Age of Heroes

by James Lovegrove

  “But we’ll be ready for them, and Roy will be our ace in the hole. This, potentially, is the endgame.”

  Sasha’s phone emitted a swooshing sound. “Sent,” she said.

  “Who’s Evander Arlington?” Young asked.

  “Possibly your boss,” said Theo.

  “I gathered that. I assume he’s one of you.”

  “Minos.”

  “King Minos? Of Minotaur fame?”

  “None other.”

  “And Hélène, his wife. Is she just any old Hélène, or is she one of you lot?”

  “One of us.”

  “I’m going to guess Helen? As in the Helen, as in ‘of Troy’. The Face that Launched a Thousand Ships.”

  “And launched a thousand doomed love affairs as well,” said Sasha. “The kind of woman who toys with men’s affections and leaves chaos in her wake.”

  “You disapprove, Sasha?” said Chase. “I thought a bunny boiler like Helen would be right up your street.”

  “Using your looks to take advantage of men is hardly difficult. There’s no skill in it. It’s a mark of the feeblest kind of female. I favour a woman who can snare her own bunny rather than boil someone else’s.”

  “That’s that metaphor stretched.”

  “I thought I was being quite witty.”

  “For you, yes. But I’m the gold standard for wisecracking around these parts.”

  “So you believe.”

  “It’s all part of the Chase Chance charm.”

  “Charm?”

  Young cleared his throat. “Excuse me. Hate to butt in when you’re having so much fun, but I should be getting back.” He consulted his watch. “I’ve been gone nearly four hours. Best-case scenario, the Myrmidons reckon I’m dead. Worst-case, Badenhorst assumes I’m AWOL and looking for Josie.”

  “All right,” said Theo. “Let’s you and me swap phone numbers. Then we can keep each other abreast of what we’re up to.”

  “Agreed.”

  “One question. What are you going to tell your colleagues?”

  “You mean what’s happened? I suppose I can say I got lost in the woods. Had a comms malfunction, couldn’t radio for help.”

  “Think they’ll buy it?”

  “Hope so. Might be pushing it with the comms part, though. Speaking of which, where is my helmet? And my weaponry?”

  “I had to strip it off you,” Theo said. “Couldn’t very well carry you to the Stolby car park like that.”

  “Okay. I’m sure I can get replacements. But it’s going to make my cunning cover story somewhat harder to swallow. ‘Oh, and by the way, I dropped all my gear too!’ You have a better suggestion?”

  “Well, it might be more plausible if you claim you ran into me and came off worse.”

  “That’s have the ring of truth, if nothing else,” said Young. “It’d also account for the ruddy great bruise I can feel forming on the side of my face.”

  “This South African, Badenhorst, he sounds like a shrewd customer.”

  “Doesn’t look like one, but yes, he is.”

  “I don’t think a single bruise is going to sell the story.”

  Young’s face fell. Then, with grim resignation, he nodded. “I take your point.”

  “In a stand-up fight you’d be lucky to have got away from me alive. You’d never have managed it without it costing you.”

  The Englishman positioned himself directly in front of Theo, arms hanging by his sides. “Get it over with, then.”

  “Nothing personal,” Theo said. “This is for the sake of authenticity only.”

  “Of course. And just so’s you know, I didn’t much like your book.”

  “You’ve picked a fine time to tell me.”

  “I didn’t hate it. Just didn’t love it. If this was Goodreads I’d probably give it three stars.”

  “Could be worse. I’ll take that.”

  He punched. Young staggered.

  “I felt,” Young gasped, “that you... you have a strong grasp on plotting... but your characters are... formulaic. Ciphers.”

  Theo punched again. Young reeled, but recovered.

  “Apart... from Jake Killian, that is,” he said. “He... he’s fairly believable. The rest... seem just kind of there to... to service the storyline.”

  Theo landed a couple of sharp blows in quick succession.

  Young collapsed to his knees. Somehow he was able to keep talking.

  “As for your prose... Not as elegant... as it could be.”

