by Will Adams
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 fiancee-not his girlfriend, mind, his fiancee-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
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-'
&n
bsp; '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?'