by Will Adams
He waited until the Citroen had passed, then pulled out. It turned onto Vasilissis Sofias, headed towards Syndagma. Zaal couldn't read the signs, so Edouard gave him directions that he relayed on so that the others could pick up the chase. Right onto Stadhiou, north towards Omonia. The square was congested; even the lightest drizzle could bring Athens to a standstill. They turned onto 3rdSeptemvriou, where lines of sequined whores glittered beneath the awnings, trying to make eye-contact. The Citroen turned left down a one-way street, then into a hotel parking lot. Edouard drove on by, bumped up onto the kerb. Car doors slammed; Knox and Gaille hurried out of the car park and across the road to the hotel.
'Go stall them,' said Zaal.
'What? How?'
'I don't know. Just do it. Until the others get here.'
'Why don't you do it?'
'Because Mikhail wants you to.' He offered him the mobile. 'Unless you'd rather discuss it with him yourself.'
Edouard bit back a retort. He got out, his arm above his head to ward off the light rain, standing back to allow a blue van past, then hurrying across the road. The hotel had a glass front, but inside it was one of those places that tried to make a virtue of their heritage, its lobby rich with lush red carpeting, polished brass fittings everywhere, chandeliers hanging from ostentatiously high ceilings, its staff dressed in scarlet-and-gold livery. The bar to the right of the main door was full of prosperous-looking foreigners in comfortable chairs sipping whiskies and wines. One or two of them looked up as Knox and Gaille walked over to reception, then they drew the attention of their companions, and suddenly everyone was looking. Their appearance on the news had evidently made them minor celebrities.
There was a loud tooting on the main road; an engine roared and headlights swept down the one-way street before stopping in a slither outside the hotel. The back door opened and Mikhail stepped out, turning up the collar of his trench-coat against the rain. 'Well?' he asked.
'They're just getting their keys,' said Edouard. Mikhail nodded and reached back inside the car for his shotgun. He broke it, stuffed in two cartridges, then snapped it closed again. 'What the hell's that for?' protested Edouard.
'Your friend Knox murdered a man earlier today for my fleece,' said Mikhail. 'You think he's just going to give it back?'
'But all those people…'
'So?' He hid the shotgun inside his trench-coat, then led the way through the automatic glass doors into the hotel lobby just as Knox and Gaille collected their keys and headed for the lifts.
II
Kiko woke in a panic to a rush of beating wings and lights outside his window that made him think of demons with claws and sharp teeth and his heart began thundering like hooves in a horse-race. But then he saw the thing itself and recognised what it was. A helicopter. It had landed earlier that night with more Nergadze guests in its belly; now it was evidently taking them back home again. His fears receded, leaving only a dampness of sweat in his mattress. He lay there in the growing chill, wondering for the hundredth time what they were doing in this wretched place, where their father was, how he'd allowed this to happen to them.
He was drifting back to sleep when he heard the footsteps. They seemed to stop directly outside his room. His body stiffened; he stared petrified at the blur of hallway light that marked the edges of his door, pleading for it to be imagination. But then he heard the handle squeak and he caught his breath as the door opened stealthily and close again. 'Mama?' asked Kiko, his heart palpitating violently. 'Is that you?'
'I woke you,' growled a man. 'I didn't mean to.' A lighter rasped, a blue-yellow flame sprang up to light a fat yellow candle that flickered and fluttered and then grew strong enough to reveal a thin, tall old man in blue silk pyjamas and a red dressing-gown. Ilya Nergadze.
'What are you doing here?' asked Kiko.
Ilya tried a smile to put Kiko at his ease, but it only made him feel worse. 'Do you remember me, Kiko? You had lunch last year with me in Tbilisi. You swam in my pool. You were very good.' The dim candlelight created a strange intimacy as he drew closer. 'This is my other house. This whole castle and all the land as far as the eye can see. Do you like it?'
'I suppose.'
A flash of yellow teeth that might have been a smile. 'You don't sound sure.'
'I want my father,' said Kiko. 'I want to go home.'
The old man reached the bed. 'Goodness me,' he said, when he saw Kiko's forehead damp with sweat. 'You have had a nightmare.' He set the candle down on the bedside table, produced a handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed Kiko's brow.