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Young was on all fours, heaving for breath.

  “Meat-and-potatoes stuff. Could do... Could do with a little... garnish.”

  A toe-kick to the ribs.

  “But still... I’m tempted... to read... one of the others... in the series.”

  Another kick.

  THIRTY

  Prospekt Mira, Krasnoyarsk

  ROY HOBBLED ALONG the street until he found a pharmacy. He spoke almost no Russian, but was able to communicate to the woman behind the counter that he needed some sort of strong painkiller. Not that she couldn’t have guessed from the way he held his ribs and winced at even the smallest movement.

  He dry-swallowed four of the tablets there in the shop, before limping back outside. He slumped onto a pavement bench and waited for the chemicals to work their magic. After what seemed like far too long, the throbbing of his injuries began to subside.

  Theo Stannard had worked him over pretty thoroughly. Roy felt like he had been rolled around in the back of a cement truck then dropped off a building. It hurt simply breathing. Stannard had been careful, however; solicitous, even. No bones broken. No inner organs damaged. As beatings went, it had been a judicious, forgiving one. Roy was still mobile, and as long as he kept himself topped up with analgesics, he should be able to function more or less as normal. The bruises, however, were already impressive and were on their way to becoming spectacular.

  He fumbled out his phone. He was on a busy shopping street at mid-afternoon and expected that he might draw some stares. It seemed, however, that a man in black paramilitary fatigues sitting on a bench looking the worse for wear was not a noteworthy sight in Krasnoyarsk. Well-dressed passers-by spared him the occasional glance, but no more than that.

  Badenhorst picked up after the second ring. “Roy! Man, I didn’t think I’d be hearing from you again. What in hell’s name happened to you? You disappeared on us. We assumed the worst.”

  “Kind of a long story. Look, I’m not in great shape. Where are you?”

  “We’re getting set to leave for the airport. Where are you?”

  “One of the old districts of Krasnoyarsk. Lots of trees. Nice buildings. Hang on.”

  Roy caught the attention of a blonde woman in high heels, laden with carrier bags. She spoke enough English to be able to answer his query.

  “I’m on Prospekt Mira,” he said to Badenhorst. “Can you come and collect me? I’ll explain everything when you get here.”

  “No problem. Stay put. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Glad to hear it, Roy. Glad to hear it.”

  A QUARTER OF an hour later, a taxi pulled up; the rear door opened and Badenhorst beckoned from within. Roy clambered stiffly in, joining the Afrikaner on the back seat. The car’s interior reeked of pine air freshener, which was fighting a losing battle with the pungent odour of the driver’s cigarettes.

  As the taxi moved off, Roy noticed that Badenhorst had one hand inside his jacket, holding something pointed at him. It was small, but not so small that it couldn’t have been a gun – a Beretta Px4 subcompact, for instance, or a Kahr P380. The kind of backup automatic that could fit comfortably in a pocket or an ankle holster.

  “Jeez, the state of you,” Badenhorst said. “You look like kak. And where are your weapons? Your helmet?”

  “Somewhere in the forest,” Roy replied. “Left them there along with my dignity, it feels lik
e.” Every word counted. Every word had to be right, and convincing. “There was a second man, Badenhorst. Salvador Vega had a friend.”

  “I know. The others said.”

  “The second bloke – I went after him. Tried to head him off. He got the drop on me.”

  “Yes?”

  “And he was... Well, whatever the other targets are, he was one too. You know, strong, fast, all that. He disarmed me. Just tore off my belts, helmet, everything, then started to give me the kicking of my life. I got in a few licks myself, but really, it was like Mike Tyson versus, I don’t know, Bambi.”

  “But he let you live.”

  “I wouldn’t say that exactly. When I realised how deeply I was in the shit, how badly it was going for me, I broke free and ran. Ran and hid. No helmet, no comms, so I’d no way of contacting the rest of the team. It’s taken me all this time to find my way out of the nature reserve and hitch a ride back to town.”

