The Lost Labyrinth dk-3

by Will Adams

  'You're a foreigner.'

  'I've lived here ten years; I speak local. That makes all the difference, trust me.'

  She didn't argue, still jangled from the drive. She checked herself in the mirror, wiped away the worst of the dust, patted down her hair, got out. A pleasant enough town; the kind where the same few families had been farming the same fields for hundreds of years; where the same few surnames would appear again and again in the cemetery. There was a cafe next to the shop, its glass doors wide open. She wandered over. A canary chirped in its cage. Goatskins were stretched out on the walls. A stuffed eagle was poised to take flight. Split logs were stacked by a potbellied stove, four men playing cards at the table next to it. Three of them glanced up at her with benign indifference, while the fourth saluted her with his glass. She smiled and retreated to the car.

  It was five more minutes before Iain emerged from the shop, carrying two white plastic bags bulging with food and water. 'You had to pay for your information, then?' she said, as he stowed them in his boot.

  'Worth every cent,' he assured her. 'The woman recognised Petitier's picture at once. He comes in once a month to trade supplies.'

  'And? Did she tell you where he lived?'

  'Yes,' he grinned. 'She did.'

  II

  Under different circumstances, Edouard might have enjoyed drinking his coffee in the Eleusis cafe. It was a pleasant morning, after all, and local families had come out in force to enjoy the fresh spring sunshine. But he was still struggling to digest the implications of his brief conversation with his wife, work out what he could possibly hope to accomplish while-

  'Hey, boss,' said Zaal to Mikhail, pointing across the car park to the site gates, from which a man was now emerging. 'That's Knox, isn't it?' he asked.

  'That's Knox,' agreed Mikhail. He rose to his feet but then hesitated. There were so many people milling around outside, including security guards by the site entrance, that even he must have realised that this was a wretched spot for an abduction. Besides, if Knox should spot any of them, he'd recognise them instantly from the night before. They therefore waited inside the cafe's grounds until he reached his car and pulled away, then they threw some banknotes on the table and hurried out to their Mercedes.

  III

  Knox made good time out of Eleusis and back towards Athens. Despite Nico's misgivings about the traffic police, the earlier four-car pile-up had been completely cleared away. He left the coast behind, passed through a stretch of rocky woodland, reached the top of a hill.

  Nico had tried several times to telephone his old colleague Antonius, but had got no reply. He'd grown increasingly alarmed, for apparently Antonius wasn't just reclusive; he was a genuine agoraphobic who found it hard to leave his house even to go to the shops. His anxiety had infected Knox, who'd offered to drive by his house to check up on him. Nico had assured him it would be easy to find, for it was in the shadows of the Olympic Stadium. 'You can't miss it,' he'd told him. 'Big, white and gleaming. You can see it from everywhere.'

  Everywhere but here, it seemed. He reached across and popped open his glove compartment, grabbed his car-hire map of Athens and flapped it out against his steering wheel, then tried to read it as he drove, his eyes flickering back and forth between the road and-

  The black Mercedes came out of nowhere and cut across his bonnet, slamming on its brakes as it did so, forcing Knox to wrench around his steering wheel even as he hit his own brakes hard, tyres screeching on the dusty surface. He hit the verge and the Mercedes' back bumper simultaneously, and his seat-belt snapped tight. A horn began blaring, he wasn't sure whose. Something jolted him from behind. He glanced around to see a second Mercedes pinning him in. Men sprang from both cars: he recognised them instantly from last night. He tried to release his seat-belt but it jammed and wouldn't let him go. He tried to lock himself in instead, but too late. His door was hauled open and the man from last night gave him a glimpse of the sawn-off shotgun beneath his leather trench-coat. Then he reached calmly inside and took the key from the ignition. 'You're coming with us,' he said.

  Knox's seat-belt finally released, slinking back into its housing like a shamed dog. 'Who are you?' he asked, trying not to let his fear show. 'What do you want?'

