The Lost Labyrinth (12 page)

‘Of course they do.’

‘Any hotties?’

‘For Christ’s sake!’

‘I always figured that would be one of the advantages of having daughters,’ mused Zaal. He slid a look out of the corner of his eye, as if to assess how successfully he was getting under Edouard’s skin. ‘Once you get on a bit, it becomes bloody
hard to meet nice young girls. I mean, everyone thinks you’re a pervert if you hang around outside schools, right? But when you’ve got daughters of your own, no problem, right? All the nice young girls come to you.’

‘I don’t want to have this conversation.’

‘And holidays, Jesus!’ He tapped ash out the window. ‘Aren’t you a clever bastard. All those hot young bodies oiling themselves up on the beach for you, taking showers together back at the hotel. Enough to drive a man crazy, right?’

‘Fatherhood’s not like that.’

‘Maybe not for you. But what about when your girls go to stay with their friends. I’ll bet
their
fathers will be checking them out. How does that make you feel? Doesn’t it worry you, trusting your daughters to those filthy old men?’

‘Will you shut up?’

‘I’m just saying. You want to be careful.’

Edouard scowled and clenched a fist. Zaal had to know that his daughters were being held hostage, that anxiety for them was driving him crazy. Of course he did. That was why he was enjoying himself so much. He turned on the radio, looking for a station that might keep Zaal quiet, or at least drown him out. A car pulled up on the other side of the road. He couldn’t see much through the light drizzle, but then the passenger door opened and Gaille Bonnard got out.

‘Is that the girl?’ asked Zaal.

Edouard hesitated, loath to bring bad things down upon this young woman, but then he imagined what Mikhail might do to him if he learned he’d shielded her. ‘Yes. It’s her.’

Zaal flicked away his cigarette, flapped open his mobile and called in. ‘They’re here,’ he said. ‘The girl’s taking in a bag. The guy’s waiting outside.’ He paused to listen. ‘A Citroen. Blue. Looks like a rental.’ He sat forward and squinted. ‘Can’t read it, not from here.’ The hospital doors opened again and Gaille hurried out. ‘She’s coming back out. She must have just dropped the bag inside.’ Zaal turned to Edouard. ‘Follow them,’ he said.

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 3
^rd
Septemvriou, 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.

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.’

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 trench-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.

‘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?’