by Will Adams
'There was a massive raid on Nikortsminda. Police and army. I spoke to Iakob. He managed to get away, he wouldn't say how. He says there was shooting, there were helicopters. He says your grandfather has been arrested, your father and your brothers too. But that's not the worst. Your brother Alexei; he was killed.'
'It's not possible,' said Mikhail. 'They wouldn't dare.'
'The TV stations are apparently showing footage of him head-butting a policeman and then aiming a shotgun down at his face,' said Rafiel. 'People don't like families who put themselves above the law.'
'It's a stitch up,' said Mikhail. 'The people will never accept it.'
'I don't know,' said Rafiel. 'There are reports from all over Georgia of people coming out onto the streets, of scuffles and gunfire, but it's all too sporadic. There's no one to organise it, no one to lead it, not with your family all under arrest. All except you, of course.'
Mikhail blinked. That aspect of it hadn't occurred to him. The arrests had left him de facto head of the family, de facto head of the entire Nergadze-led opposition, indeed head of all resistance to Georgia's fascist government. Others might have shrunk from such a responsibility, but not Mikhail. 'Listen to me,' he told Rafiel. 'I'm boss now. Is that clear?'
'Yes, sir.' The relief in Rafiel's voice was palpable. Orders. Structure. Hierarchy. 'What do you need?'
Mikhail paused. The president had declared war upon his family; he had to realise he couldn't risk leaving a single Nergadze on the loose. Fly home now, the authorities would arrest him on the spot. Stay here, they'd pile pressure on the Greeks to hunt him down. And until he was neutralised, one way or another, they'd keep looking. So his first job was to buy himself time and space. 'Move out to the boat,' he told Rafiel. 'Take everything I'll need to run our family's operations, then sail her out into international waters.'
'Yes, sir. Then what?'
'Stand by. I'll call back with a rendezvous point.'
He jogged along the tree-line until he reached the back of a car rental lot. He was still cut off from it by the security fence, but at least here it was partly shielded by trees. He drew the knife from his belt and fitted it through the wire, so that it dropped onto the grass the other side. He checked that the briefcase was locked and tossed it over the top. It landed with a loud thump on the other side; but there was no one around to hear. He took off his trench-coat and draped it over his shoulder and then began to climb. The mesh cut into his fingers, leaving red welts. It was hard to get purchase with his feet, they kept slipping and scraping, but he made it to the top in the end.
The triple strands of barbed wire leaned away from him, designed to keep people out of the airport's secure area, not inside. He grabbed his coat from his shoulder and spread it out over the wire, then clambered over it, safe from the barbs. He took a firm grip of his coat then dropped down the other side, pulling it after him, the barbs acting like a brake upon the leather. He stayed low for a moment or two, then crouched to collect his knife and the briefcase, and went to the nearest car. Its door was unlocked, but there were no keys in the ignition. He considered trying to hotwire it, but these new models were a bitch, their alarms went off at the slightest provocation.
Headlights swung his way. He ducked down, fearing it was police. But it was just a minibus dropping off customers. A family of four got off first. Father, mother and two sweet-looking girls. The idea came to him instantly: take the two girls hostage in the boot and make their parents drive him to safety. It went against his better nature to trust his fate to someone else, but he couldn't see a better alternative.
He watched them to their car, exchanging banter with another passenger, a businessman in a pearl-grey suit, trying to look younger than his forty-odd years with his hair swept back and down to his shoulders. Mikhail silently willed him to leave them alone; but they kept chatting as the husband stowed their luggage in the back of the Mazda, while the wife strapped in her children. Then they were away, waving cheerfully to the businessman, who walked on along the line of cars, looking for his own. He pressed his key-fob and the corner-lights of a sleek Citroen soft-top flashed orange.
The new plan came to Mikhail as suddenly and completely as the first. But this appealed to his nature far more, for it meant he had to rely on no one but himself. He pictured in his mind how it would go. A high-risk strategy, of course, but then everything was high risk in such situations. And if he could pull it off, he'd be clean away. He bowed his head and walked towards the businessman, already climbing behind the wheel. 'Excuse me,' he said, keeping a good distance back, so that the man wouldn't think him a threat. 'You don't have the time, by any chance?'
