction,” said Denny, handing out bottles of a Canadian microbrew.

  “Carter’s got a big mouth,” said Lara.

  “I sure have missed you, Croft,” Sampson laughed.

  “I’ve missed you too,” she replied. “I believe the last time I missed you, it was with a Remington hunting rifle.”

  “I really had to catch that plane,” said Sampson.

  “What did you get for the Malifar Jades,” she asked, “in the end?”

  “Oh, baby, twice what we had hoped.”

  “Where’s my cut?” she asked.

  Sampson started laughing again.

  “I’m serious, Denny,” she said.

  “I know you are, Croft,” he replied. “I know I owe you plenty. Honey, I should never have cut you out of that deal.”

  “But you did.”

  “What can I say? It’s a weakness of mine. When it comes down to it, I always want it all for myself. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, Croft.”

  “And you’ve eaten well.”

  Lara looked at Carter.

  “Let’s go,” she said. “He’s the same bastard he always was. He even admits it now.”

  “That’s progress, Lara,” smiled Denny. “My therapist says owning my flaws is part of the process.”

  “Good luck with that,” she said and rose to her feet.

  “I owe you,” said Denny. “Let me pay you back something.”

  “For the jades?”

  “Well, sure.”

  “And the Trondheim Crown?”

  Denny shrugged.

  “I guess.”

  “How about the Circlets of Athene?”

  “Our relationship sure has been rocky, hasn’t it?” Denny smiled.

  “I wouldn’t trust you further than I could spit,” said Lara.

  “That’s fair,” said Denny, sitting back in his chair. “But ask yourself this. How many times have I double-crossed you?”

  “Four that I can remember.”

  “Four. Jeez. Well, Croft, there’s a saying. Fool me once...”

  “So what?” she asked.

  “You kept coming back, Lara Croft. You knew who I was, and you kept coming back. You’d think, by the second or third time, you’d have learned I was bad news.”

  “Do you have a point to make, Sampson?” she asked.

  He beamed.

  “You like me, Lara Croft. Always have, always will. Even though you know I’m going to leave you in the dust every time, you keep coming back for more. Can’t get enough of the old Sampson magic.”

  “Thanks for the beer,” she said, “you insufferable arse.”

  “Lara, come on. I like you too. Always have. Breaks my heart every time I have to do the dirty on you. So let me make amends. It’s long overdue. I want to change my ways, Lara. I want to make it up to you. And I think you want me to make it up to you.”

  She glared at him.

  “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t fall for your crap again.”

  “We’ve had some times, Lara, you and me. Great times.”

  “True. Amazing times. But the endings, Denny. There were never any happy endings.”

  He stood up.

  “Bell tells me you need permits to get into the auction. I have two to spare.”

  “Zizek doesn’t want us in.”

  “Well, the keepers won’t turn down one of their own permits.”

  “Why do you have spares?” asked Carter.

  “Acquired for business associates,” said Denny. “But they got delayed in transit, so I’m a free agent at the sale. Come keep me company. It’ll be fun.”

  “What are you after?” Lara asked.

  “Nothing, honey. Like I said, my backers were delayed. This job’s shot, but now I’m in town, I might as well g
o to the auction and see what’s good. I’m just there as a spectator.”

  He eyed her.

  “What are you after, Croft?”

  “Absolutely none of your business,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  “Give us the permits.”

  “Then we’re square?” Denny asked.

  “Not even slightly, you old goat.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT:

  WOLFSHEAD

  Kurkarob

  “Are you sure you’ll pass?”

  “I already have,” said Lara.

  Carter Bell, dressed as Lara’s bodyguard, had been relieved of his sidearm at the door, but Lara had walked past the guards without being searched.

  “This is a very classy abaya and sheila, Carter,” said Lara. “Modest, but very classy, and the sunglasses are Cutler and Gross. I’ll go unnoticed.”

