by Will Adams
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
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.'
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br /> '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.'
'How am I supposed to do that?' asked Edouard. 'Boris took my mobile.'
'Your father doesn't want him calling home,' said Boris, when Mikhail looked to him for an explanation.
'Fine. Zaal, you stay with him.'
'Oh, great!' Zaal shot Edouard a resentful look. 'Thanks a million.'
'Where are you guys going?' asked Edouard.
'To get something to eat,' said Mikhail. 'Why? Is that a problem?'
'No,' said Edouard. 'No problem.' 'Good,' said Mikhail. 'Then we'll see you later.'
III
The lights plunged out in the Island, and in the surrounding streets and buildings too, throwing the restaurant into an almost complete darkness, save for the blue flames of gas in the kitchen, and the headlights of passing traffic. A few diners laughed; others sighed. A woman struck and held up her lighter, making like she was the Statue of Liberty. The staff went smoothly into their practised drill, a waiter lighting oil lamps then hoisting them up with a bamboo pole to hang from ceiling hooks, while a waitress distributed candles among the tables, creating a cosy and romantic atmosphere. 'Ah, Greece!' smiled Nico, raising his glass in an impromptu toast. 'May she never work efficiently.'
'You said something in the car earlier,' said Knox, seizing the moment to divert him from his childhood reminiscences. 'That Augustin might have known about the golden fleece. How come?'
'I sent photographs of Petitier's seals to everyone on my speakers list, including your friend. It was a courtesy to explain the change of schedule. So plenty of people might have known about it, particularly if they knew their Linear B. And I'm not suggesting he did know about the fleece, anyway, only that the police might be able to make a case for it.' He sat back to allow the waitress to clear their plates. 'I should have just called them in at once,' he said ruefully. 'All my colleagues advised me to.'
'Really?' asked Gaille.
Nico nodded. 'Petitier had no right to those seals. He was legally obliged to notify the authorities rather than jaunting around the world giving talks on them. So, yes, technically I should have informed the police and left it
to them. But no one knew where Petitier was or where he'd been living, so it wouldn't have been easy for them to track him down. And if he'd learned that the police were after him, maybe he'd have gone to ground again, and we'd never have learned what he'd found. And what was the point, after all? He was coming to us anyway, evidently intending to show us his finds and tell us all about them. It seemed unnecessarily vindictive to turn the police on him first.'
The waitress appeared again with three glasses, into which she poured generous shots of Metaxa. 'There's something I don't get,' said Gaille, once they'd clinked their glasses in a toast. 'If Petitier really had found the fleece, and wanted to announce it, why not just go to the press? Why choose an archaeological conference?'
Nico nodded, as though he'd wondered this himself. 'He must have been aware he'd acted illegally. Perhaps he wanted to legitimise himself as far as he could by dressing his announcement up in academic clothes.'
The lights flickered and came back on. Knox blinked and sat back in the sudden brightness, rather regretting the loss of intimacy. 'But why this conference? What has the fleece to do with Eleusis?'
'More than you might think.' He looked quizzically at them both. 'How much do you know about the fleece legend?'
'Just what you'd expect,' said Knox.
'Then let me give you a little background. For one thing, it's among the oldest of our heroic legends. It's mentioned in Homer, so it dates back at least to seven or eight hundred B.C., but almost certainly to the late bronze age or even earlier. Essentially, Phrixus and Helle, the twin children of King Athamas, were plotted against by their wicked stepmother Ino, who bribed an oracle to say they had to be sacrificed to end a famine. At the last moment, however, Poseidon sent a golden flying ram to secure their escape. The ram flew them over the sea, but Helle tragically fell off and drowned at the place we now know as the Hellespont. Phrixus made it all the way to Colchis, which is in modern-day Georgia, where he sacrificed the ram in gratitude to Poseidon and hung its fleece in a sacred grove.'