'Of course,' grunted the man. Belgian or Dutch, to judge from his accent, but an EU passport for sure, which was the main thing. 'Seven twenty-five.'
'Thanks so much,' smiled Mikhail. He nodded at the car. 'I like your taste. Nothing beats a good soft-top.'
The man grinned. 'I have five kids. All I ever get to drive back home is my wife's damned people-carrier. Makes a change to get in one of these from time to time, remember what a proper car feels like.'
'I'm the same with my own kids,' said Mikhail, reaching behind him for his knife. 'Until I've been away from the little bastards for a day or two, that is. Then all I can think of is getting home to see him.'
'Yes, well,' shrugged the man, buckling himself in, inserting his keys into the ignition. 'That's fatherhood for you.'
'Indeed, it is,' agreed Mikhail, walking towards him. 'Indeed it is.'
II
Pandemonium had settled down into mere chaos at the airport, not helped by the fact that flights were still arriving and departing, the Easter weekend too important to disrupt. Police and antiterrorist units had arrived in huge numbers, and were now checking everyone leaving or entering the terminal buildings, while also going meticulously through the parking lots and public areas before sealing them off, gradually cutting down the space in which Mikhail could move. They'd also set up a roadblock at the airport exit, to check all departing vehicles, but the tailback had quickly reached the terminal building itself, threatening to wreak havoc. The police had therefore thrown numbers at the problem, and cut their searches to an inspection of ID and a quick look in the boot, and the queues had shrunk back down.
Knox watched an ambulance leave, its blue light flashing but its siren silent, taking Nadya into Athens for treatment on her pulverised hand. She should have left long before, but she'd insisted on giving her statement first, to help exonerate Knox. He'd tried to convince her there was no need, for although Boris had zipped his lips, Davit had cracked like an old jug, and was spilling everything. Chatter on the police radio seemed to corroborate Knox's story too: a mansion north of Athens had been found blazing, along with the husks of two expensive cars. So, from almost being shot as a suspected terrorist, Knox had rapidly found himself demoted to a mere object of curiosity, passed into the safekeeping of a kindly policewoman, who at least took the trouble to find keys for his handcuffs. She unlocked and removed them now. His wrists were sore and swollen, and his fingers throbbed painfully with returning blood, but his spirits still lifted. 'Is that it?' he asked. 'Can I go?'
'The boss wants to have you looked over by a police doctor,' she told him. 'After all, if you've been tortured as you say you have…'
He gave a little snort. 'You mean he wants to make sure that my injuries match my account. Where's this doctor, then?'
'On his way. You don't mind waiting, do you?'
'Do I have a choice?'
He leaned against the parking-lot booth while he killed time; a police car pulled up alongside him, but it was Angelos and Theofanis in the front seats, not the doctor. 'What are you two doing here?' he asked.
'You're the one who wanted vouching for.'
'I only said you knew who I was. I didn't expect you to drive out here.'
'Yes, well, we still have some questions.' Angelos nodded at the back seat. 'Get in.'
'I'm waiting for
a doctor.'
'Just get in.'
Theofanis turned in his seat as he climbed in. 'We're trying to fit everything together,' he said. 'Petitier. Your friend Augustin. This man Antonius we found hanged. Mikhail Nergadze. Whatever happened here earlier-' He didn't have time to complete his thought, however, interrupted by commotion on the airport exit road. They all looked across to see a car roaring against the traffic towards them, its headlights flashing and horn blaring to warn other cars out of its way, as though it had taken fright at the police roadblocks.
Knox caught a bare glimpse of the driver's face as he sped by, but it was enough. 'It's him,' he said numbly. 'It's Nergadze.'
Angelos didn't hesitate. He turned on his ignition, thrust it into first and then span a U-turn. A train of police cars was already in pursuit, and they joined its tail, hurtling the wrong way up a slip-road to an overpass, past the control tower, then through open gates down a track to a vast parking lot around which some offices were being built. Even in the darkness, it was obvious that there was no way out for Mikhail, other than the way he'd come in. 'We've got him,' muttered Theofanis.
