The Lost Labyrinth dk-3

by Will Adams

  Edouard could hear strange noises at the other end of the line, clicks and humming and low murmurs, hints of furious behind-the-scenes activity, of people listening in, of others being woken and briefed. He took a deep breath. 'I spoke to my wife this morning,' he began. 'She said they'd all been out horse-riding earlier with Ilya. Then she said that Kiko had been out riding before, with a man named Nicoloz Badridze.'

  'I'm not with you.'

  'Badridze was a child molester. My wife was trying to tell me that Ilya Nergadze is…doing things with my son.'

  'They were out horse-riding, you say? That hardly sounds like molestation.'

  'For god's sake!' he pleaded. 'You have to do something.'

  'You think we can issue a warrant against a man like Nergadze on the basis of this? Are you mad?'

  'You have to.'

  'No we don't. We really don't.'

  'But my son…'

  'Then give me something concrete,' said Viktor. 'I know you can. You're on the inside; that's why I contacted you in the first place. With something concrete I can get a warrant. We can get your family out of there, and who knows what a search might turn up. But without anything concrete-' Nadya shrieked again, her cries loud enough for Viktor to hear, even over the running taps. 'What the hell was that?' he asked.

  Edouard hesitated. Tell him what was going on here, maybe he'd notify the Greeks and they'd send in the police. The Nergadzes would know instantly who'd blown the whistle, and his wife and children would pay dearly. 'They're watching movies downstairs,' he said.

  'Oh,' said Viktor.

  'You need cause for a warrant,' said Edouard. 'Fine. Then how about this. Sandro and Ilya Nergadze are right now destroying priceless artefacts that belong to the Georgian nation.' He described his earlier conversations with Sandro, the plan to melt down the Turkmeni cache to forge a golden fleece.

  'And these pieces don't belong to the Nergadzes? You're sure of that?'

  'They gave them to the nation in front of god-knows how many TV and press cameras. I've got the paperwork at the Museum, if you want to check.'

  A click on the phone and a new voice came on. A woman. 'You'll testify to that?' she asked, a little groggy with sleep. 'Under oath?'

  'Who is this?'

  'Never mind that,' said Viktor. 'Just answer the question.'

  'Yes,' said Edouard. 'I'll testify under oath.'

  'Good,' said the woman. 'Then you can have your warrant.'

  'Thank you,' said Viktor. 'Now listen to me, Edouard. You're not to mention this to a soul, not even to your wife. You're not to do anything at all that might draw attention to yourself, or arouse suspicion. Not until we've acted. Not until you have my explicit clearance. Understood?'

  'You're going in?' asked Edouard.

  'Maybe.'

  'When? When will you go in?'

  'When we're ready.'

  'What about my son? What about my-' But he was talking to a dead phone. He turned it off, put it away in his pocket. Just in time. He heard footsteps outside, then pounding on the door. He went to it, opened it a crack.

  'Aren't you finished yet?' asked Zaal.

  'Nearly done,' said Edouard.

  'Mikhail says to get some sleep. We've an early start tomorrow.'

  'Why? What's happened?'

  'We broke her,' said Zaal proudly. 'You should have seen her. What a fucking mess. And it's all true. About the fleece, I mean. She just confirmed it. Knox has it, apparently. Even better, he's having breakfast with her in a few hours. Or so he thinks.' He gave a happy laugh. 'Poor sod! That's one appointment he's going to regret having made.'

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I

  Morning. Gaille woke to find Iain shaking her gently by her shoulder. 'Time to get up,' he murmured.

  She sat up clutching the mouth of the sleeping bag, peered past him out the flap of the tent. The sun wasn't yet risen, but the surrounding hills had turned from black outlines to muted greens and greys. 'Already?' she asked.

  'We need to get into the house.'

  She waited until he'd gone back out, then climbed from the sleeping bag. It was cold enough that she hurried to pull on her trousers, blouse, socks and shoes. Her ankle was sore beneath the strapping, but it wasn't as bad as it might have been.

  Iain was sitting with his feet dangling over the roof's edge, a coil of rope over his shoulder, a crowbar in his hand. He put a finger to his lips, then beckoned her over and pointed out the German shepherd asleep below. 'Look at its leash,' he whispered.

