by Will Adams
The dog was hungry enough that he didn't wait for her to leave this time, he gobbled up the ham while she watched, his eyes flickering her way every so often, as though he knew he was doing something shameful. But gradually he seemed to come to accept her presence, and she got the sense that she could take it a step further. She took a deep breath and walked with baby steps towards him. She could see his sinews tauten beneath his fur, but he didn't move. She stepped into his range and then just stood there, daring him to do his worst. He set himself as if about to spring; he growled and bared his fangs. But it was all rather halfhearted, and when she didn't back away, his eyes clouded. He looked away, pretending he'd lost interest in her, waiting to see what trick she'd pull. She stayed absolutely still, she did nothing. He turned and looked at her again, and his snarl was gone, his eyes were mournful and wet. She knew how wrong it was to project human feelings onto animals, but she sensed in him at that moment a great sorrow in himself, left here to guard this place, and failing. She crouched slowly, held out her hand. And, just like that, everything changed. His head down, his tail a lowered scimitar, he sniffed her and snuffled his wet muzzle into her palm. Then he abruptly turned away and went back to his bowls, began thirstily to lap up more water.
She went slowly to him, murmuring as she did so, so that he wouldn't consider her a threat. She stroked his head and back. His coat was mangy and covered with sores and scabs; his backside was enflamed and smeared with faeces. He ate the last of his ham, looked up from his empty bowl, not demanding or expecting more, but merely enquiring hopefully. She felt an unexpected stab of affection for him as she refilled his bowl, then she went to sit with her back against an orange tree and watched with satisfaction as he scoffed it up.
III
Mikhail watched Edouard's body hurl back against the wall and then slump sideways into the shower, taking the opalescent curtain down with him, smearing it scarlet. He felt spatters of blow-back on his face and hands. He checked himself in the mirror above the sink then wiped the worst of it away.
On the floor, Edouard's mobile phone started to vibrate and turn in slow circles. The ringer had been turned off, but a call was coming in. Mikhail stooped to pick it up and answer it. 'Yes?' he asked.
'I want to speak to Edouard,' said a man.
'Too late.'
'Who is this?'
'I might ask you the same question.'
'Edouard is under my protection,' said the man. 'If anything should happen to-'
'Like I said: too late.' He ended the call, scrolled through the list of recently-dialled numbers. All of them to Georgia, none of them local. That was something. They probably still had time before the Greek police got here. He turned to Boris. 'Call my father at Nikortsminda. Let him know they may have trouble coming. Then call our pilot. Tell him to prepare for departure.' He checked his watch. 'In three hours from now. We need to collect the fleece first.'
'The fleece?' asked Boris. 'Are you serious? We don't have time for that now.'
'That fleece is the key to the election,' retorted Mikhail. 'The election is the key to us getting away with this.' He beckoned for them all to follow him out through the bedroom onto the landing. 'This house is going up,' he told Zaal. 'Grab everything that will burn. Sheets, beds, chairs, curtains, carpets, everything. Heap it all up beneath the landing. Davit, we need accelerants. There's a bag of barbecue charcoal outside. Bring it in. Check the cupboards for white spirit, gas, lighter fluid, anything that will flame. Siphon fuel from the cars if you have to.'
'Yes, sir.'
'What about our guests?' asked Boris, nodding at Nadya and Knox.
'We're taking Knox with us,' said Mikhail, dancing down the steps into the atrium. 'He knows where the fleece is.'
'And the woman?'
'Baggage,' said Mikhail. He broke open his shotgun, spitting out the two spent cartridges, savouring those pungent wisps of grey smoke, their combat smell. Then he strode across the floor towards her, stuffing in fresh cartridges as he went. She opened her mouth and shrieked, her lips making a perfect circle, like the red ring of a rifle target.
'Don't do it!' yelled Knox. 'I won't give you the fleece if you do, I swear I won't.'
'You'll give it to me,' said Mikhail.
'Kill her now, it's proof you'll kill me too. Why would I give you anything?'
'You want another go on the ducking stool, is that it?'