Mikhail must have realised this too. He slowed and came to a stop. The police cars slowed likewise, blocking off his escape. They had their man; there was no need for heroics.
Angelos lowered his window. 'Give yourself up,' he shouted.
'Fuck you,' cried Mikhail. 'Fuck all of you. I'm not going back to gaol. I'm never going back.'
'You can have a lawyer. You can have a trial.'
'A trial?' he scoffed. 'I'm Mikhail Nergadze. You hear me? Mikhail fucking Nergadze! And who the fuck are you?' He stamped down his foot and began to accelerate across the open prairie of the tarmac, then turned in a long sweeping curve, hurtling almost flat out towards a container parked against the edge. Knox flinched as the Citroen's low bonnet passed beneath the container's high fuselage, then its windscreen and bracing struts hit in a shriek of metal and glass, and the soft-top squeezed up on itself like a concertina, before being hurled high in the air and landing some way back upon the tarmac, while the shorn bottom sped on beneath the container in a shower of friction sparks, before crashing through the wire fence and out into the trees beyond.
It was several moments before anyone reacted. They were all too stunned. But then flames started licking around the base of the container, while the broken Citroen groaned and hissed and screeched from its wounds. The police cars fanned out and drove warily across, none wanting to be first, hardened to horrors though they were. They reached the perimeter fence, stopped, got out. The air beyond the container was filled with banknotes, as though a bomb had gone off in the steel briefcase. They fluttered down all around them, and several of the policemen were already gathering them up in handfuls, stuffing them in their pockets, careless of their evidentiary value.
Knox and Angelos pushed past them. The topless Citroen had burst through the wire fence beyond, before coming to a halt in a tangle of brambles. The steel briefcase was open in the rear, obscene amounts of cash lying loose in and around it. Both its air-bags had deployed, though they hadn't done much good for Nergadze, still belted into the passenger seat, his left arm dangling down by his side, his gold watch still on his wrist, yet with his right arm and everything from his chest on up sheared clean off, along with the car's windscreen and roof, by the giant guillotine of the container trailer.
THIRTY-EIGHT
I
Gaille pleaded exhaustion and a headache shortly after they'd eaten, then asked about sleeping arrangements. Iain told her to take Petitier's bed, insisting he'd be fine in his sleeping bag on the living room floor. She didn't argue: chivalry had its benefits. She prepared for bed then covered the mattress with the cleanest blankets she could find, and climbed between them. Moonlight slipped into the room down the side of the curtains, throwing a pale blue tint upon the wall. She stared up the ceiling and wondered what to do in the morning, torn between checking out the rest of the basement and getting out of here altogether.
She tensed at soft footsteps outside her room. There was a gentle double rap upon the door and then it opened and Iain was standing there, his sleeping bag over his shoulder. 'Are you awake?' he asked. She said nothing. 'Gaille,' he said more loudly, taking a step towards her. 'Are you awake?'
'Why? What is it?'
He came fully into the room, closed the door behind him. 'Shift up,' he said.
She rose up on her elbow. 'What are you doing?'
'The floor's like rock in there. I can't sleep, honest I can't. My legs are killing me from all that walking. I need something soft. Please, Gaille.'
'I don't know,' she said.
'Don't be such a prude,' he said. 'You can trust me, you know. I mean we shared a sleeping bag last night, for Christ's sake.'
She shifted across, not sure how else to handle it. At least the mattress was wide enough for two. He flapped the sleeping bag out beside her, clambered into it, gave her a smile that she could just about see in the darkness, then turned onto his side and put an arm around her waist. 'Stop it,' she said.
'Only teasing,' he sighed, taking his arm away. 'So you and Danny Boy, huh? Was this his idea of a romantic holiday, or something? A conference on Eleusis?'
'We were hoping to visit the islands too,' she said defensively. 'I've always wanted to see Ithaca.'
'You should visit Cephalonia while you're there. It's just a short ferry ride away, and it's absolutely stunning. Everything Athens isn't.'
'Don't you like Athens?'