  “And you couldn’t have rung earlier to let us know you were okay?”

  “No signal out there in the forest. Here is the first place I’ve been able to get any bars.”

  Badenhorst weighed this up and nodded.

  “You might not think it,” he said, “but you should count your blessings, Roy. You could have come off a lot worse from that encounter. A lot worse.”

  “Don’t I know it. I hate to run away from a fight, but frankly it was that or get beaten to a pulp.”

  “I have to say, though, it was rash of you to go after him alone.”

  “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “And without one of the artefacts, either, which would at least have given you a sporting chance. I’ve never pegged you as rash before, my friend.”

  “Maybe I’m not thinking straight,” said Roy, inserting a slight edge into his voice. “Maybe when someone is dangling my daughter’s life over my head, the old rationality isn’t what it ought to be.”

  “The ever unflappable Roy Young, feeling the pressure?” Badenhorst’s upper lip curled sceptically.

  “You should be proud. There aren’t many people who’ve managed to get under my skin. Just you and my ex.”

  “I can’t have you anywhere except at the top of your game, Roy. If this business with your daughter is becoming a distraction...”

  “Maybe you should have thought of that before you snatched her.”

  “Don’t get snitty with me, my friend.” The object hidden under Badenhorst’s jacket twitched; the Afrikaner wanted Roy to see that he had it and was ready to use it if need be. “Don’t forget who’s in charge.”

  “I’m committed,” Roy insisted. “I’m here to see this thing through to the end. You know that. For the money, of course, but more than that, for Josie. You’ve got me exactly where you want me. I’ve accepted that.”

  Badenhorst fixed him with an appraising look. Roy returned it with a stare that contained both compliance and defiance, a mixture gauged to show the Afrikaner that he was acquiescent but no pushover. If he gave in too easily, the other man might suspect something; but if he was too insubordinate, Badenhorst might elect to terminate his contract – and perhaps him as well.

  The taxi wormed through Krasnoyarsk’s outskirts – crumbling concrete low-rises, patches of tangled waste ground, dense webs of overhead cable.

  Badenhorst broke into a sudden grin.

  “Very well, then. You’re still on the team. Just don’t let anything like this happen again, nè? I need my Roy Young. I need him clear-headed and in full working order.”

  “You’ve got him.”

  “Good.”

  Badenhorst withdrew his hand from inside his jacket. He was clutching, not a snub-nose automatic, but a phone. There was a brief text message on the screen and his thumb was crooked over the Send icon.

  “If our conversation had gone in a direction I didn’t like,” he said, “or you’d tried something foolhardy, all I would have had to do was press. The tiniest motion, but it would have had huge consequences. Instead...”

  With a couple of keystrokes, he erased the message.

  “As if it never was,” he said.

  “A kill order,” said Roy.

  “Correct.”

  “To the people who’ve got Josie.”

  “You thought maybe I had a gun aimed at you? No. Just my phone – a far more effective deterrent, I’d say, in the circumstances.”

  Roy bit his tongue. Fought down the urge to turn the heel of his hand into a battering ram and drive Badenhorst’s nasal bone up into his brain.

  He forced himself to think of Theo Stannard. Theseus, and his allies Perseus and Hippolyta. Greek demigods. If he helped them, they would help him. That was the deal.

  Just a little longer. He could stick this out. He could hold on.

  Just a little longer, and then...

  Then there would be a reckoning.

  When Josie was no longer in danger, Holger Badenhorst would get what was coming to him. Everything he deserved, and more.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The Aegean Sea, southeast of Athens

  THE BOAT POUNDED across an Aegean as blue as a kingfisher’s wing: a 25-foot Sea Fox Walkaround, propelled by a pair of 150-horsepower Yamaha outboards. At the helm was Rosalind, one of Sasha Grace’s Wonder Women. Another, Melina, was below decks in the compact forward cabin.

