The Lost Labyrinth (5 page)

‘Don’t worry about it. And thanks for coming.’

‘Of course. Of course.’ He stepped to one side, revealing the woman hidden behind him. She was short, slim, stern and unmistakeably formidable. ‘This is Charissa,’ he said. ‘My dear brother’s wife.’

‘Gaille just told me what you’ve been doing,’ said Knox. ‘Thanks so much.’

She waved his gratitude aside. ‘I spend too much time in conference rooms. Places like this do my heart good.’

‘Not mine,’ said Knox. ‘How soon can I get out?’

‘At once,’ she told him. ‘It’s a disgrace they brought you here at all.’

‘Thank Christ!’

‘I’m afraid that concludes the good news,
however. The police seem to have it in for your friend Pascal. They intend to charge him the moment he regains consciousness.’

‘Those bastards!’ scowled Knox. ‘They started it. One of them groped Claire, I swear he did. They’re just covering their arses.’

‘I’m not talking about that,’ said Charissa. ‘I’m talking about Petitier.’

‘How do you mean?’ frowned Knox.

‘You may not know, but he was pronounced dead on arrival at hospital. And the police are planning to charge your friend with his murder.’

An apartment, Tbilisi, Georgia

The thumping started again in the flat above, Rezo and his wretched home improvements. Nadya Petrova glared up at her ceiling. She kept going up to remonstrate with him, but there was something about him in his dungarees, with his dusty, paint-spattered hair and his crinkled, cheerful smile, that made her forget her indignation. Until she came back down again, at least, and he resumed his banging.

She sighed and finished her article a little more abruptly than she might otherwise have done, read it through and posted it on her blog, then turned off her laptop. That would have to do for the day.
She’d been working monstrously hard this past week, had promised herself the night off. She sat there a moment longer, staring out of her high window, contemplating the rundown yet beautiful buildings on the steep hillside beneath her, their twisted brick chimneys and sloping roofs overrun by ivy and those violet flowers that hung there like bunches of grapes: and for a moment she glimpsed a metaphor for her beloved city that she might use in one of her upcoming newspaper articles, but her mind was too tired to hold onto it, and then it was gone.

She pushed herself to her feet and made her way through to her kitchen. Her limp, the result of riding pillion with an idiot biker trying too hard to impress her, was always more pronounced after a day at her desk. She had soup left over from lunch. She turned on her gas stove to heat it up, then took a bottle of white wine from her refrigerator. She didn’t open it at once, savouring the moment. Remarkably, it still gave her a mild illicit thrill to uncork the first bottle of the night. The promise of happiness, or at least of respite. She looked thoughtfully back up at her ceiling. Maybe Rezo would like a glass. At least it might keep him quiet.

Her telephone began to ring before she could decide. Her nape instantly stiffened; she hated her phone. She told herself to ignore it, let voicemail
do its work. But she was a journalist at heart, and you never knew. ‘Yes?’ she sighed. ‘Who is this?’

‘It’s me. Gyorgi.’

‘Gyorgi?’

‘From Airport Operations, remember?’

‘Forgive me,’ she said, reaching for her notepad and pen. ‘It’s been a long day.’

A mirthless laugh. ‘Tell me about it. I came on at six this bloody morning. And what time is it now?’

‘Is he coming home, then? Is that why you called?’

‘No. But the Nergadze Gulfstream is about to leave for Athens again. I thought you’d like to know. Four passengers out, no return yet scheduled. You want details?’

Nadya uncapped her pen with her teeth. ‘Please.’

‘Same terms as before, right?’

‘Sure,’ she said. She couldn’t remember what she’d paid him last time, but he sold himself cheap, she remembered that much. Gambling problems, so Petr had said. But who was she to criticise?

‘Okay, then. Departing Tbilisi International 6.45 p.m. our time. Flight time ninety minutes, arriving Athens Eleftherios Venizelos private jet terminal 7.15 local, thanks to the time difference. Passenger names are Boris Dekanosidze, Edouard Zdanevich, Zaal Markizi, Davit Kipshidze. Mean anything to you?’

‘No.’ In fact, Nadya recognised three of the names, but she had no intention of telling that to a man this indiscreet. ‘I don’t suppose I can get to Athens before them, can I?’

‘What am I? Your travel agent?’

‘I was only wondering.’

