The Lost Labyrinth (32 page)

‘Good,’ said Mikhail. ‘Then let’s get out of here.’

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.

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.’

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?’

Nico was wheezing too hard to answer, so he smiled and nodded instead as he walked on inside, feeling obscurely aggrieved, wishing he’d followed his first instinct of giving this DVD of Knox’s talk to a courier to deliver, rather than coming all this way himself. But Augustin was only in Greece—and thus in hospital—because he’d accepted Nico’s invitation to address his conference, so Nico felt a certain responsibility for him, however much he disliked such places. A visit was the least he could do.

He dabbed his brow and the corners of his lips, giving himself a chance to catch his breath, before putting his handkerchief back in his pocket and going to the information desk. The woman gave him directions to intensive care, but warned that he wouldn’t be allowed in. His heart was still pounding erratically as he made his way along the corridor, so that he began to fear he might make it into Intensive Care the hard way, and he allowed himself a gallows chuckle at the thought.

The woman was right: the two policemen wouldn’t let him through, no matter how he pleaded; but they did at least send for Claire. She came out a minute or so later, a stern expression on her face, as though time away from Augustin was time wasted. ‘Forgive me,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. My name’s Nico Chavakis. I organised the conference.’ He gave a little shrug, to let her know how sorry he was that things had turned out this way. ‘I wanted to see how Augustin was doing. But they won’t let me in.’

She gave the two policemen a glare. ‘They won’t let anyone in,’ she said.

‘How is he?’

‘Not good.’ She shook her head as though scolding herself for her low spirits, then forced a smile. ‘It could be worse, though.’

‘I’m glad.’

She took him by the elbow and led him a little way along the corridor, then began telling him in great detail about the injuries Augustin had sustained, the care he was getting, the changing prognosis. She spoke quickly, and her accent was hard for him, and she used technical language more suited for medical personnel speaking amongst themselves, placing it far beyond the grasp of Nico’s English; but he understood intuitively that his role here wasn’t to understand so much as to listen sympathetically. He nodded and sighed and clucked his tongue as appropriate, and let her talk her heart out.

It was a good fifteen minutes before she was done. She glanced around at the ICU doors, as if wondering whether something might not have happened with Augustin while she’d been away. Recognising his cue, Nico gave her the DVD and the spare DVD player he’d borrowed from a colleague at the university, explaining that Knox had wanted her to know how well Augustin’s talk had gone. Her eyes began to well; she wiped them with a paper tissue. He watched her return to her lonely vigil, and he felt again a deep yearning for someone in his own life who’d feel that strongly about him.

The man in the wheelchair was still sitting outside the front doors. He’d lit himself a cigarette that he
cupped in his hand like he was throwing a dart. ‘Good visit?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ answered Nico, rather to his own surprise. ‘It was.’

Mikhail could feel the adrenaline build as they caught up with the van a mile or two shy of the airport, then headed on in. It was an invigorating rather than unpleasant feeling, like a good workout. He smiled across at Nadya. ‘Don’t do it,’ he told her.

‘Don’t do what?’

‘Whatever it is you’re planning.’

‘I’m not planning anything.’

He grabbed her by her hair and pulled her face down onto his lap, her cheek against his prick. He unbuckled his belt and pulled it free, made a noose of it that he tightened around her throat. ‘Keep it that way,’ he advised.

Traffic began to congeal. Some men in uniform with their weapons holstered were chatting jovially among themselves. He heard the canned thunder of a take-off, and then an Olympic Airways jet appeared over the main terminal building, hurtling upwards into the cloudless blue sky. Another summer coming. It would be nice to spend one in Georgia for a
change. He felt a little swell of resentment towards his father and grandfather, the way they’d made him live in exile for all these years. But that time was nearly over. And he’d be going home in triumph too, bringing the fleece with him to ensure his grandfather’s victory. He’d be a national hero, able to pick his ministry. Defence was lucrative, sure, but he had a hankering for education. There was just something so rewarding about working with children.