  She rested her weight on her hands, leaned over the edge. The morning light was so milky that she had to squint. The dog's collar was attached by a black cord several metres long to a steel spike hammered into the ground near the front door, allowing it the freedom of movement to guard it as well as the sides of the house. She retreated a little way. 'So?' she murmured.

  He held up the crowbar and the rope. 'I found these in an outhouse. We can use them to neutralise it.'

  'It's a guard dog!' protested Gaille. 'It's only doing its job.'

  'I'm not planning to brain it,' said Iain. 'Not unless I have to. The crowbar's for the front door. But first we have to get that damned hound out of the way.'

  'How?' she asked.

  Iain allowed himself a smile. 'That's where you come in,' he said.

  II

  Viktor stood in the forest fringes and stared through field-glasses down at Ilya Nergadze's castle. His mind was a little fried; he wasn't as young as he'd once been and all-nighters took their toll.

  When he'd got his warrant just five hours earlier, he'd never imagined everything could be put together this quickly. But he'd underestimated the power of having a direct line to the presidential palace. He'd forgotten what special forces could do when they put their mind to it.

  The castle looked impossibly romantic in the morning light, like something from a movie. Its drawbridge was up, and there was no sign of movement, except for the guards walking their rounds upon the battlements. Patches of mist lay in the little valleys in the meadows. There were wild swans on the lake and, somewhere, a hoopoe was calling. A more peaceful scene was hard to imagine.

  Not for much longer.

  There were techniques for taking down people as powerful as Ilya Nergadze. Humiliation was one. Film them doing something shameful, and they were politically finished. That had been his initial plan. Ilya's predilection for young boys was well-known, though getting footage was easier said than done. But Viktor's brief hadn't been merely to bring down Ilya. It had been to destroy his entire brood, their capacity for revenge. So he'd devised other approaches. They'd been ready to go for weeks. All he'd needed was the pretext.

  Nikortsminda was the Nergadze's stronghold. That made it their weakness too. They thought themselves safe here, impregnable. That was why, though the whole clan never all gathered together in Tbilisi, they often did here. And they saw themselves as above the law. The last time a policeman had come here uninvited, he'd been chased off with shotguns.

  Viktor's ears had pricked up when he'd heard that.

  Through his field-glasses, he could see tarpaulins on the battlements. Word was, they were gun emplacements arrayed to defend the castle from ground, lake or aerial assault. He hadn't been able to verify it, but he wouldn't put it past them. Such was the arrogance of the Nergadzes here in Nikortsminda; such was the arrogance he needed for his plan to come off. He felt flutters in his chest, exacerbated by the Kevlar vest beneath his shabby police uniform. 'Are the phones out yet?' he asked.

  'On your command,' said Lev.

  'And the mobile masts?'

  'Like I said, on your command.'

  'What about our teams?'

  'They're all in place. Like they were five minutes ago.'

  It was the speed with which this had been put together that worried him. In plans this rushed, it was all too easy to overlook something. In plans this rushed, you couldn't assemble overwhelming force, you had to rely on surprise-and he'd already miss
ed the dawn. But election day was looming, and his boss was getting fretful. He took a deep breath. He'd joined the service out of a genuine desire to serve his country, not to make a career. But the life grew on you; you came to realise that nothing else would do. Fuck this up, and his career was toast. But make a success of it…

  'Okay,' he said. 'Let's do it.'

  III

  Franklin had been generous enough to offer Knox a bed for the night; now he followed up by insisting on driving him to a nearby Metro station so that he could make his breakfast with Nadya. The train arrived just as he reached the platform; he had to squeeze into a crowded carriage, uncomfortably aware that he was still wearing yesterday's shirt.

