Lara Croft and the Blade of Gwynnever

by Dan Abnett

  “There you are, my dear Miss Hanover! Have you seen the Etruscan votives?” said a voice, sweeping in and offering Lara an arm.

  It was Denny Sampson, and he was grinning broadly.

  “I thought I’d lost you,” Lara replied and took his proffered arm. Carter stifled a sigh of relief, and all three walked around the guard, but not before Lara had seen the pin on his lapel.

  It was small, grey enamel on a gold base and depicted the head of a wolf.

  “Having fun, Croft?” asked Denny, his arm linked to hers dutifully. “Playing dress-up?”

  “I like to dress for an occasion,” said Lara.

  “And may I say you look positively ravishable,” said Denny.

  “No, you may not,” said Lara. “And you mean ‘ravishing.’”

  “I know what I mean,” Denny replied, with a grin. “Word of warning. As beautiful as you are, this sure is no place to wander around unaccompanied.”

  “I’m not unaccompanied. I have Carter, and now you,” said Lara, flashing a smile at Denny. “Unless you’d prefer not to be seen with me.”

  “On the contrary,” said Denny, “I like nothing more than to have a hotsie-totsie gal on my arm.”

  “Even a hotsie-totsie girl who is liable to break that arm if you use the phrase ‘hotsie-totsie’ again, Sampson?”

  “Oh, come on. If you can’t be politically incorrect, where’s the fun in anything?”

  “You’re a pig.”

  “I’m the pig who just saved your bacon,” said Denny, “but no need to thank me. Just make sure Bell’s on the ball and doesn’t let this sort of thing happen again.”

  Carter glared at Denny, and then nodded his agreement. Denny grinned at him, bowed to Lara, and walked away.

  “Let’s go,” said Lara. “I’ve seen enough.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” said Bell as soon they were out of earshot and making their way back down the staircase.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Lara. “Me being recognised was a long shot, and there wasn’t much you could have done about it. If Denny hadn’t stepped in, I would’ve talked my way out of it.”

  “Of course,” said Bell.

  “Besides, it was useful,” said Lara. “More data. The guard wasn’t one of Zizek’s keepers. He was wearing a pin, not jewellery, but a signifier, some organisation he belongs to. Now, let’s get out of here.”

  “The sale’s this evening. Wouldn’t it be better to stay in the building?”

  “We have the permits,” said Lara, “and I need to look the part. This abaya’s classy day wear, but tonight I’ll need something special. This was a dummy run, a reconnoitre. Don’t worry, Carter, we’re in.”

  If the preview had seemed glamorous, the auction itself was positively extravagant.

  The atrium of the Vilet Palace was lined with buffet tables laden with silver dishes that decoratively displayed all manner of canapés and sweetmeats. Drinks, including a wide variety of colourful virgin cocktails, as well as some very good champagne, were being served from behind a series of bars installed for the purpose.

  Lara was glad she had changed her abaya. She had switched from a plain dark silk to a heavy black silk trimmed in gold, with a sash. Although traditional dress for a Muslim woman, the abaya was beautifully cut with elegant sleeves, and a simple neckline that sat high on her collarbone, framing her throat. The floor-length gown with sleeves to the wrists was modest but elegant with a narrow waist, tied with the sash. The gold sheila that circled Lara’s face and covered her hair was a simple length of cloth, expertly wound and draped. She was dressed appropriately and matched in style and status the dozen or so other women attending the auction.

  She couldn’t wear the sunglasses in the evening, but she could wear makeup, and she was virtually unrecognisable. She was also happy that she had insisted on buying Bell a tuxedo, since all of the men were formally dressed, almost exclusively in the Western style, despite them being from all corners of the globe.

  Security had more than doubled since the preview, and, again, Bell was relieved of his sidearm at the palace door. Lara noted that the close-protection agents of some of the clients were allowed to carry concealed weapons.

  There were clearly tiers of VIP privilege.