'I hate Athens. The worst thing about my job, I spend half my life shuttling back and forth.' He let out a slightly forced laugh. 'One thing's for sure, if I was trying to make an impression on a beautiful woman, I wouldn't take her there.' He grabbed a pillow, turned it to its cool side. 'Just as well I no longer have one, I suppose.'
Gaille didn't quite know how to respond to that. 'Good night,' she said.
'Yes,' he agreed. 'Good night.'
II
The airport had its own medical centre, but after the police doctor had listened to Knox's account of being water-boarded and beaten, he insisted on taking him to a nearby hospital instead, where they had the equipment to check for internal damage. He was sitting up on the examination table, waiting for the results, when the swing doors pushed open and Theofanis came in, carrying a manila folder and a plastic bag. 'There you are,' he said. 'I've been looking for you.'
'And now you've found me.'
He ignored Knox's tone, held out the bag. 'We found some things of yours in Nergadze's van,' he said. 'Angelos wanted you to have them back.'
'Angelos did?' asked Knox in surprise.
'He's a good man,' said Theofanis. 'He just has a tough job sometimes.'
Knox looked inside the bag, saw his wallet, mobile and the red-leatherette ring box. 'Thanks,' he said. It was a crude peace-offering, but welcome nonetheless. He checked the ring before he put it away in his pocket. It made him think of Gaille, of the threats Mikhail had made. He took out his mobile, and remembered how Mikhail had seen Gaille's photos and text message, all the information he needed to track her down.
'What is it?' asked Theofanis, noticing his unease.
'Nergadze,' said Knox. 'He vowed he'd make Gaille pay if I betrayed him.'
'The man's dead.'
'Yes, but who knows what he did before he died?'
'While running for his life?'
'You didn't meet him. I did. He wasn't the kind to make empty threats, or to forget about them just because he had other matters to attend to. And he's connected, too. His family are incredibly powerful. If he'd given orders-'
'Don't worry about it,' said Theofanis. 'The Nergadzes are finished. The whole family's been taken down by the Georgian government.'
'You're sure?'
'I spoke to one of their agents myself. I had to tell him about the poor bastard that Mikhail shot and burned.'
'Even so,' said Knox. 'I need to speak to Gaille. I need to know she's oka
y.'
'Why don't you just call her?'
He shook his head. He'd tried from a payphone in the hospital lobby. 'She's not answering.'
'I could send a car.'
'She's two hours' walk from the nearest village.'
'Oh.' Theofanis pulled a face. 'Maybe not, then. Not on Easter weekend. Not with the case tied up.'
'Tied up?' snorted Knox.
'Sure. This guy Nergadze and his gang wanted the fleece. They murdered Petitier and Antonius for it. Then they abducted you and this woman Nadya.'
Knox shook his head. 'Nergadze killed Antonius, I'll give you that. But not Petitier. He only abducted me because he believed I'd killed Petitier myself for the fleece. How could he possibly believe that if he'd done it himself?'
Theofanis frowned and held out his manila folder. 'Then have a look at this,' he said.
Knox took it from him. It contained grainy stills from a CCTV camera, of a man in photographer's trousers and a T-shirt, the peak of a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, masking his face almost entirely from view. 'What are these?' he asked.
'Your lawyer friend Charissa suggested we check the CCTV footage for the hotel lobby the afternoon Petitier was killed. This man arrived there an hour before Petitier. He ordered coffee from the bar then took a table and watched the door. You can see he doesn't even touch his drink. But after Petitier checks in, he waits fifteen more seconds then goes after him to the lifts. I'll bet anything he was waiting for Petitier.'
'Yes,' agreed Knox. 'Do you know where he went?'
Theofanis shook his head. 'We're still looking through the other tapes.'
'And you think he could be the killer?'
'Let's just say we'd like to talk to him. Do you recognise him?'
Knox looked again at the photo. It wasn't Nergadze or any of the other Georgians, that was for sure. And it didn't look like anyone from the conference. Yet he looked familiar all the same, though Knox couldn't work out why. 'I don't know,' he said, passing the folder back. 'But I assume this means Augustin is no longer a suspect.'