The Lost Labyrinth (34 page)

‘She does now,’ stated Mikhail. ‘You just made sure of it. Unless, of course, you want to change your mind and admit there is no key.’

A moment of silence, as Knox struggled against his fear; but the instinct for self-preservation was too strong for him. It seemed it hadn’t been an aberration, him standing by while Augustin had been attacked; it was who he was. ‘It’s there,’ he said. ‘I swear it is.’

‘Very well.’ Mikhail turned to Davit. ‘Untie his legs. Put your jacket over his shoulders. I don’t want anyone seeing his cuffs.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Mikhail and Boris got out and came round to the back, opened the doors. Davit kept his hand on Knox’s shoulder as they climbed out. He was surprised that so much of the day had passed that dusk was already falling. All around them, lights were coming on. Mikhail pressed his knife hard into the soft flesh beneath Knox’s ribcage, angled upwards at his heart. ‘Don’t even think about calling for help,’ he warned. ‘You’ll be dead before you can fill your lungs.’

They walked along a narrow strip of grass between the parked vehicles and the waist-high hedge, the Georgians interposing themselves between Knox and the few people around. Not that they were looking his way, all too focused on their own business. A man kissed his sweetheart farewell. Another heaved suitcases into his boot. Mikhail kept his knife-tip pressed so hard against Knox’s stomach that he could feel the blood trickling. And still he walked. All those documentaries he’d watched over the years, grainy footage of half-naked starving prisoners being herded into trees: it had bewildered and frustrated him that they’d gone so quiescently to their death. Fight, run, spit in their guards’ faces. Something, anything. How much worse could it get? Now, here he was, doing the same. And, to make matters worse, he’d betrayed Gaille first, just for this wretched extra minute. The thought was brutal and bitter. His pace faltered, he drifted to a halt.

‘Well?’ asked Mikhail. ‘Is this the place?’

The symbols chiselled into the various rocks matched clusters on the reverse of the Phaistos disc. There was no question. At least, the only question was what it signified. Gaille brooded on it for a minute or so, but without coming to any firm conclusions. Perhaps Iain would have some ideas. She set the disc aside, went back to the shelves, chose a folder at random from one of the many wire racks. It proved to contain photographs taken inside a cave, of several niches filled with crude votive offerings; pre-Minoan from the look of them, though she was no expert. A second folder chronicled the excavation of a pit perhaps a metre long by half a metre wide. It included standard archaeological photographs of various finds in situ, with a wooden ruler next to them to show scale,
and a file-card with a date and reference number, presumably cross-referenced to the boxes.

She looked through several more of the folders, found one with pictures of the escarpment face. She was about to put it back when she noticed something incongruous, and so she took it into better light. Yes. There was a man in a dark shirt and jeans crouching in the dappled shade of a tree halfway up. She squinted more closely, but he was too distant from the camera to be recognisable. But one thing was clear: Petitier had been under surveillance, and he’d known himself to be. No wonder he’d got spooked. No wonder he’d tried to pre-empt discovery by coming clean.

She put the folder back. It seemed they were in date order, so she decided to start with the most recent. One of the first folders she opened contained another set of pictures of the man hunkering down, though in different clothes and on another part of the escarpment. But these were of a different order of clarity, focused and sharp, almost as though Petitier had been sufficiently spooked to invest in a telephoto lens. In the first shot, the intruder was looking through his field-glasses, so she couldn’t see his face. But in the second his features were all too easily recognisable. Her legs went a little weak on her, she had to reach out for the shelving to steady herself.

It was Iain.

It wasn’t premeditated. It wasn’t planned. Something simply switched inside Zaal as he watched Mikhail and the others shepherding Knox along the verge, none of them even looking his way. Four million euros on the passenger seat.
Four million!
His mouth began to water and just like that he knew he was going to do it.

Nadya must have sensed it; there was exhortation in her eyes when he turned to her, willing him on. He gave her a sheepish grin, feeling something akin to gratitude. He let go of the belt so that it hung loose around her neck. ‘Go on, then,’ he said, unlocking the door for her.