‘There aren’t any direct flights from Tbilisi to Athens,’ he sighed. ‘You’d have to change in Istanbul or Kiev. And you won’t get there tonight, not setting out this late. Maybe tomorrow morning.’

‘Thanks. I’ll see you get your money.’ She put down the phone and sat there a minute, massaging her temples. The wine was beckoning. She was exhausted, and fully entitled to her exhaustion too. She’d earned tonight off. There was no way she could beat the plane to Athens, so what could she hope to accomplish? But then she remembered that salty look in Mikhail Nergadze’s eye at the press conference, and it was like touching the shallow puddle around her kettle and jolting from the shock.

She sat up straight. Maybe she couldn’t get to Athens before the Nergadze plane, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have someone waiting when it landed. It was what the Internet had been invented for. With a sigh, she put her white wine back in the freezer, then limped through to her study to switch her laptop back on.

There was one advantage working for the Nergadzes, reflected Edouard, as he and Boris were chauffeured out from Tbilisi International’s Jet Aviation Terminal to the waiting Gulfstream 550. They knew how to look after themselves. The co-pilot welcomed them aboard and escorted them back to the luxurious main lounge, where two more Nergadze toughs were playing cards. Boris introduced them all briskly. Zaal was a short, lithe man with restless, suspicious eyes, as though he’d lived his whole life on the run. Davit, by contrast, was a smiling giant with cauliflower ears and a Zorro nose. There was something distinctly familiar about him too, though Edouard couldn’t work out why.

He hesitated after shaking their hands, expecting
to be invited to join their game, as Boris was. But no invitation came, so he shrugged and sank into a white-leather seat across the aisle, stretched out his legs, watched the crew go into departure protocol. They were taxiing almost at once, no nonsense about waiting for other aircraft, before launching into the twilight skies above Tbilisi. He watched through his widescreen window the scattered bonfire of the city gradually going out beneath him, doused by a few thin wisps of cloud. Then lamb cutlets were served on silver plates by a disturbingly androgynous flight attendant, along with vintage champagne in black crystal Fabergé glasses.

His sinuses began to squeeze as they approached Athens, his ears blocking, his eyes watering: he held his nose and blew gently to equalise the pressure until they were safely down. Two immigration officers came out to the plane to process them. His ears were still plugged, he had to lean forwards and frown to make out what they were saying. A pair of Mercedes SUVs with tinted windows were waiting on the tarmac, keys already in the ignition. Boris took a folded sheet of note-paper from his pocket. ‘This is Mikhail Nergadze’s address,’ he told Edouard. ‘We’ll meet you there.’

‘But I don’t know Athens. How will I find it?’

‘The cars have SatNav,’ said Boris. ‘You do know how to use SatNav, I trust.’

‘Yes, of course. But where are you going?’

‘None of your damned business.’

Edouard flushed. It was one thing to be treated rudely by Ilya and Sandro Nergadze, another by their staff. ‘I asked you a perfectly civil question,’ he said. ‘If you can’t answer it in a manner that—’

‘Your mobile and wallet,’ said Boris, holding out his hand.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You heard me,’ said Boris. ‘Your mobile and wallet.’

‘But what if I need them?’ protested Edouard.

‘We’re here on a sensitive mission,’ said Boris. ‘Secure communications only. Your mobile isn’t secure, so give it to me.’

‘What about my wallet? Isn’t that secure either?’

‘Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be,’ said Boris. ‘It won’t do you any good.’ He nodded to Davit, who wrapped him in the straitjacket of his arms while Zaal rifled his pockets, pulled out his mobile and wallet, handed them to Boris.

‘What if I break down?’ asked Edouard feebly.

Boris reached into his back pocket for a wad of euros, peeled off two twenties that he stuffed contemptuously in Edouard’s breast pocket. ‘I’ll want them back,’ he said, ‘or a receipt showing how you spent them. Understand?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, just climbed into the back of the
first Mercedes, while Davit and Zaal went up front, and then they were gone, leaving Edouard standing there, with only humiliation for company.

There was an awkward moment as Knox was being discharged from the police station, when Theofanis tipped up the translucent pouch into which he’d earlier placed Knox’s belongings, so that they all spilled out across the varnished pine counter: his mobile, his wallet, his keys and the little red-leatherette ring box he’d been carrying around these last few days. He glanced at Gaille; she feigned distraction long enough for him to slip it away in his pocket. Then it was down the steps and out the front, wending between parked police cars and bikes.