  She cut an understated but elegant figure in the long, plum-coloured gown. The designer shades were a deft character detail that indicated private wealth. At her side, Carter perfectly resembled a professional minder in his grey business suit and black shirt.

  Perception was everything. They were playing roles, and playing them well.

  “It worries me that Zizek and his goons have seen you before,” Carter replied. “You make an impression, Lara.”

  “They respect women here,” she replied. “They won’t look at me. They’ll honour the mode of dress, and, besides, they don’t know you. There are better things to worry about. Does this staircase remind you of anything?”

  Bell and Lara had begun walking up a long, curving staircase. The staircase led up out of a vast, double-height atrium, the grand entry of the Vilet Palace. The Vilet was one of the most magnificent old palaces in Kurkarob, and it was the venue for the market.

  As they had arrived outside, Carter had looked up at the grand facade and muttered, “‘Market’’s not the word I’d use for this.”

  It did indeed feel more like an embassy ball at the end of the nineteenth century than a black-market antiquities bazaar. Crowds of elegant guests circulated, attended by liveried servants, in a hall of marble columns, ornate gilded plasterwork, and vast crystal chandeliers.

  Bell eyed the staircase as they ascended it together.

  “The photo?” he asked.

  “Exactly,” Lara replied. “The photo of Strand with the sword on the Internet. It was taken at the bottom of these stairs. The banister? The angle of the steps? The carpet? All the same as in that photo.”

  “So Strand was here,” said Bell.

  “He has to be under some kind of house arrest,” said Lara, “for his own security. The artefacts would be long gone by now, and Strand with them, if someone weren’t protecting him and their own interests.”

  “And by ‘gone,’ you mean—”

  “Strand would be dead.”

  “And by protected, you mean Zizek,” said Bell.

  “Or whoever has Zizek in his pocket,” countered Lara.

  Lara dropped her head demurely to look at her hands. She was holding up her abaya as she climbed the last of the stairs, dignified and modest.

  And all part of the act.

  They passed the armed guards who flanked the head of the staircase. Zizek’s keepers.

  Their permits, which Bell held, had been checked as they entered the Vilet Palace. Another keeper checked them again as they approached the banks of highly decorated, panelled glass double doors that led into the ballroom where the auction was to be held.

  The keeper was another Turkish man with the coin sewn to an American army-issue flak jacket. He had an AK47 slung over his shoulder, and, from the look of the wooden grip sticking out from his belt, a Second World War-issue Mauser HSc pistol.

  As he reviewed the papers, Lara took the time to assess her surroundings. That included Zizek’s keeper, fussing with the permits. Lara noted the doors, the entrances, the exits, the disposition and armament of the guards, the open spaces, the choke points, the availability of bullet-stopping cover.

  You could never be too careful when you walked into the hornet’s nest.

  The keeper gave her no more than a passing glance. He handed the permits back to Carter with a flourish and nod, and ushered them into the ballroom. As they passed him, he was already moving on to the next clients in the queue.

  “Careful, but not thorough,” Lara muttered to Carter.

  “True of so many people I know,” Carter replied.

  A vast pink Persian rug of exquisite quality adorned the gleaming ballroom floor. It had been chosen to match the swags and tails of the silk velvet drapes at the mirrored alcoves and windows. The floor had been polished to a glassy finish. Above them, the ornate plasterwork was painted and gilded, and additional gold decorated the room’s archways and mirror frames. There was a great deal more glittering crystal, too. Hanging from the centre of the ceiling was another immense chandelier, its design echoed in standard lamps spaced around the edges of the room.

  A block of seating filled roughly a third of the ballroom’s centre space. The rows of ostentatious gilded chairs had high, padded backs to match the seats, and were upholstered in pink brocade the same colour as the velvet drapes.

  The Vilet’s main salon was very grand and very formal, no doubt hired to impress Zizek’s clients and convince them to spend vast amounts of money on the black market merchandise that was on offer. There were, Lara estimated, about sixty well-to-do buyers, mostly men, many with close protection of their own. Some were accompanied by women dressed much as she was.