'What are you doing?'
'You mustn't sleep in wet bedclothes,' said Ilya. 'You'll catch the devil of a cold.'
'I'm fine.'
'At least move across to where it's dry. It's a big enough bed for that. And your mother would never forgive me if you caught something.' He watched benignly as Kiko shuffled across, then sat in the gentle depression Kiko had left in the mattress, before lying down alongside him, pulling the sheets taut across Kiko's body as he did so. Ilya's hair and eyebrows had somehow turned black and shiny as shoe polish since he'd last seen him, noticed Kiko. It added to his sense of unreality.
Ilya folded his handkerchief in half and dabbed Kiko's forehead once more: his dressing-gown fell open as he did so, exposing a lozenge gap in Ilya's silk pyjamas, a glimpse of silver curls of hair and wrinkled flesh. 'Dear me,' said Ilya, righting himself, tying a new knot in his dressing-gown cord. 'That won't do.' He smiled at Kiko. 'Do you like to ride?' he asked.
'I don't know,' said Kiko miserably. 'I've never tried.'
'You've never tried?' said Ilya with feigned astonishment. His breath smelled of alcohol, and it tickled Kiko's cheek. 'We'll have to change that, won't we? Tell you what. Tomorrow we'll go riding together in the hills. Would you like that?'
'Will Mama be there?'
'Of course. Your sisters too. We'll make a party of it. And don't worry. I know just the pony for you. Gentle as cotton wool. Perfect for a young gentleman learning how to ride. I taught all my grandsons on her. Trust me. You'll be sore in the rump for a while, but you'll soon grow to love it.' He turned onto his back, cupped his hand behind the candle-flame and blew it out, so that the room fell back into darkness. The creak of springs, the tug of bedclothes, that soft sour breath again against his cheek, then Ilya's hand settling on his ribs, stroking him through the bedclothes, rhythmically down from his chest to his navel, then back up again. 'Close your eyes,' murmured Ilya, worming his other arm beneath Kiko's pillow, lifting his forearm to tilt Kiko's head against his chest. 'That's it. Try to sleep. No more nightmares now. Not while I'm here.'
III
The hotel's lifts were an extension of its retro-chic design, huge old service elevators with age-speckled mirrors and automated lattice gates. Knox had been rather charmed the first time he'd taken one, but they climbed and descended at such a ridiculously sedate pace that now his only reaction was exasperation.
'Hey, look,' said Gaille, as the gate concertinaed closed. 'You're famous.'
He smiled when he saw his name scrawled with a bold red marker pen on tomorrow's conference itinerary, taped to one of the mirrors. 'I guess Nico did have mounds to do after all,' he said. He was about to press their floor button when he saw five men approaching purposefully across the lobby. These lifts were slow, but at least they were large. 'Going up?' he asked.
'Thanks,' said the first man, his black-leather trench-coat lightly beaded with rain.
'Which floor?'
The man hesitated. 'Top floor,' he said.
Knox nodded and pressed six and seven; they began the slow ascent. It was congested with all seven of them, especially as one of the newcomers was a giant with a flattened nose and ears like pounded dough. The lattice gates meant that they could see out onto each of the floors, and that those guests waiting for a lift could see them too. They all stood facing the same way, keeping their stares neutral, observing the standard etiquette. All except the man in the t
rench-coat. He stared at Gaille with such open and obvious interest that Knox was about to say something. But Gaille must have realised, for she squeezed his wrist, a request to let her handle it herself. Then she turned to the man and said: 'You must give me your name and address.'
'Why's that?' he asked.
'You seem to enjoy staring at me so much, I thought maybe I could have a poster made up of myself, so that you can hang it on your wall.'
The man laughed easily. 'No need,' he assured her. 'I have a good memory for faces.'
The lift stopped abruptly at the sixth floor, jarring them all a little. The lattice gate opened automatically. Knox put himself between Gaille and the man, then followed her out. The man in the trench-coat made to come after them, and the others too, but Knox turned and blocked their way. 'You want the top floor,' he pointed out, as the gate began to close again.