  All buyers had also been required to register payment details for any purchases before being allowed into the market or being issued a bidding paddle. Lara had the use of a numbered bank account, untraceable, so she used that. It was sufficient. Bell handled the registration on her behalf, using the name Hanover, inspired by Denny’s efforts earlier in the day.

  No questions were asked.

  Zizek dealt with many people of whom it was foolish to ask personal questions.

  There was tension in the air.

  This was clearly serious business, and while refreshments were available, the food went untouched. The women drank the fruit cocktails. One or two of the men drank whiskey; more took steaming glasses of Turkish coffee. The bodyguards took nothing.

  Lara understood the etiquette. She approached a buffet table and gestured to Bell, who picked up a cocktail for her, and then the two climbed the staircase to the ballroom.

  Lara made her way directly to the rows of gilded chairs, choosing an end seat halfway back. One or two men were still perusing the cabinets. Others were standing in small groups, doing business or talking quietly. This was not a social event. All of the women were seated.

  From her position in the room, Lara had an almost comprehensive view of the gathering.

  She’d been careful to sit on the side of the room with no exits, so she couldn’t be surprised by people entering from rooms behind her. She was also fortunate that there was little of significant interest in the cabinets that flanked the walls to her left.

  Lara made a careful but unobtrusive study of the other clients as they took their seats. In just a few moments, the auction was due to begin. She paid particular attention to the lapels of the men’s suit jackets.

  She spotted several more of the Wolf-Head pins.

  She wondered what they meant. Were these members of some society or fraternity, or were they employees of one of the bidders?

  There was no opportunity to speculate, or to have a quiet conversation with Bell as, right on cue, Zizek strode into the ballroom from the staircase, flanked by two of his flunkies.

  “Here we go,” said Bell, under his breath.

  “Denny Sampson didn’t show up,” said Lara.

  “So things are already better than we expected,” said Carter.

  CHAPTER NINE:

  BIDDING WAR

  Kurkarob

  “My lords, ladies and gentlemen, it is my very great pleasure to welcome you all to the palace ballroom for this evening’s auction.”

  “He’s in his element,” whispered Bell.

  “Of course,” said Lara. “He’s making money.”

  “Forgive me,” said Zizek, beaming out at the audience, “and I hope you’ll bear with me while I go through the necessary formalities. As I’m sure you will have noticed, there is no catalogue, but I’m certain you’ve all made a note of the items you wish to bid on. All items will be described. All bids will be made in the room. No phone bids, and no left bids. My role is as agent of sale—nothing more, nothing less—and my fee is twenty percent of all sales, payable by the purchaser. All contracts are between the buyer and seller. Objects are sold as displayed. Authenticity is not guaranteed by the agent... That’s me.”

  Zizek smiled and allowed a ripple of dry laughter to pass through the audience.

  “Caveat emptor. Likewise, caveat venditor... Am I right?”

  “He’s making jokes,” whispered Bell.

  “The man certainly has an ego,” said Lara.

  “It only remains for me to introduce your auctioneer for this evening’s event,”
Zizek told the crowd.” Mr. Christian Somersby served as principal auctioneer at Sotheby’s London until his retirement two years ago. He honours us with his presence. Mr. Somersby?”

  Zizek took a step away from the lectern as a small, dapper man, not nearly retirement age, stepped up from his seat in the front row of chairs and strode to take his position.

  Lara did not care to speculate what he might have been paid for the privilege of conducting the auction, but assumed it was a handsome fee.

  Somersby was worth the money.

  The auction ran very smoothly. Somersby’s manner was fluid and mellifluous. His calm voice had a rhythm that kept the momentum going. Paddles rose discreetly, and figures rose with them quickly before the gavel was dropped on one lot at a time.

  Lara raised her paddle once or twice on some items of jewellery, but withdrew when the bidding got serious. Mostly, she watched the room. Being careful to keep her interest centred on areas of the room where bidding was most active, she was able to track the guards wearing the Wolf-Head pins. Their attention seemed to centre on one man.