  The man nodded towards his Mercedes. 'You'll

  TWENTY

  I

  Iain and Gaille drove out of Anapoli on a narrow, winding lane, deserted save for a flock of sheep that parted only reluctantly to their tooting. They crossed a deep gorge on a narrow wooden bridge, the planks rattling beneath them. There were olive groves either side of the road, black nets crowded into the claws of their branches, irrigation pipes coiled like mythic snakes around their trunks. They wended on between fields and woods and meadows to a tiny hillside hamlet called Agia Georgio where their further progress was barred by a metal gate. 'I guess this is what they mean by the end of the road,' said Iain. 'You want to open it?'

  'Is it allowed?'

  'Sure,' he said. 'It's only to keep their goats in.'

  A Doberman was dozing on the far side of the gate, leashed to a metal spike. It woke at once and flew into a barking frenzy that set off a dog's chorus in the village. She closed the gate hurriedly behind Iain, climbed gratefully back in. The Doberman threw itself up against her window as they drove past and raged impotently at her, leaving brown smears upon the glass.

  'Christ, but I hate those beasts,' muttered Iain, looking more than a little pale. He drove through a village square to an unsealed track that deteriorated into lurching deep potholes. A tethered mule looked up briefly, then returned to munching grass. They reached an impassable row of heavy rocks placed as makeshift bollards across the track ahead, so Iain bumped off it to park in the cover of some trees, their whitewashed trunks reaching out of the ground like zombie arms. 'We'll have to walk from here,' he said, getting out.

  'So how does Petitier get his supplies in?' asked Gaille, as they went around back. 'You think that was his mule back there?'

  'Could be.' He popped the boot, crammed with camping gear.

  'Wow. You came prepared.'

  'Once a boy-scout…' he smiled. Then he added: 'I never know when I'm going to get the chance to go hiking.' He transferred the provisions he'd just bought to his pack, then pulled on hiking boots.

  'What about me?' asked Gaille, gesturing at her flimsy plimsolls. 'I'm hardly equipped for this.'

  'Let's see how it goes,' he said. 'Chances are we'll be back in a few hours. Certainly before dark.'

  'And if not?'

  He patted his bulging pack. 'I've got a tent, sleeping bags, food, everything we could need.' He reached into his boot for a spare day-pack. 'But you might want to take a change of clothes, just in case.'

  The hillside rose with daunting steepness to a rocky ridge high above Gaille. But she was here on Augustin's behalf, and this was no time for faint hearts, so she transferred some clothes and her wash-bag into his pack, then slung it on.

  'Ready?' asked Iain, heaving on his own pack.

  'As I'll ever be,' she agreed.

  II

  The shotgun jabbed like a cattle-prod in the small of Knox's back as he was marched over to the Mercedes. The giant opened the rear door and nodded him inside. He looked longingly at the road, all those cars, trucks and motorbikes hurtling indifferently past, belching toxic fumes in his face. He contemplated making a run for it, dodging through traffic or waving someone down. But even as he tensed, the giant took his arm and his nerve failed him. He bowed his head and climbed into the-

  He heard the car before he saw it, its old engine roaring, its frantic tooting. He glanced around to see a rusting, patched-up Volvo pulling up in a shriek of brakes, its driver hunched over the wheel, his forearm up to shield his face, while a woman knelt on his passenger seat and reached around to throw open the rear door. 'Get in!' she yelled.

  Knox didn't hesitate, he twisted his arm free, slapped aside the shotgun, leapt head-first across the back seats. 'Go,' shout
ed the woman. The driver stamped on the gas. Someone grabbed Knox's leg and hauled him back. He kicked himself free but was left dangling out the side, his shoes, ankles and knees banging and scraping along the road as the Volvo picked up speed. Acceleration slapped the door against his hips as he clawed the synthetic seat fabric with his fingernails in a losing battle to hold on. The woman screamed at the driver to slow down, she grabbed Knox's forearm and gave him a precious moment to adjust his grip and then haul himself inside.

  The shotgun boomed twice, pellets pinging and clattering on the Volvo's body-work, leaving circles of frost on the rear-window. Knox slammed the door, glanced back at the man standing in the road reloading his shotgun while traffic swerved around him and his men sprinted for their Mercedes.

  'He's got a shotgun!' wailed the driver. 'He's got a fucking shotgun!'