'My mistake,' replied the man, blocking it with his foot. 'I thought the sixth was the top floor.'
There was a moment of stillness as he and Knox locked gazes. Knox didn't know what was going on, only that it wasn't good. 'Who are you?' he asked. 'Are you staying here?'
A door opened along the corridor at that moment. Two bearded men emerged, bickering good-naturedly, and walked towards the lift area. Knox seized the moment to take Gaille by her arm and hustle her to their room, swiping his electronic key through the lock and hurrying thankfully inside.
THIRTEEN
I
'Jesus!' shuddered Gaille. 'What a creep.'
'Yes,' agreed Knox. He double-locked the door then checked the corridor through the fisheye peephole.
She looked curiously at him. 'What?'
'I don't know.' He turned to face her. 'Didn't you get the sense that he had some kind of…agenda?'
'He was just a jerk, that's all,' said Gaille. 'Plenty of men think it turns a woman on to be stared at like that. You just happened to be there tonight.'
'Maybe,' said Knox.
'Seriously,' she told him. 'Don't go all paranoid on me.'
'Isn't paranoid how Augustin described Petitier?' he asked. 'And look what happened to him.'
'You're not suggesting that guy had something to do with Petitier's death, are you?' frowned Gaille.
Knox shrugged as he went over to the bed. 'Augustin said that Petitier went to see him because his own room was still being made up. But how plausible is that? I mean, the cleaning staff are pretty damned efficient here. You've got to give them that. The vacuum cleaners go in the morning, not the afternoons.'
'Maybe the previous occupant was late checking out.'
'Maybe. But maybe it was something else. I mean, the lobby here is really exposed, isn't it? Didn't you find it uncomfortable coming in just now, the way everyone stared?'
'So?'
'I'm just saying. Put yourself in Petitier's shoes. Out of the world for the best part of twenty years: crowds are bound to make him anxious. He checks in here. People stare at him. Maybe it's just because he looks a bit odd, but he fears the word's got out about the priceless treasure in his bag. He dares not go to his room now. He knows Augustin's giving one of the talks. His old student, someone he can trust. He asks what room he's in, or perhaps he glimpses his room number in the register while he's checking in. He goes up, knocks, spins his story about his room not being ready yet, and promises he won't stay long. But then Augustin heads off to the airport and Petitier makes himself at home, takes a shower.'
'In someone else's room?'
'Why not? Augustin's going to be gone for two hours at least, more like three. And haven't you ever had that feeling of being grubby and under-dressed when you turn up after a long journey somewhere as plush as this?'
'Okay. Go on.'
'Now imagine it from someone else's perspective. Imagine you're sitting in the lobby. Nico has emailed you photos of Petitier's seals, or maybe you've just heard whispers. But suddenly you see the man himself clutching his bag and looking nervous as hell. Jesus! you think. Maybe there's something to this after all. Your whole life you've been hoping to find something extraordinary; or maybe you're getting on a bit and you've got nothing saved. You want that fleece. You covet it. You've earned it by dedicating your life to archaeology. You follow Petitier to the lifts. He tries to shake you off by going to Augustin's room, but you manage to trail him somehow, and you hear Augustin inviting him inside. Maybe you've got a nearby room. Or you know someone who does. Whatever, you're still lurking nearby when I arrive twenty minutes later and take Augustin off to the airport, leaving Petitier on his own. And then, through the door, you hear the shower come on.'
'Not through the door,' said Gaille. 'The CCTV would have picked it up.'
'Through the wall, then.' He nodded at their own bathroom. 'I mean, we can hear everything our neighbours get up to. Presumably it's the same one floor down.'
'So I hear the shower start,' agreed Gaille. 'It's my opportunity.'
'Exactly,' said Knox. 'You may never get another. You go out onto your own balcony and see Augustin's door is open. It's a muggy afternoon, after all. It's not easy to climb across, but it's not that hard either, not with this kind of prize waiting. The shower's still running. You sneak inside and take Petitier's bag from the bed and turn to flee, but Petitier hears you and charges out of the shower. He chases you onto the balcony where you wrestle over the bag. It rips open. There's an artefact inside, solid and heavy. You pick it up and smash him over the head. He goes down hard, though he manages to crawl inside in an effort to get to the phone. But you think he's dead, so you flee back to your room, taking your prize with you.'