'Sure,' said Knox. 'Let's stay here until the police turn up. Or maybe you could bring your bench and bucket in the car.'
Mikhail hesitated. The man had a point.
'I can't get hold of your father,' said Boris. 'He's not answering his mobile.'
'Then try the castle.'
'I did. The lines are dead.'
Above him, on the landing, Zaal threw a great heap of bedclothes over the balustrades, gravity winnowing out the pillows and blankets from the white sheets that fluttered to the floor like wounded ghosts. For a moment Mikhail had a blink of childhood, standing above a girl's broken motionless body, knowing he'd gone too far this time. He walked over to Knox, pressed the shotgun's muzzle against his forehead. 'You'll get the fleece for me if I let her live?'
'Yes,' said Knox.
'I have your word?'
'Yes.'
Davit came in through the front door, carrying a bucket in each hand, each so full that the metal handles were bending with the weight, liquid slopping to the floor, the sharp smell of petrol. 'I got it from the cars,' he grunted.
'Keep it coming,' said Mikhail. 'And splash some around the Ferrari and one of the Mercs. They'll need to go up too. But leave the van and the second Merc. We'll be needing those.'
'Yes, sir.'
He looked around the house, taking his time about it, wanting his men to know that he was still in charge, not just of them, but of himself too. 'Ten minutes,' he told them, checking his watch. 'Ten minutes to finish up and pack. Then we're out of here.'
THIRTY-TWO
I
The air inside the atrium was thick with fumes, sharp enough to give Mikhail the first throb of a headache. But he didn't let it rush him. Stillness amid chaos was a virtue he admired.
'Come on, sir,' said Davit, offering him the box of long-reach barbecue matches. 'We need to get out of here.'
He looked up at Edouard's bloodied body, lying like some fallen hero atop the makeshift pyre of furniture and linen, then took the matchbox. Its side was warped and damp from having been left outside too long, making the matches difficult to strike, but finally one fizzled and caught. He nursed it into flame, crouched and touched it to the corner of a petrol-soaked sheet. The flame climbed and spread, already radiating intense heat. When it reached the pool of accelerants at its heart, it erupted in a balloon of searing flame, forcing the others back. He alone stayed where he was, gazing raptly up at it, its spreading canopy of black smoke.
He picked up the shotgun, considered it a moment. Too risky to take inside the airport with him, and if he had to ditch it anyway, best to destroy its evidentiary value. He tossed it into the flames, the remaining cartridges too. He picked up the steel briefcase with its millions of euros, then went into the kitchen for the sharpest and sturdiest carving knife he could find.
Outside, the Ferrari was glistening with fuel. Mikhail struck another match. He'd got the knack now. He threw it in and watched with satisfaction as the petrol flared and then the upholstery caught, choking black smoke pouring out and up into the sky. He enjoyed beautiful things, Mikhail; but he enjoyed destroying them too. Next he set the spare Mercedes blazing; there was less satisfaction in that. Shotgun cartridges began to detonate inside the house. Glass crashed and tinkled, the skylight sucked in by the vacuum. 'Boris,' he said, 'you and Davit take Knox to the airport in the van.'
'Yes, boss.'
'When you get there, call in. I'll be nearby with Zaal and Nadya. You don't need to know exactly where. Get Knox to retrieve the key, then collect the fleece from the locker. If everything goes smoothly, we'll meet up again at t
he private jet terminal.'
'And if it doesn't?'
'Then you take care of Knox. I'll take care of Nadya.' He turned to Knox, pressed the knife against his throat. 'Her blood will be on your hands. Do you understand?'
'Yes,' said Knox.
'Good,' said Mikhail. 'Then let's get out of here.'
II
Gaille couldn't keep thinking of the dog as the dog. Perhaps because of the quest she was on, the name Argo popped suddenly into her mind. She said it out loud and he turned and gave her a quizzical look, his ears folded forwards. 'Argo, it is, then,' she said.