  'What's going on?' asked Knox. 'Who are you people?'

  'Oh, Jesus!' said the driver, checking his rearview. 'They're following us. I don't believe this. I don't fucking believe this.'

  'Who are you?' asked Knox again.

  'I was about to ask you the same question,' replied the woman, with impressive cool.

  'Why follow me if you don't know who I am?'

  'We weren't following you.' She nodded at the SatNav monitor. 'We were following them.'

  'Oh, Jesus!' muttered the driver. 'They're closing.'

  Knox looked around. The first Mercedes was still a good two hundred yards behind, but gaining fast; the old Volvo couldn't possibly outrun them on open roads. The driver must have realised this, for he hauled on his steering wheel to take a sharp right turn, tyres squealing in protest as they turned again almost immediately left along an alley behind a car dealership.

  'Well?' asked the woman, belting herself in. 'Who are you?'

  'Daniel Knox,' he told her, looking back through the rear window. 'And you?'

  'Nadya. And this is Sokratis. So why are the Nergadzes after you?'

  The first Mercedes appeared into the alley behind them, then the second. Knox swore out loud. 'The Nergadzes?' he asked.

  'You don't know them?'

  He shook his head. 'They were at my hotel last night. But apart from that…' A pipe had burst ahead, water bubbling across the grey tarmac, their tyres slithering so sharply sideways when they took the next turn that Knox spilled across the back seats. 'Who are they?'

  'The one with the shotgun is Mikhail Nergadze. He's the grandson of Ilya.' His blank look made her shake her head. 'You've never heard of Ilya Nergadze?' she asked.

  'Who?'

  'He's one of Georgia's richest oligarchs. And right now he's running to be our next president.'

  'I didn't even know you had elections on.'

  'Our incumbent was forced into holding them,' she nodded. 'He's been under pressure since the South Ossetia fiasco. You do remember that, at least?'

  'The breakaway republic,' said Knox. 'You tried to seize it back. The Russians had other ideas.' They streaked past a furniture warehouse, employees staring open-mouthed as the Volvo left scorch-marks on their concrete apron.

  'Something like that,' she agreed. A lorry hurtled across a T-junction ahead, forcing Sokratis to stamp on his brakes so hard that Knox was thrown against the back of Nadya's seat, and their engine stalled. Sokratis twisted the key frantically, but it wouldn't start. The two Mercedes closed up fast behind. At last the engine caught. Sokratis squirted through a gap in traffic that shut before either Mercedes could follow.

  'But what the hell do they want with me?'

  They passed an open lot filled with tractors, combines and other agricultural machinery, screeched left down a narrow alley, hit a pothole hard, bouncing them up in the air, then swung left around a corner. The main road was tantalisingly close ahead, but their access to it was blocked by a row of white-painted tubs of hyacinth and acacia. 'Hell!' yelled Sokratis, throwing up his hands in frustration.

  'Let's run,' said Nadya.

  'And leave them my car?' demanded Sokratis. 'No way. They'd track me in a minute.' He thrust his Volvo into reverse, but his SatNav showed a Mercedes coming up fast. 'Shit!' he wailed.

  There was a mobile home dealership to their left, a parking area outside it, three broken-down caravans packed tight together, then a gap to the dealership wall occupied only by a green wheelie bin, its lid sticking up from the excess of garbage rotting inside. Knox jumped out and hauled the bin away. A black cat came screeching out of it before skipping off over the caravans. Sokratis reversed into the created gap, hitting the brick wall so hard that his rear bumper fell off with a clang, and Knox hauled the bin back across the Volvo's bonnet just as the first Mercedes appeared.

  Nadya beckoned to him, wanting him back inside should they need to get away fast. He let go of the bin and tried to squeeze down the gap between caravan and car; but there was a slight slope at the front of the parking area, and gravity went to work, the wheelie bin rolling slowly down it, threatening to give them away. Knox dived full length, scraping his chest on the gravelled surface, grabbing one of the bin's wheels with his right hand, clawing it from beneath with his left, his fingernails scratching the stiff plastic.