  He got off at Monistariki. A woman in unnecessarily high heels grabbed the escalator handrail in front of him and clung on like a first-time ice-skater. It was overcast when he emerged into the square; hawkers showed off their latest toys, while others spread out fake designer handbags and pirated DVDs on blankets. He glanced up at the white marble of the Parthenon, the camera flashes of early-bird sightseers giving off sparks like a glitter-ball. A boy blew bubbles that drifted on the light breeze, keeping Knox company as he walked along a narrow street of restaurants and shops. He found himself caught up with a Japanese tour party; they seemed to be heading towards his cafe, so he allowed himself to be swept along with them, fighting an urge to yawn. They emerged into a small square, most of the buildings showing patches of fresh paint: this was too important a tourist area for graffiti to be tolerated. Several mopeds were chained against the high wall to his right, the perimeter of some historic site. This whole area was studded with them. He and Gaille had already visited several during their-

  He heard the man before he saw him, shouting into his mobile phone as he scanned the crowds, a hand clamped over his ear to block out the hubbub. The giant from yesterday, not a doubt of it, but he hadn't yet spotted him. Knox instinctively span on his heel and hurried away, his head ducked, his shoulders hunched, pushing his way through the tourists, praying his luck would hold. At the corner he risked a glance around. To his dismay, the giant was coming after him, bullying his way through the crowds, yelling into his phone. Knox broke instantly into a run, though it was impossible to move quickly through the narrow thronging streets.

  He reached again the small square, saw two more of the Georgians from the day before converging from his right and from straight ahead. They saw him and shouted out to each other, forcing him to flee to his left, the only direction open to him, up a steep cobbled lane. A man was lopping branches from a tree with a petrol-powered chainsaw. For a mad moment, Knox considered wresting it from him and fighting a desperate rearguard until the police arrived; but the Georgians were too close behind him. And now he saw yet another of them striding purposefully towards him. There was a narrow alley to his right. At least it was empty of people, allowing him to break at last into a full-blooded sprint, put some distance between himself and the pursuit. The alley kinked so sharply right that his soles lost grip on the polished cobbles, and he crashed hard into the facing wall, falling onto the ground and scraping his palms, picking himself instantly up and running on.

  The alley kinked again; he slowed a little to take this corner, keeping his eyes down to make sure of footing. But when he looked up again, a white van was parked immediately ahead of him, its rear doors open, blocking the full width of the alley. And then, even as he heard the Georgians running up the alley behind him, he saw Mikhail Nergadze leaning against the wall with his arms folded, looking distinctly pleased with himself at the ease with which he'd driven his lab rat here through this Athens maze.

  IV

  Viktor drove alone down to the castle in the battered, unmarked Lada he'd picked out from the pool. It was just the kind of car that a low-level policeman might own. He got into character as he drove: pompous, officious and stupid, just the kind of man to get under the skin of the Nergadzes. The drawbridge was up, but there was a wooden cabin this side of the moat, two guards on duty outside. One of them, his feet up on a low rattan table, was wearing a holstered handgun. The other was leaning against the cabin wall, a shotgun over his shoulder.

  Viktor wound down his window. 'Police,' he said. 'I'm here to speak to Ilya Nergadze.'

  'At this time of morning?' grunted the first guard, not bothering to put his feet down. 'You've got to be kidding.'

  'No,' said Viktor. 'I'm not kidding.'

  'Come back in a couple of hours. They had a late one last night.'

  'I'm here on police business,' snapped Viktor. 'I demand to see Ilya Nergadze. Now.'

  'Demand all you like,' said the guard. 'Won't make a damned bit of difference.'

  Viktor got out of the Lada, slammed the door. 'Then please let him know I'm here. And that I have a warrant.'

  'Fine,' sighed the guard. He got to his feet, went inside, held a brief conversation on the intercom, then came back out and sat down again.

  Men appeared on the battlements, flaunting their weapons. Viktor leaned back from the waist so that his buttonhole camera could film them. You could never have too much footage. The drawbridge began to lower, evidently operated from inside. He expected the main gates to open too, but a smaller door inset in the foot of one of the turrets opened instead, and then Alexei Nergadze padded out, wearing only a pair of cut-off jeans, proudly showing off his paunch. 'Who the fuck are you?' he grunted, walking across the drawbridge.

  'Police,' said Viktor.

  'You're not from round here.' He'd brought a cup of coffee with him, was warming his hands around it. 'I know our local police.'

  'I'm in the antiquities department,' said Viktor grandly. 'From Tbilisi.'