Night had fallen. The pavements gleamed from a recent shower. A party of students engulfed them for a moment, boisterously shouting out competing plans for the evening. An elderly lottery-ticket salesman lowered his notched stick like a car park barrier across Knox’s chest, promising him a great fortune for a mere five euros. Exotic birds squawked outside a pet shop, while dogs lay listlessly in small cages behind the windows, like so many Amsterdam whores. They reached a silver BMW 5-Series; a
lawyer’s car, not an archaeologist’s. Charissa duly unlocked it and took the wheel, her seat moved as far forward as it would go, so that she could reach the pedals. Nico climbed in the passenger side, while Knox opened the back door for Gaille, then got in alongside her, taking and pressing her hand to thank her for being there.

The BMW’s interior was all polished walnut and pale leather, yet it smelled of fast food and there was a colouring book half-hidden beneath the front seat, along with a few discarded sweet-wrappers. The glimpse of family life made Knox warm to Charissa even more than her getting him out of gaol had done. ‘What now?’ he asked.

‘We go see Augustin,’ said Gaille.

‘I’ve spoken to a contact at the prosecutor’s office,’ said Charissa, pulling away. ‘The police have been uncharacteristically active. They must want a quick result very badly. They’ve already reviewed the hotel’s fifth floor CCTV tapes, for example, and established a provisional timeline of movements. May I run it by you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Thank you. A little before two this afternoon, Professor Petitier arrived outside Augustin’s door. He had his laptop over his shoulder and was clutching an overnight bag, and he kept looking around as though he was worried he was being followed. He knocked. The door opened. He held
a brief conversation, presumably with Augustin, though he’s out of view, then he disappeared inside and the door closed again. At two-fifteen you showed up and knocked on Augustin’s door, then called out.’

‘I told him we needed to get moving.’

‘Augustin appeared a minute or so later,’ nodded Charissa, looking at Knox via the rear-view mirror. ‘Did he give any sign there was someone inside?’

‘No.’

‘Did you hear or see anything?’

‘No.’

‘You walked together to the lifts. A few guests came and went, but no-one left or entered Augustin’s room until you and Augustin reappeared with Claire and a lot of luggage a few minutes after four. You went inside Augustin’s room. The first two policemen arrived several minutes later. Does that sound accurate?’

‘Pretty much. But if the police know that, how can they suspect Augustin?’

‘They claim he killed Petitier
before
you left for the airport.’

‘That’s ridiculous!’ protested Knox. ‘He was alive when we came in. He had a convulsion on the floor. He even
spoke
to us, for Christ’s sake!’

‘Calm down. I’m only telling you the police’s current working hypothesis. They think Augustin assaulted Petitier before you both left for the
airport, but that his assault wasn’t immediately fatal, and he was still alive when you returned.’

‘No way,’ protested Knox. ‘No way had Augustin just done that to a man. I’d have noticed in his manner.’

‘You’re his best friend,’ observed Charissa. ‘So you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ She glanced up again, anticipating his indignation. ‘Don’t misunderstand: I’m not telling you what I believe. I’m telling you the case the police are making.’

‘I know.’

‘Shall I continue?’

‘Please.’

‘Okay. A preliminary examination suggests that Petitier was killed by a single blow with some hard, heavy blunt instrument. They found no such implement in the hotel room.’

‘What about Petitier’s laptop?’ asked Knox.

‘No traces of hair or blood on it,’ said Charissa. She grunted with wry amusement. ‘And you won’t believe what they’ve done. Some idiot policeman started it up. When it asked him for a password, he typed in a few wild guesses. The damned thing only started chewing up its data.’

‘Hell!’ snorted Knox. That must have been what Theofanis had told Angelos outside the interview room. ‘How much have they lost?’

‘They don’t know yet. And they may still be able to retrieve it. It’s not like we don’t have
computer experts here in Athens. But whether they’ll bother…’ She gave an expressive shrug to suggest that they’d bother if it would serve their purposes, but not otherwise. ‘Anyway, Petitier’s overnight bag was ripped open, and some of its contents appear to be missing, because there’s not enough to have made it look as bulky as it did on the camera. They’re considering the possibility that the murder weapon came originally from Petitier’s case, but that Augustin took it away with him when he left for the airport. CCTV footage apparently shows him carrying a bag. Is that right?’