  “Our lot’s coming up,” said Bell.

  Two more lots were sold, and then Somersby began to describe the sword.

  “The next item, a truly fine object. An obsidian sword, perhaps Celtic European or Near East, estimated at least four thousand years old, in extraordinary condition. Can we—”

  Somersby paused.

  “One moment, ladies and gentlemen,” he said.

  There was movement in the room, and Lara could feel the tension rising. Was it because this was the star of the show? Or was something else going on?

  Lara put a hand on Bell’s arm briefly, still scanning the room. She needed him to be ready.

  Zizek had stood up. He’d taken Somersby’s seat for the duration of the auction. Two of the Wolf-Heads, who had spent the sale positioned in one of the alcoves opposite Lara, had walked down to the front row of seats on the right-hand side, furthest from Lara’s position. They were talking quietly to Zizek.

  Some of the buyers had risen to stretch their legs during the pause.

  Lara got out of her seat and led Bell to the rear of the ballroom, glancing into the display cabinets as she went, as if she were filling the time and having a last look at some of the objects there.

  She turned once or twice and caught a glimpse of Zizek putting a hand over Somersby’s mic to say something to the auctioneer without being heard by the room.

  When they reached the rear of the room, Zizek had returned to his seat and Somersby was making an announcement.

  “I beg your pardon, ladies and gentlemen,” said Somersby. “That item has been withdrawn from sale.”

  “Not just withdrawn, the sword’s gone,” said Bell, under his breath, as Lara watched the room. “The cabinet’s empty.”

  Bell followed Lara as she walked halfway down the right side of the salon and stopped in front of another display case, as if looking for something else to buy.

  One of the Wolf-Heads was leaning in to Zizek, who stood and allowed himself to be escorted to one of the doors to his right. Moments later, a man in a bespoke silk suit left his seat. Lara was damn near certain it was the man in the green keffiyeh whom she’d seen that afternoon, but she couldn’t be absolutely sure. Two more Wolf-Heads fell in behind him, and the three of them followed Zizek out of the ballroom.

  Somersby moved, seamlessly, on to the next item for sale, but there was more disruption in the room. Several of Zizek’s goons had left their posts at the cabinets, and two entered the ballroom through the double doors behind the lectern.

  Four more Wolf-Heads left their seats, dotted around the room. A tall, broad-shouldered man with black eyes and a bald head strode up to the lectern. He spoke briefly with the auctioneer.

  “I want to get in that side room,” said Lara.

  “We should leave,” said Bell. “Do you know how much firepower there is in here?”

  “Almost as much as I’ve got concealed under this dress,” said Lara.

  “The sword’s gone,” said Bell.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, that concludes the sale for this evening. Thank you, and good night,” said Somersby.

  Somersby turned to take a step towards one of Zizek’s goons, but the broad-shouldered man with the lapel badge caught his arm. Somersby was startled for a moment, but straightened up and composed himself.

  “Whoever’s in that room wants the sword,” said Bell. “And he’s got a small army working for him.”

  “Then we’d better get ahead of him,” said Lara.

  The sixty or seventy people in the ballroom, the bidders and their retinues, were preparing to leave the building, filing out through the double doors and down the staircase.

  The tension was palpable. Bodyguards were hustling to get their wards out of the building quickly and efficiently.

  Lara and Bell joined the rear of the group. Zizek’s keepers were guarding the top and bottom of the staircase. The Wolf-Heads had formed a phalanx, cutting off the landing and funnelling people down the stairs through a narrow gap between the double doors to the ballroom and the top of the staircase.

  Bell tried to stay close to Lara, but there was only room for two or three people to walk abreast between the rows of guards, and bodyguards were herding their charges out of danger.

  When he turned to speak to her, she was gone.

  “Dammit,” he growled.