  'Antiquities!' scoffed Alexei. 'You've got to be fucking kidding me. I didn't even know there was such a thing.'

  'Well, now you do.'

  'Couldn't hack it as a real cop, eh?'

  'I am a real cop. What's more, I have a real warrant to search these premises.'

  'Give it here, then,' said Alexei. 'We're running short of toilet paper.'

  'This is not a joke, I assure you,' Viktor told him primly. 'We have reason to believe that you have valuable artefacts here; artefacts that belong to the nation of Georgia, and that are in danger of being destroyed.'

  'You have to be out of your fucking mind,' said Alexei, his good humour all used up. 'Don't you know who we are?'

  'You're a citizen of the Republic of Georgia, subject to its laws, just like the rest of us.'

  'That's it! I've had enough of this! Get the fuck out of here.'

  'I have a warrant,' said Viktor, barging past Alexei to the drawbridge. 'I'm conducting my search, whether you like it or not.'

  'You're doing nothing of the fucking sort,' said Alexei, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him back. 'This is private property.'

  'Assaulting an officer in the course of his duties,' said Viktor smugly. 'Alexei Nergadze, I arrest you on the-'

  The head-butt caught Viktor completely by surprise. He found himself lying dazed and on his back nursing his nose, studying his hands for blood, while Alexei went over to the cabin, grabbed the shotgun from the guard, then came back to stand over Viktor. 'You were saying?' he asked, taking a sip of coffee.

  There were many reasons why other careers had been spoiled for Viktor, but this was the biggest. This moment right here. In what other field would he have this kind of power over powerful men? He pressed the transmitter button on his chest. 'Officer down!' he cried. 'Back-up! Back-up! Back-up!'

  V

  'Here, doggie, doggie,' called out Gaille, standing well to the side of the house. 'Here, boy.'

  The German shepherd opened one eye, then the other. It looked wearily at her for a moment, as though this wasn't how it wanted its day to start, but then duty called and it bounded to its feet and galloped towards her, so that even though she knew she was well out of its range, she jumped backwards all the same, sending a jolt through her ankle. The dog reached the end of its tether and jerked
back, though not so violently as last night, as though it was learning. Then it rose up on its rear legs and made like it was one of the four horses of the apocalypse.

  Behind its back, Iain appeared round the far side of the house. Using Gaille as a distraction, he crept forwards with his rope, tied a slipknot round the dog's leash where it met the metal spike, then retreated to a safe distance. Now it was his turn to make a rumpus. The dog turned and looked back and forth between him and Gaille, torn by choice. Iain took a couple of steps towards the front door, enough to provoke it into charging. He danced easily out of range, then pulled on his rope so that the slipknot ran all the way up the dog's leash until it was tight against its collar, effectively pinning it between himself and the spike, like a wild horse being broken by two cowboys with lassos. Iain now leaned back as though abseiling down a cliff, and stepped to his left, dragging the dog after him, until he'd reached an olive tree. He looped his rope twice around its trunk then tied another knot in it, trapping the dog impotently between its two leashes.

  After that, getting through the front door was a breeze. The wooden jamb had rotted; it splintered quickly before Iain's crowbar. The door opened straight into a main room, its bare-cement floor covered by scattered worn rugs. There was a tattered armchair to their left by a shuttered window, a Mauser hunting rifle leaning against it, along with a box of shells, as though Petitier had liked to sit there and shoot any wildlife that came into view. The walls above it were haphazardly decorated with framed black-and-white photographs of what appeared to be the surrounding countryside and escarpment, while the back wall was given over entirely to shelving, crammed with books, folders and magazines, more books stacked upon the sturdy oak desk in the corner.

  Iain sniffed the vinegary air. 'Fish and chips,' he said. 'A man after my own heart.'

  She went to the desk to see what books Petitier had been reading before leaving for Athens. A dictionary of Minoan scripts. A treatise on the Phaistos disc, along with a replica of the disc itself, as though for reference. A book on vulcanology; a copy of Plato's Timeaus; an article on the Late Helladic in Akrotiri. 'Hey!' she grinned. 'Seems he was working on his own "Atlantis Connection".'