The Lost Labyrinth (43 page)

Around him, the detritus of the crash. Life-jackets and broken lengths of plastic, and things
on fire. He couldn’t see anyone in the water, but people were wailing in anguish and agony on the deck above him, sounds to gladden the heart. The adrenaline of combat started to subside; he felt the full sear of the burns he’d taken on his back.

A fighter jet marked with Greek insignia roared so low over the yacht that he flinched from it, its vapour trail making strange contortions of the sky. Then he looked north towards the coast, and saw two helicopters sweeping across the sea, and all he felt was a terrible anger that now they were coming, now when it was too late.

The man from the British Embassy wore a black suit and tie, as though he’d come to a funeral. As in a sense he had. He settled himself primly beside Knox’s hospital bed, his discomfort with such places evident from his efforts to look at ease.

‘Who are you?’ asked Knox.

‘You’ve caused quite a stir, you know,’ the man told him, smoothing down his trouser leg. ‘You’ve had all kinds of important people flying back and forth.’

‘Is that right?’

‘It is, it is,’ he beamed. ‘You’re the toast of the Foreign Office. The way the Greeks have treated you and your friends…’ he shook his head with mock reproach. ‘A very nursable grievance, that. We’ll be able to leverage it for years.’

‘I’m glad to have been of use.’

The man seemed to realise that his levity was
inappropriate, for he assumed a more sober countenance. ‘That’s not why I’m here, of course.’

‘Is it not?’ asked Knox, turning his head towards the window. He could see the perfect blue sky outside. Sometimes there were gulls, but not right now.

‘How much do you know about what’s been happening?’ asked the man. ‘With the Nergadzes, I mean?’

‘Nothing.’ Nico had been in, but mostly he’d talked about the ongoing excavation of Petitier’s cave and the successful decryption of his journals, the manic personality they’d revealed. ‘
I have found the lost labyrinth
,’ one entry had run. ‘
I have found the golden fleece. I have found Atlantis
.’ And Iain’s book, being published early to seize the moment, looked set to make a fortune for his widow and son, even though—or perhaps because—it was becoming clearer and clearer just how closely he’d modelled his own theories upon Petitier’s research. But Knox was indifferent to it all; it meant nothing.

‘Ilya is going to be released, you see,’ said the man. ‘He’s reached an accommodation with the president. That’s how it works, with men like that. They reach accommodations. He’s pleading guilty to some minor infractions, he’ll spend a little time in gaol. No great punishment, all things considered, but it’ll mean the end of his political aspirations, and of his family’s too. And when
powerful people are humiliated and crippled like this, they tend to look for scapegoats.’

That caught Knox’s attention. ‘
Me
?’ he asked incredulously.

The man nodded. ‘He blames you for his grandson’s death. Or he claims to, at least, which isn’t quite the same thing, not with these people. He’s not exactly shedding many tears over Mikhail, believe me; but he was family, so he has to be seen to care. More to the point, he has to be seen to do something. He needs people to know that there’ll be the gravest possible consequences for anyone who crosses him.’

‘You’re not saying he’s put a price on my head?’

‘A
huge
price,’ said the man, with evident satisfaction. ‘Five million euros, to be exact. Complete overkill, if you’ll pardon the expression. These days, you can commission a hit for a couple of grand. Hit-men are feeling the pinch just like everybody else. But of course it’s not really about you. Nergadze is using you as a way to warn his enemies not to take him lightly, just because he looks weakened. Not that that’s much consolation, I imagine. It’s no fun, having a price on one’s head.’

‘You’ve had one yourself, have you?’

He shook his head. ‘No. But I’ve worked with people who have. You might say that protection is a specialty of mine. Which is why I was asked to come here and talk to you, of course.’ He made
a steeple of his hands. ‘The thing is, protection isn’t easy. Even in the United Kingdom, it isn’t easy.’

‘That’s okay, then. I live in Egypt.’

‘Not any more, you don’t. Our Egyptian friends won’t take you back. You wouldn’t last a week there, anyway. Not with that kind of price on your head. No, it’s back to Britain with you, and you’ll just have to get used to living in a security cocoon. Not much fun. And
very
expensive for our poor old taxpayers.’

Ah!
thought Knox.
Now we get to it
. ‘Unless…?’ he asked.

‘You do have an option, as it happens,’ smiled the man, as though he’d only just thought of it. ‘I wouldn’t normally raise this, not while you’re recovering; but these are extraordinary circumstances, and if we’re to do it, this is our moment.’

‘Do what?’

‘You suffered extensive burns, you see. Not life-threatening, not any more. Though your being a rare blood-type didn’t help. You might want to get yourself a bracelet in the future, or one of those medallion jobbies. Save everyone a lot of grief. But the point is this: the world believes you’re still perilously sick. So imagine if we were to arrange for a Medevac plane to fly you back to England. Imagine you were to have a setback. Acute renal failure, say. It often happens to burn
victims. Imagine you were to go onto life support, but despite the heroic efforts of our very best doctors…’

‘And then what?’ asked Knox. ‘Plastic surgery? A new identity?’

‘Maybe a tweak here, an injection there. But nothing major. You may be a household name, but you’re not a household face at all. You’ve kept an admirably low profile for someone in your position. My colleagues have already taken the liberty of releasing some photos of you, tweaked just enough to give a false impression. Throw in some three-day stubble, tinted contact lenses, highlights for your hair…Trust me. We’re good at this kind of thing. It would give you a whole new start. Think of that. Half the people I know would give their right arms for a whole new start. And it wouldn’t be forever, not if you don’t fancy it: just until old man Nergadze dies, and the family implodes, which it will. They always do in the end. Maybe you could teach. Not Egyptology, of course. That’ll be out for a while. History, say. Or diving. Didn’t you work as an instructor once? I have a friend from my service days who runs a marine salvage business down in Hove. He’s always moaning about how hard it is to find high-quality underwater archaeologists. Shipwreck sites are so regulated these days, people like you are in great demand. Think about that. You could
travel overseas again. I know how much you like to travel.’