  Lara felt the firm grasp of a gloved hand around her upper arm. She was being pulled out of the press of bodies by two guards, who closed ranks behind her.

  She glanced around for Carter, but there was no sign of him.

  “Miss Croft,” said a voice close to her ear. “The boss forbade you from attending this event.”

  Lara glanced at the coin stitched to the lapel of the keeper’s fatigues. She flashed her left hand over the piece strapped to her thigh under her gown.

  “A girl’s got to try,” she said.

  The two keepers walked her back into the ballroom through another set of double doors, one of several pairs that lined the landing. The room was empty, apart from the guard standing beside the closed door to the room that Zizek had entered with the mystery man.

  “Sit here,” one of the keepers told her. “There will probably be a fine to pay. Mr. Zizek will deal with you.”

  Lara didn’t wait to be dealt with.

  “I think I should discuss it with him immediately,” she said and strode across the ballroom to the door of the side room. The two keepers and the guard stationed by the door all hesitated, not knowing quite how to deal with the foreign woman’s boldness. Before they could decide on a suitable reaction, Lara had turned the door handle and walked right in.

  The man in the beautiful suit and Zizek were both seated. They looked up in surprise. Lara caught the last words that Zizek had spoken, breathless and panicked, as she entered. They included a name.

  She stood in the doorway, trying to look confused and embarrassed. By luck, she’d overheard the information she wanted without having to confront anyone or risk a firefight. Perhaps she could simply walk away.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Zizek,” she said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” She turned to leave the room.

  Zizek didn’t turn to look at her. He kept his eyes firmly on the other man.

  The man in the suit gestured minutely to one of his henchmen, who stepped in front of Lara.

  “Madam,” he said, his soft tone masking a hard note of warning.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” said the man in the suit, rising from his chair and turning to Lara. “Dritan Vata, and you are...?”

  “Samantha Hanover,” said Lara. “And I’m a little lost. I got separated from my man. Oh, dear.” Lara placed a hand high on her chest, as if she were about to swoon. She turned to step out of the room, hoping
that the chivalry would continue. She had what she needed.

  Dritan Vata took Lara by the elbow and steered her to one of the chairs in the ballroom to let her sit down.

  “Thank you, Mr. Vata,” she said. “I’m quite all right.”

  “You had business with Mr. Zizek?” asked Vata.

  “No,” said Lara. “I was outbid.”

  “Someone will find your man,” said Vata, gesturing to the broad-shouldered, bald Wolf-Head.

  “Thank you,” said Lara, “but if I could just be walked out, I’m sure he’s waiting for me.”

  “Dibra,” said Vata.

  Lara stood and walked ahead of her nominated Wolf-Head escort towards the main doors out of the ballroom. She kept her hand over the gun strapped to her thigh again, for reassurance.

  The crowds had passed by the time Lara appeared once more at the top of the staircase.

  Bell was waiting there for her, under the gaze of Zizek’s keepers. His eyes widened, slightly, as he saw her escort.

  “Madam,” he said. “My apologies.”

  “Just take me home,” she said, curtly. Then she turned to the Wolf-Head.

  “Thank Mr. Vata, again, for his kindness.”

  The man nodded.

  Bell picked up his sidearm at the entrance, and they left the building to a convoy of armoured limousines exiting the driveway. None of the cars had plates.

  “What happened up there?” asked Bell.

  “I got a lead,” said Lara.

  “And you weren’t recognised? How is that possible?” asked Bell.

  “The clothes and the makeup,” said Lara, “and the fact that Zizek is clearly so terrified of Vata that he wouldn’t have recognised his own mother if she’d walked into that room. But we need to move fast, before someone makes the connection. We need to find Strand. Right now. He’s still in possession of the sword.”

  CHAPTER TEN:

  DRITAN VATA

  Kurkarob

  Zizek knew how to put on a show, and Lara and Carter took advantage of the limousines that were provided to take the guests off-site after the auction.