The sun was beating down hard. She had to do something to get him shade. She could release him from the rope, but she was worried he might attack Iain when he came back. She fetched the broom from the outhouse and swept his pen as clean as she could. Then she took a drawer from the rickety pine wardrobe in Petitier's bedroom, levered out its back slat and fitted it with a blanket to create a makeshift basket that she set in the corner. She draped a couple of Petitier's old jerseys over its roof and down one wall, offering a sizeable area of shade. Then she fetched his bowls and refilled them and put them inside. Not great, but better than it had been.
She went back over to Argo, crouched, opened her arms. 'Here, boy.' She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him, wanting to reestablish their bond before moving him. A muscle started fibrillating in his leg as he accepted her embrace. There was a limit to how much close contact Gaille could stand, however, what with his fetid breath and his coat infested with all those sores.
She went to fetch the nail-scissors and antiseptic cream from her bag, but then decided to do the job properly. She filled the basin with water, took it out, set it down near Argo, then went back inside for a towel and a white T-shirt from Petitier's room. She squirted a little of her apple shampoo into the basin, stirred it with the T-shirt until she'd worked up a nice froth. Argo must have sensed what was coming, for he backed away as far as his rope pinions would allow. She picked up the basin and advanced on him and splashed about a third of it over his back, then hurried out of range. She gave him a few moments to vent his indignation, then crouched down and lowered her gaze meekly until she was confident she had his forgiveness. She went in close and sponged him with the T-shirt. He didn't like it. He clamped his tail between his legs, he whined and yelped; and, when that didn't put her off, he growled menacingly instead.
She took the hint and stepped away. Her nose was itching; she wiped it with the back of her hand. She couldn't exactly stop, for he was bedraggled and covered in suds. She picked up the basin and emptied it over him, making sure to avoid his eyes. Then she took it back inside and refilled it. He yelped and yapped and danced from side to side in an effort to get away, but she hardened her heart and drenched him with that too. Then she grabbed a towel and went in close and began to dry him; and though at first she could feel his trembles of indignation beneath, he began to enjoy that, because he stopped struggling and let her have her wicked way with him.
She cut away the worst tangles of his coat with her nail-scissors, anointed his sores with antiseptic cream. To her surprise, he didn't fight that either, he bowed his head and nuzzled her shoulder and her hand and then her cheek. The wetness of his snout and the gluey rasp of his tongue provoked in her an unexpectedly strong tug of affection. She put the towel around him again and hugged him tight, pressing her face into his shoulder, smelling the fresh scent of her own apple shampoo. And in that moment she understood that, with Petitier dead, she'd already made a commitment to this dog; and the only question really left was how Daniel would react when he learned that their household-to-be had already acquired another member.
She untied the rope from the orange tree, grabbed hold of his leash near his collar, wrapped it several times around her fist until she was confident she had him. Then she unbuckled him from the steel spike and led him around the side of the house to his refurbished pen. She'd anticipated a struggle, but he went happily enough, perhaps because he'd spotted his steel bowls. She unclipped his leash and went back out, bolting him in, then stood there wondering what else she could do.
His coat was all spiked up. He needed a brush; damned if she'd use her own. And she'd just used the broom to sweep his pen out; not much point using that. She went into the house to rummage. She checked the bedroom and bathroom and then the kitchen. A red light-bulb rolled into view as she tugged open a reluctant drawer. She frowned and held it up. A red light-bulb. What on earth would Petitier want that for? She only knew of a couple of uses for red lights: and it seemed somewhat unlikely that he'd been running a brothel out here. She looked out into the main room, at the black-and-white photographs on the facing wall. No one developed and printed black-and-whites commercially any more. There just wasn't the demand. She went over to them, looked more closely. One print had the sunlight deliberately overexposed to make it dazzle, a classic trick of DIY photographers. Her skin tingled as she reached the only logical conclusion.
Petitier had his own dark-room.
III
The best Nadya could figure it, she had half an hour left to live.
She sat in the back of the Mercedes with her wrists bound in front of her, rather than behind, the one concession Mikhail had made to her shattered hand. She didn't look at it, for it just hurt more when she did. Instead, she focused on the back of Zaal's head, his incipient bald-patch, the way his skin bunched and stretched against his collar as he glanced in his mirrors, the dark fuzz that had grown since his last haircut. Odd to think it might be the last thing she ever saw.