‘Good luck,’ she said, shuffling along the seat, opening it.

‘You too.’ He turned on his ignition and his headlights, then waited until she was out before setting sedately off towards the exit, not wanting to draw attention to himself, willing Mikhail and the others to keep looking the other way long enough for him to complete his getaway.

He might have made it, too, had Nadya not begun to scream.

Mikhail read the truth in Knox’s eyes. There was no key. There never had been. He felt the serene rage he often felt before a kill. He clamped his left hand over Knox’s mouth to prevent noise, then drew back his knife-hand and was about to stab him when a woman behind him began to shriek. He turned to see Nadya screeching and pointing, while behind her a black Mercedes headed for the exit. Knowledge of Zaal’s betrayal filled him instantly; he understood it all. Nadya paused to take in a deep breath, then screamed again. All around, people started looking towards her, then following her finger. Two security guards hurried from the main terminal building. For the shortest moment, Mikhail almost succumbed to the urge to kill Knox, just to release his anger; but the security guards were already too close. Personal experience had taught him that there was always a window of confusion in situations like these. The key was having the nerve to seize it. He turned the knife around so that its blade was flat against his wrist, then made as if he was tearing himself free and ran towards the guards, waving and pointing back at Boris, Davit and Knox. ‘They’ve got guns,’ he shrieked. ‘They’re armed. Terrorists! Terrorists!’

All around him, people heard the dread word
and scampered for cover. The two guards unbuttoned their holsters and yelled at Davit, Knox and Boris to put up their hands. Mikhail ran past them, making out he was too petrified to do anything but flee; then he dropped the pretence and began sprinting across the car park after the Mercedes. Zaal saw him coming; he surged towards the exit. But two cars were already queuing to leave, and a third was coming in. He tooted then drove down the narrow lane between them, his side-mirrors folding back as they caught, the screech of metal on metal as he forced the Mercedes through and then turned left into the one-way stream of traffic. Mikhail caught up with him at that moment, tried to open the passenger door, but it was locked. Zaal put in a little spurt, but there was too much traffic and confusion for him to get away clean. Mikhail caught up with him and tried the hatchback. It was unlocked and it lifted up and he threw himself inside as the Mercedes lurched off again. Zaal looked in his mirror and his complexion turned to white when he saw Mikhail kneeling there. He tried to open his door but too late, Mikhail leapt over the back seats and grabbed his chin from behind and hauled it back, sawing his knife across his throat, cutting through his windpipe and carotid, blood spraying over the wheel and dashboard and the inside of the windscreen, Zaal’s feet sliding off the pedals, the Mercedes drifting to a halt.

He heaved Zaal aside then took the wheel and gathered his bearings. Thankfully the tinted windows seemed to have prevented any of the few bystanders from seeing what he’d done. But he didn’t have long. The windscreen was splattered with blood, so he wiped it with his sleeve, but only succeeded in smearing it all the worse. He felt the indignity of it all. Someone was going to pay for this.

Panic had blocked the exit ahead. There was no way through. He pulled a U-turn, put his hand upon his horn and kept it there as he drove back against the traffic. A lorry was hurtling towards him; he had no choice but to wrench his wheel around and head the wrong way up an access ramp. He made it unscathed to the top, reached an overpass, sped by the air traffic control tower then through a pair of half-open gates along a small access road. He turned off his headlights, lest they give the police a target, and raced on until he reached what looked like a freight area under construction, some nearly-completed offices and warehouses set around a huge parking lot. There was equipment and materials everywhere, but no sign of workers; the site had evidently closed down for Easter. He drove a lap of the parking lot looking for a way out; but the only way out was back the way he’d arrived, and headlights were already approaching down that, swinging
slowly back and forth, searching for him and blocking off his retreat.

An aircraft took off from a runway just the other side of the warehouses. Perhaps he could get to his plane. But Knox would surely be blabbing his mouth off right now, and the police would get to him before he could take off. He felt a spike of hatred for him, and his hand drifted to his groin as he thought of the revenge he’d take upon his girlfriend. What was the name of the place she’d sent those pictures from again? Agia Georgio, wasn’t it?