'A hell of a risk.'
'But plausible, right?'
'More plausible than Augustin doing it,' acknowledged Gaille. 'So one of our fellow guests, then? Maybe one of Augustin's neighbours.'
'It's possible.'
'Or what about those guys in the lift?'
'Maybe they are his neighbours.'
She gave an expressive little shudder. 'You think we should tell someone?'
He considered it a moment, imagined trying to explain his theory to that antagonistic Chief Inspector, the scorn he'd come in for. 'Not tonight,' he said. 'It's too late. I'll run it by Charissa tomorrow, see what she thinks.' He was sufficiently unnerved to check again that their door was locked, and the balcony too. Then he stripped down to his boxer shorts, stretched out on the bed, took out his copy of Augustin's talk, and began to read it through.
II
Any hopes Edouard had that Mikhail would give up on Knox for the night were quickly extinguished. They went to the hotel bar, took a corner table, ordered a round of firewater and discussed ways of getting Knox to open his door, despite his now being clearly on alert. 'Let's just blast his door with your shotgun,' grinned Zaal.
Edouard looked appalled at him. 'Keep your voice down,' he begged.
'Why? You really think someone here speaks Georgian?'
'You never know.'
'Why don't we start a fire?' joked Boris. 'That'll get them down.'
'Actually,' said Mikhail thoughtfully. 'That's not such a bad idea.'
'Are you crazy!' hissed Edouard. 'There must be hundreds of people staying here.'
'We don't actually have to start a fire,' said Mikhail, with exaggerated patience. 'We only need to set off the alarm. All the guests will come down and gather outside, including our two friends. We'll just grab them when they appear.'
'It won't be easy,' observed Boris. 'Lots of other people around.'
'So let's go up to their floor first,' suggested Zaal. 'We'll set the alarm off and wait for them to open their door.'
'What if we're seen?' asked Edouard.
'What if we're seen,' mimicked Zaal, earning himself a laugh.
'I only-'
'We're doing it,' said Mikhail, knocking back his drink. 'Unless you've got a better idea, of course.'
Edouard hung his head. 'No.'
'Then shut up.' He got to his feet; the others too. Only Edouard st
ayed seated. 'You too,' said Mikhail.
'I'm really not cut out for-'
'I said, you too.'
He rose reluctantly, followed them to the lifts. He couldn't think why Mikhail would want him along, other than it gave him pleasure to make people do the things they hated. But that was reason enough. The lattice gate closed on him like a gaol-term. The lift shuddered and began to ascend. The idea that Knox and Bonnard had anything to do with Petitier's death was patently ridiculous; only not to Mikhail. He took it for granted that everyone was as innately vicious and covetous as himself. They reached the sixth floor. The gate opened. With a sinking heart, Edouard made to follow the others out. It was only at the last moment that he noticed the amended conference itinerary taped to the mirror. He didn't have time to think things through, he simply grabbed it and thrust it at Mikhail. 'Look!' he said. 'Knox is giving a talk in the morning.'
'So?'
'So he'll be the third person associated with this damned conference to come to harm. The girl will make four. The police will go crazy.' He jabbed a finger at the CCTV cameras. 'And look at all those, for Christ's sake. We'll be caught in no time. Besides, Knox won't have the fleece here, will he? Remember what that policeman said? He and Pascal took it to the airport in a bag. I'll bet you anything they hid it out there. And he certainly won't go for it until after his talk, not while he's still a suspect.'
'What if it is his talk?' asked Mikhail. 'What if he unveils my fleece at this conference? What then?'
'He'd have to be mad,' replied Edouard. 'How else could he have got it, other than by murdering Petitier?'
There was silence for a few moments, as they considered this. 'He's got a point, boss,' said Boris grudgingly.
'And that's not even the main thing,' said Edouard, pressing his advantage. 'The main thing is that we know exactly where he's going to be tomorrow. We can wait for him to finish and then pick him up and do whatever we like with him. And no one will even know that he's gone.'