‘Yes,’ said Knox. He understood something now, something that had been puzzling him. Augustin had come by earlier, pushing himself in his wheelchair, recuperating from his own injuries. ‘What a pair we make,’ he’d grunted, as he’d helped himself to Knox’s fruit.

‘Yes.’

‘I watched that pig’s ear you made of my lecture.’

‘The best I could do with the material I had.’

Silence had fallen, then grown heavy. Augustin had covered Knox’s hand with his own. ‘I’m so sorry about Gaille,’ he’d said. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Forget it.’

‘I want you to know something. Whatever decision you make, you’ll have my complete and unquestioning support. Claire’s too. You do realise that, don’t you?’

Knox hadn’t understood what he was getting at, not at the time; but now it seemed clear that this man had been scouting for their opinions.

‘Well?’ he asked. ‘What do you say?’

‘This would save you a lot of money, would it?’

‘That’s not the only reason,’ he replied. ‘Your quality of life will be better, I promise.’

‘May I think about it?’

‘Of course. But we can’t wait forever. How about I come by again in the morning?’

‘Fine,’ said Knox. He turned his head to the side until he heard the door close. Sometimes, he could sense a great black pit opening up in the world, he’d be confronted again by the loss of Gaille, by the completeness of his failure as a man. He could feel it opening now. His breath grew faster as he braced himself. It started as it always did with a reprise of that helpless terror he’d felt when Mikhail had had him strapped down to his bench and then poured water into his mouth and made him drown. It would be haunting him for months, he knew, if not years. And the knowledge provoked in him an intense rage, not just at Mikhail, who he’d held responsible until now, but at Mikhail’s father and his grandfather too; particularly at his grandfather. He’d known Mikhail was a psychopath, yet he’d sent him to Athens all the same, surely aware of the carnage he was likely to wreak. And instead of feeling remorse at what he’d done, all he could do was use his death as an excuse for more of his wretched power-games.

Rather to Knox’s surprise, his rage felt good. Or, more accurately, it felt better than despair had done.

He hadn’t listened closely to the man from the embassy. He already knew he’d accept his offer, if only because he lacked the will to refuse. But, as he lay there, a new thought came suddenly to him. Personal experience had taught him how hard it
was to attack extreme wealth head-on. So long as the Nergadzes knew he was alive, they’d find it easy to protect themselves from him, or perhaps even succeed in getting rid of him altogether. But should they believe him dead…

He let the idea take rough shape in his mind. A new identity, a new look, a new passport. A year or two to recuperate and let the Nergadzes think they’d got away with it. And then some way to get undetected onto their home turf. And the man from the embassy had even given him an idea for that. For a moment, Knox envisaged himself working on some marine salvage job near the Black Sea coast, where all the oligarchs had their summer houses. Then in a room alone with Ilya Nergadze. How he’d get from one to the other he didn’t yet know; but he had all the time in the world to work out the details.

He relaxed back into his mattress, his pillow, looked up at his window, that parallelogram of perfect blue. A gull swooped into view, lit silver-white by the sun, hovering like the holy ghost upon a thermal before drifting slowly out of sight. For the first time in days, he began to feel a little better, a little stronger.

What was it Nico had said that night at the restaurant? Having a purpose, that’s the key.

Yes. Having a purpose.

The Bronze Age Eastern Mediterranean, which provides the historical backdrop to this novel, is both intensely complex and endlessly fascinating. My immense gratitude, therefore, to my good friend Clive Pearson and to Dr Don Evely of the British School of Athens, Minoan experts both, for being so generous with their time and knowledge in helping me get a better grasp of it. Even more importantly, I’d like to thank them each for reading the first draft of the manuscript and making so many valuable suggestions and corrections. I have followed most, but not all, of their recommendations; so it’s even truer than usual that any mistakes that remain are mine and mine alone.

Many other people helped me with my research too, both in the UK and on my travels in Greece and in Georgia. Kat Christopher, in particular, took immense trouble on my behalf in Athens, but I’d
also like to thank Thanos and Angela for a delicious lunch, as well as Martin, Ioannis, Sandro, Thomas and the many others who helped out in one way or another.

Finally, and most importantly, I’d like to thank my agent Luigi Bonomi and my editor Wayne Brookes for their unfailing enthusiasm, advice and support. I owe them both a tremendous debt.

The Eleusinian Mysteries are one of the great enigmas of the ancient world. Celebrated for some two thousand years at the port of Eleusis, they were the high point of Greek religious life, until finally they were supplanted by Christianity in the early centuries A.D.

Sophocles considered thrice happy anyone initiated into the rites. Cicero called them Athens’ greatest gift to man. Plato praised them as the perfect intellectual pleasure.

But the Mysteries were protected by an extraordinary cult of secrecy. People were put to death for merely hinting at their true nature. So, despite a few tantalising hints, no one today is quite sure what happened within the sanctuary’s high walls; or, more to the point, what the secret was that needed such extreme measures to preserve.

Will Adams has tried his hand at a multitude of careers over the years. Most recently, he worked for a London-based firm of communications consultants before giving it up to pursue his lifelong dream of writing fiction. His first novel,
The Alexander Cipher
, was a top-twenty UK bestseller in 2007, his second,
The Exodus Quest
, followed in 2008.

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The Alexander Cipher
The Exodus Quest