  Theo sat at the stern, feeling the drumming of the engines through his buttocks and thighs. Sasha occupied the passenger seat next to Rosalind, beneath the boat’s sunshade. Chase perched at the bow, legs dangling overboard, like a living figurehead. He was wearing a pair of Aviators and had both hands braced on the guardrail to steady him against the leap of the waves.

  The wind that tore at Theo’s hair was humid and salty, and carried scents that were achingly familiar. The vista, likewise, was achingly familiar: azure water, horizon speckled with islands, sky a cloudless blue firmament, sun flaring magnesium-white. He had not visited Greece – mainland or islands – for many years. Greece was home, and there were memories associated with the place, and the majority of them were good, but were outweighed by the minority that were painful.

  Hippolytus, for one. His first, last and only child, taken from him while still in the bloom of youth.

  His wives, dead too.

  And then there was the general deep-seated pang which most people felt for their distant past, for an era that was innocent and irrecoverable, a simpler time.

  The Age of Heroes was gone. Theo was feeling it more acutely than ever now that Heracles was dead. That great, garrulous man, a slave to his appetites, voracious in every respect, had been the holdout, the one who had kept the spirit of their generation alive, the one who had modernised least. Theo was close to Chase, but in many ways he had felt closer to Heracles, for all that the two of them had had little contact over the centuries. The great warrior had steadfastly continued to embody the image of who he was, while other demigods shifted with the flow of history, matching their colours to the times, like chameleons. Theo had done his best to emulate Heracles’s example, staying true to himself, and had succeeded, so he thought, right up until the late 1970s. Only then – after what Chase liked to refer to as his “midlife crisis” – had he at last admitted defeat and become something other than a crime solver and justice upholder. Only then had he remoulded himself to fit the world, rather than try to force the world to suit him.

  Now he was feeling something of the old fire in his belly. A glowing ember rather than a full blaze, but it was good to have it there again. Not since his “retirement” forty-odd years ago had a sense of righteousness sung quite so loudly in his ears. There were deaths to be avenged, punishments to mete out. Villains to vanquish.

  Life was beginning to make sense once more.

  IT WAS FORTY-EIGHT hours since he had given Roy Young a beating and turned him loose.

  The first twenty-four of those were spent in a kind of limbo. There was no reply from Hélène Arlington. Nor was there any word from You
ng. Theo, Chase and Sasha passed the time in Krasnoyarsk with nothing better to do than drink, eat, sleep, and wait. Theo juggled with ideas for the next Jake Killian, made some notes, but couldn’t really concentrate. An email from Cynthia – “Just your agent checking in, wanting to know why her favourite author hasn’t been in touch lately” – went unanswered. He had nothing to tell her that wouldn’t sound vainglorious or dismissive. The whole notion of writing a novel seemed cheap and trivial just then, like taking a photo of life and pretending it was the real thing.

  Then wheels began turning.

  Hélène Arlington texted. Her husband would see them. He and she were staying at their island home in the northern Cyclades. How soon could they get there?

  Theo checked airline schedules. Aeroflot could fly them overnight to Athens via Moscow, a thirteen-hour trip including the stopover, arriving midday the next day.

  That was acceptable to Evander, Hélène replied. Did they require picking up from Athens? She could send the helicopter.

  Theo told Sasha to say thanks, but no. They would make their way to the island under their own steam.

  “We climb aboard the Arlingtons’ helicopter,” he said to her and Chase, “and from that moment on we’d be effectively prisoners. We’ll hire our own helicopter instead. No, better yet, a boat. That way we’ve always got an easy escape route off the island.”

  “I can help there,” said Sasha. “Two of my Wonder Women call Athens home. I’ll get them to make the arrangements.”

  “Can you also ask them to source some weapons for us?”

  Chase cocked his head. “Guns?”

  “What else? I’m not going to go into this half-assed. In the event that the Myrmidons are there waiting for us at Casa Arlington, I’m sure as hell not taking them on unarmed. I want the odds to be as even as possible.”

  “I believe I can do guns,” Sasha said with a tiny, feral smile. “Any particular preference? Make, model, calibre?”