The headlights were getting closer. There were three containers parked against the fringe of the lot. He drove over to them, hoping to hide behind one or other of them, but two were parked so close to the fence that he couldn’t fit behind, and the third was jacked up a metre or so off the ground, so that his Mercedes would instantly be spotted beneath it. He was running out of time. He drove along the line of newly-built offices and warehousing. A steel shutter was three-quarters up on one of the lock-ups; they were painting the inside. He drove inside, got out to pull the shutter down after him, then bolted it on either end.

A car arrived outside. Its engine turned off. He stood there quietly, wondering if they’d spotted him. A minute passed. He heard two men talking, and their footsteps. Someone tried to lift up the
steel door, but the bolts held and they moved along. The engine started again. He listened to it leave. He went to the Mercedes, turned on its interior light, checked himself in the rear-view. His face was caked red with Zaal’s blood. For such a small man, he’d certainly proved a gusher. He stripped naked, squirted wiper fluid onto the windscreen that he mopped up with his shirt and used to wash himself and his trench-coat clean. He put on some clean clothes from his suitcase, tucked his knife into his belt, grabbed the money. He went over to the shutter, listened for a minute, then unbolted it and lifted it just enough to check that the lot was clear. He lifted it a little higher, ducked beneath it, then pulled it down behind him, and stood up tall.

Rather to his surprise, he discovered that he was enjoying himself.

Knox stood helpless as security guards and police converged upon him, handguns and automatic weapons aimed at his chest and face, yelling at him to do as Davit and Boris had already done, and put his hands above his head. But Knox couldn’t put his hands above his head, they were cuffed behind his back; and if he shrugged off Davit’s jacket to show them, they might well think he was going for a weapon, and kill him just in case. ‘Don’t shoot!’ he pleaded. But he could see fear in their eyes, how close they were to the edge.

Nadya ran across him just in time. ‘No!’ she shouted. ‘His hands are cuffed. His hands are cuffed.’ She had her own arms raised as she came over to him, but she lowered one to knock Davit’s jacket
from his shoulders and turn him around for the police to see.

Tension decreased instantly. Weapons lowered; someone cracked a joke and earned laughter. ‘What’s going on?’ one of them asked Nadya. ‘What the hell happened to your hand?’

But Nadya ignored the question. She worked some saliva up into her mouth instead, then turned to Boris and spat it shotgun at his face.

Gaille stared numbly down at the photograph.

Iain.

So he’d been here before. At least twice. Which meant he’d known about this place long before Knox had telephoned him. All that nonsense about knowing Petitier as Roly, about his Belgian archaeologist friend, about asking directions at that shop in Anopoli! He’d been stalking Petitier for…she checked the date on the first folder of photographs—for at least six months.

It took a few moments for the barking to register. Argo was going berserk outside. It could only mean Iain was on his way back. She froze a moment, wondering what to do. But she couldn’t let him find her here, not with these photos. She hurried out, switching lights off as she went, then ran up
the steps and closed the trap door behind her even as she heard his boots outside. She laid the rug back out, pulled the chair across it, then stood there attempting negligence as the door opened and Iain came in. ‘Fuck me!’ he said, throwing himself down into the armchair. ‘My
feet
!’

‘Long day?’ she asked.

‘I hadn’t realised there’d be so much to search.’

‘Any luck?’

‘Some. I found his Minoan site.’

‘But that’s brilliant!’ she exclaimed, trying her hardest to sound suitably impressed. ‘Where?’

Iain nodded south. ‘Most of it is covered up with earth, but there’s enough still exposed to get an idea. A small palace or temple dating from Early Minoan II, I’d say, though there are obvious signs of destruction and a rebuild in the Mycenaean. But he can’t have been doing anything there for at least five years, probably longer. So if he’s found anything recently, it must be from somewhere else.’ He looked up at the racks of journals. ‘I’ll bet those are his excavation notes. You make any progress on them?’

She shook her head. ‘His code’s too difficult for me. I did make friends with his dog, though.’

‘Yeah. I saw he was in his pen. How did you manage that?’