  The sale items were laid out in an array of ebonised wooden cases and cabinets. The displays were of various shapes, with glass fronts or tops, depending on their sizes. Each piece of furniture had at least one armed guard standing beside it, and some were surrounded by them.

  Lara watched as a small cabinet was wheeled out of the salon into an anteroom. An elegant man wearing a beautifully cut dark suit and a green keffiyeh followed it. Evidently an important buyer. He was clearly being offered preferential treatment, and a closer look at whatever was in the cabinet.

  “See that?” Lara asked quietly.

  “Yeah,” replied Carter.

  “Okay, stay close,” she said. “Remember you’re supposed to be my bodyguard, but I also need you to do your job.”

  He nodded and took half a step closer to her.

  Lara strolled slowly around the room, feigning interest in various pieces. She pretended to take an interest in jewels and ceremonial blades, simply in order to establish an observable pattern. Lara assumed she was being monitored. She assumed that all the buyers were.

  Bell’s task was to survey the room. Staying close to Lara, he checked the location of the entrances and exits and fixed in his mind the positions of the furniture, so that he could get them both out fast and efficiently if things got problematic.

  Lara observed the keepers and their distribution throughout the room. Zizek’s militia, in their mismatched fatigues with the sewn-on coin insignia, appeared to have two roles. Some stood guard at entrances and exits, monitoring the flow of clients, and checking permits. Others stood guard over the objects for sale.

  Lara quickly spotted a second tier of armed guards.

  They differed from Zizek’s men in two important regards. They were formally dressed in dark suits, and they were obviously attempting to blend in with the clients. However, to Lara’s trained eye, they were clearly wearing comms equipment and had been allowed to carry concealed weapons into the market. They were also of both genders. The women, like the men, were in smart Western dress.

  Bell drew slightly closer to Lara as they approached the main attraction, a large cabinet to the rear of the room. The cabinet was flanked by four militiamen.

  “This is it,” murmured Bell. “No sign of Zizek.”

  “He’ll make his entranc
e at the sale,” said Lara. “This is only the preview. We’re just here to look around. Take a breath, Carter.”

  “You think the main players are here?”

  “Some, not all. Their representatives, perhaps,” Lara replied.

  “You make the others? The ones in the suits, packing?”

  “I did,” she replied quietly. “Private contractors, I think. Someone here carries so much weight, Zizek has allowed him to bring armed staff into the saleroom.”

  “Oh, it just keeps getting better and better,” said Carter.

  Lara elbowed him discreetly.

  “Stop complaining. We’re having an adventure.”

  “Every time I have an adventure with you, Lara,” said Carter quietly, “I find I have more and more things to complain about.”

  Lara drew level with the cabinet.

  A glance reassured her that it contained what she was hoping for.

  Carter took a longer look at the sword. He’d seen it before and handled it, in situ, deep underground at the Candle Lane site beneath the streets of London. He could verify that it was the original.

  “That it?” Lara whispered. One glance, and she knew that the sword was genuine, but she still wanted to check in with Carter; he’d been at the site and had handled the artefact.

  “Oh, yeah,” Carter replied.

  Lara cast her eyes over the flak jackets of the militiamen flanking the cabinet. They matched and were brand-new. She let her gaze pass over the fatigues the men wore. Again, they were pristine, and the boots were, too. They had all come from one supply source and were Eastern European.

  Lara looked again at the contents of the cabinet, before flicking her eyes over the chests of the flak jackets, checking for Zizek’s coin insignia.

  It was missing.

  These men, dressed to resemble Zizek’s goons, were not keepers. They hadn’t been posted there by Zizek to guard the case. They had been placed by somebody else to watch it, and to watch anyone who took an interest.

  Too much close scrutiny was definitely a bad thing.

  Lara walked away, with Carter still at her shoulder.

  One of the guards suddenly blocked her path.

  “Madam,” he began. “Aren’t you Miss Lara—”