Her remaining half-hour broke down like this. In twenty minutes or so, Boris and Davit would arrive in short-term parking, and they'd ask Knox to show them the key. He'd bluff them for a while. Five minutes, say. But Boris would eventually lose patience. He didn't truly believe there was a key, after all, or a fleece. No one did, except Mikhail. So in twenty-five minutes he'd call through with the bad news. And that left her last five minutes, during which Mikhail would take painful revenge before he killed her.
The Mercedes' tyres made soft drum-rolls on the patched road, sticky and then smooth. She found the rhythm strangely lulling. Sticky. Smooth. Sticky. Smooth. Tall grasses were growing in clumps beside the road, their pale stalks sharp as weapons. She glanced across at Mikhail, who was watching her with wary amusement. 'There's something that's always bothered me,' she said.
'What's that?'
'The night you killed my husband: why didn't you kill me too?'
'You were a babe,' he said. 'I never kill a babe. Not unless I've fucked her first.'
'You still haven't fucked me,' she pointed out. 'Does that mean I'm safe?'
'You're not a babe any longer.'
She snorted softly as she looked away, assessing the Mercedes' interior for fight or flight. The doors were all locked and the windows sufficiently tinted to prevent anyone seeing much inside. And there was nothing for her to wield, save possibly the steel briefcase stuffed with all that cash lying upon the front passenger seat, too cumbersome for so enclosed a space, except perhaps as a shield. Perhaps she could hurl herself at Zaal, twist the wheel, force a crash. Or simply unlock the door and throw herself out. A broken leg, a broken arm, a fractured skull. Small prices to pay.
Mikhail must have read her mind, for he leaned forward to double-check that her door was locked, then he smiled and showed her a glint of his kitchen knife. She realised something then. Her own life was already lost. But play this right and she could still take this man down with her, and avenge her beloved husband at last. The thought made her smile, and the smile caught his eye. 'What?' he asked.
'I was just thinking how trusting you are,' she told him.
'Trusting?'
'Yes,' she said. 'Trusting.'
He was silent a moment or two, trying to work it out. But he failed, and the curiosity proved too much for him. 'In what way?' he asked.
The tyres accelerated their snare-drum whispers, the rhythm meshing with her
heart, fast, loud, and urgent. Her mangled knuckles began to throb even more violently, her mouth grew sticky with apprehension, letting her know that this was her moment. 'The Greek police are bound to tie this all back to you.'
'We'll be long gone before they do.'
'They'll seek to charge you with Edouard's murder. They'll start extradition proceedings.'
'They can try all they like. I'm a Nergadze.'
'But that's the point,' said Nadya. 'You'll be fine, I agree, though maybe it'll mean lying low for a while. But what about Boris? What about Davit? They must realise your family will have to throw the Greeks a sop. And who better than one of them? I'll bet they're wondering right now which one of them is the most expendable. I'll bet they're wondering whether it wouldn't be wiser to look out for themselves. I mean, think about it: you've just sent them to collect an artefact worth millions, even on the black market, certainly enough to buy them a new identity and set them up for life.'
'Boris has been with my family for twenty years,' said Mikhail tightly. 'He'd never dream of betraying us.'
'Ah. That's okay, then.'
'He wouldn't dare. And he handpicked Davit himself.'
'Good. Then you've nothing to worry about. But I have to ask: what would you do in their situation?'
Mikhail sat back. A pensive glaze came over his eye. It was perhaps ten seconds before he reached forward and tapped Zaal's shoulder. 'Call Boris,' he said. 'Tell him to pull over and wait. We're going into the airport in convoy.'
THIRTY-THREE
I
A man in a wheelchair outside the entrance to Evangelismos Hospital watched amiably as Nico Chavakis laboured up the front steps. 'Crazy, isn't it?' said the man. 'Putting steps this steep in front of a hospital, of all places?'