  Beneath the bottom of the bin, the undercarriage of a black Mercedes cruised past, gliding to a halt by the flower tubs. The second Mercedes came up behind it a moment later, stopping barely five feet away from Knox. The Volvo's suspension gave a little creak behind him, Sokratis or Nadya shifting in their seats. Doors opened and closed. Leather boots and shoes gathered for a heated discussion in some unfamiliar tongue. Knox was lying awkwardly on the tarmac, sharp stones pressing into his ribcage, but he didn't dare move a muscle. The wheelie-bin felt heavier and heavier. His biceps began to burn with the strain.

  III

  An old path snaked back and forth up the hillside, but Iain hadn't the patience for that. He set off directly upwards with massive strides, turning and waiting rather pointedly for Gaille every few minutes. Despite that, she began enjoying herself. The freshness of the altitude kept her cool, and the walk was undeniably beautiful. Willows leaned over a small man-made lake, admiring themselves in its still waters. Lizards basked upon their trunks while bellwether sheep tinkled nearby. They reached a glade dotted with gloriously coloured hives, their mouths blurred with bees, so that the air hummed like some faulty electrical appliance. 'Good honey?' she panted, as much to slow Iain down as anything.

  'The best,' nodded Iain, turning to face her, then walking on backwards. 'Always has been. They even say that Alexander the Great was embalmed in Cretan honey.' He raised an interrogative eyebrow. 'Well? You found his body.'

  'What? You think I should have licked him?'

  'I suppose not,' he laughed. 'Still, it's a shame we'll never know.'

  'Alexander died in Babylon,' observed Gaille. 'What would the Babylonians have been doing with Cretan honey?'

  'The best embalmers back then came from Egypt. You should know that. Alexander's generals sent for them, and they brought their supplies with them. Egyptian honey wasn't up to snuff. It's to do with the seasons, of course. Bees don't make honey for fun. Take it away from them and their hives will die, unless they can gather more pollen. So beekeeping ideally needs a land in permanent blossom.'

  'Somewhere like Crete?' smiled Gaille.

  'Exactly.' He swept his hand across the hillside, a kaleidoscope of grasses, anemones and irises, orchids and asphodels, poppies and other wildflowers, all bounded by a natural fence of yellow gorse and the pink buds of Judas trees in early blossom, even a thousand metres or so above sea level. 'Heraklion used to be known as Chandia, which is where our word "candy" comes from. And the first alcoholic drink brewed here was mead. Dionysus is usually celebrated as the god of wine, but he most likely started out as the god of mead. In fact, some of the earliest myths about him may very well be brewing instructions.'

  'Really?'

  'Sure. Mead's a dangerous substance if you don't know what you're doing. They must have had some method for memor
ising and passing on their recipes. Look at the structure of the stories sometime, their use of numbers…'

  They passed through a collar of trees, the ground a brown carpet of last year's leaves, pine needles and cones, and the soft pebbles of animal droppings. Giant cobwebs stretched across the path, strands glittering like attenuated silver, catching in her hands and hair. Out the other side, the landscape changed markedly. The gradient steepened and there were fists of grey rock everywhere. She found it harder and harder to keep up. It wasn't just that Iain was fitter; his boots were much more suitable for the slippery, jagged terrain, while her plimsolls kept turning so that her ankles were soon bruised and bleeding.

  She took out her bottle of water, warm from the sun, swallowed a couple of mouthfuls then splashed a little on her brow, used it to brush back her hair. Now that she'd stopped, she felt the tightness in her calves, a warning twinge of a hamstring. She looked longingly at a moss-covered rock.

  'Fancy a breather?' asked Iain.

  'I'm fine,' she assured him. 'But you have one if you like.'

  He laughed, amusement and understanding mixed. 'Thanks,' he said, shrugging off his pack. 'I rather think I will.'

  TWENTY-ONE

  I

  A convoy of army trucks rumbled past on the main road, bored soldiers staring out of the backs. Edouard glanced instinctively down at Mikhail's shotgun, but he was holding it safely out of sight. They waited patiently till the last of the trucks was gone, then Mikhail turned back to Davit, and prodded him in the chest with his finger. 'Well?' he demanded. 'I thought you said they came this way.'