The Lost Labyrinth (8 page)

She stiffened at once, so that he knew it had been a mistake. She broke away, took a step or two back, wiped her eyes. ‘All right?’ she asked. ‘Are you an expert on traumatic brain injury, or something?’

‘I didn’t mean—’

‘Augustin’s skull has almost certainly been fractured, and his parietal and frontal lobes violently traumatised. His blood-brain barrier will have broken down. Cerebral oedemas are going to form. Do you know what they are?’

‘No.’

‘They occur when blood and other fluids are pumped into the brain faster than they can be
removed. The whole head swells up, like a sink filling when the plughole is blocked. First it will affect his white matter, then his grey matter. It’s one of the most common causes of irreversible brain damage, and it’s happening to Augustin right now, and there’s nothing I can do about it, except hold his hand and pray. And you’re telling me it’s going to be all right.’

‘I’m so sorry, Claire.’

She nodded twice, wiped her eye again with the heel of her hand. ‘I’ve worked in a hospice,’ she told him. ‘I’ve seen car-crash victims and gunshot victims and people with brain tumours. You think I haven’t gone through this before? The doctors are putting Augustin into an induced coma: who knows if and when he’ll come out of it? And then what? Traumatic brain injuries don’t kill at once. Did you know that? They take their own sweet fucking time about it, while the body just falls apart piece-by-piece around them. And even if he should pull through, he’ll be at increased risk for the rest of his life from tumours, depression, impotence, epilepsy, Alzheimer’s, headaches, you name it. So please explain to me just how it’s going to be all right.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ repeated Knox helplessly.

‘What good is that? What good is being sorry? What are you going to
do
about it?’

‘Everything I can.’

She nodded briskly, as though this was what she’d been working for. ‘One of the nurses overheard the police earlier. They want to move Augustin out of here. They want to take him into custody. He’ll
die
in custody. That’s what they want, of course. They want him to die, because they think this whole incident will go away with him. So if you really want to help, do something about
that
. Stop them from moving him.’

‘I’ll do my best. I promise.’

‘Your best? Like when that fucking monster was beating Augustin half to death?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean you could have at least
tried
to stop him. You could at least have
tried
. He would have done, if it had been you. He’d have done
anything
for you. But you just stood there.’

Silence fell. Knox looked helplessly at her, feeling sick. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.

But she turned her back on him and didn’t look round until after he’d left the ICU.

The log fire threw flickering light around the castle’s great hall, tinting the stone walls orange-grey. It burned so strongly that Sandro Nergadze could feel its warmth on his back through his shirt and jacket. Yet he felt a distinct chill all the same. ‘Would you care to repeat that,’ he said tightly.

‘You’ve got to understand something,’ said General Iosep Khundadze. ‘What you’re talking about is a situation where the normal army command will break down.’ He nodded at the two media magnates seated further along the oak table, who’d just outlined their plans. ‘Even if these two can make their vote-rigging charges stick—’

‘We can make them stick,’ said the newspaper tycoon named Merab. ‘If we get the exit-poll data we’ve been promised, at least.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ demanded Levan Kitesovi, head of Georgia’s largest independent polling agency, angrily. ‘Isn’t my word good enough now?’

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ said Sandro. ‘We have to trust each other. That’s why we’re all here.’ Everyone was a little on edge. Rumours were swirling of a new intelligence department set up specifically to investigate the Nergadze campaign. Their security arrangements had been duly tightened, because it could be awkward for their guests to explain what they were doing here this weekend. They’d swept all the rooms for bugs, had taken additional precautions against aerial surveillance, had hired more guards. But such security measures were a double-edged sword: they always made people feel more nervous.

He turned back to the general. ‘Can we please assume that the first part of our plan has worked. Otherwise, there’s really no point us discussing it. It’s election day. The media use the exit polls to announce a come-from-behind Ilya Nergadze victory. But then the government declares victory. We flood the radios with stories of government lackeys carting off ballot boxes in mysterious vans. Our sources inside the ministries leak corroboration. Our friends across the world denounce the president as corrupt. The Supreme Court, Church and police…’ he leaned forward to acknowledge their representatives ‘…will speak out on our
behalf, or at least remain deadlocked. And so everyone will look to the ultimate arbiters of power in such situations: the army. Last month you assured us that you could bring your colleagues with you; enough of them to make the difference, at least. What’s happened to change your mind?’

A faint sheen had appeared on the general’s brow. When he’d made his promises, Ilya Nergadze’s cause had still seemed hopeless. ‘As I was saying,’ he growled. ‘Even if you can make all this happen, even if it looks like the president is
stealing
victory, the
whole
army won’t suddenly switch sides. At best, what you’ll get is factions. I can certainly help you exploit those factions.’

‘I should hope so,’ muttered Sandro, sitting back in his chair, looking up at the family portraits that liberally decorated the walls of the great hall, dating from the reign of Erekle II right down to the present day. All had the characteristic Nergadze features; all were shown as noble and brave and powerful; all were signed by one or other of the great masters of Georgian art. And all were fakes he’d commissioned over the past few years, to give their family a necessary patina of heritage and respectability. The whole world was a fraud; some people knew it, but most didn’t.

‘But that’s not enough,’ continued the general. ‘You need to understand how the army works. When the usual chain of command breaks down,
as it will in this situation, you become dependent upon other factors. In particular, you become dependent upon the will of the soldiers themselves. They’ll no longer have to
obey
orders so much as
choose
which orders to obey. And they’ll follow the officers they admire and trust, not the ones with the most pips and stripes. Those are the people we need on our side; and it may surprise you to know that bribes will only go so far with such men. It may surprise you to know that men like this, the soldiers that other soldiers most look up to, actually value notions like honour and courage and patriotism.’

‘Spare us the sermon,’ said Ilya. ‘Get to the point.’

‘Very well,’ said the general, meeting Ilya’s gaze. ‘The point is this. They won’t do it. Not for you, at least. They don’t like you enough.’

‘Why not?’ asked Ilya.

‘Because they think you’re corrupt. And they won’t risk civil war just to replace one corrupt politician with another.’

There was a shocked silence. No one spoke to or about Ilya Nergadze that way. ‘How dare you?’ burst out Sandro. ‘My father’s not corrupt.’

‘Really?’ replied the general dryly. ‘Then why the fuck does he pay me a hundred thousand dollars every month?’

A ripple of laughter, evident admiration for such blunt talk, was quickly stifled. ‘Very well,’ said
Ilya, who knew when to bully and when to listen. ‘What do you suggest?’

‘Our country is still bleeding from the Russian fiasco,’ said the general. ‘People are desperate for change, but not just
any
change. They want change with hope. They want change with honour. Convince them that you’re the man of destiny Georgia is crying out for, and the army will flock to you like to a saviour, I won’t need to persuade anyone. At the moment you’re head of a political party; you need to become head of a
movement
. You need to
inspire
people. You need to hold up a flag for them to follow. Until then…’ He shook his head.

Silence fell around the table following this sober assessment. Everyone knew in their hearts it was true, not just for the army, but for Georgia as a whole. Ilya leaned forward. ‘A flag for them to follow,’ he murmured. ‘There is something.’

‘What?’

He glanced at Sandro. ‘My son is working on it as we speak.’

Everyone looked Sandro’s way. He felt his gut clench. Surely it was too early to float the idea of the golden fleece. If nothing came of it, they’d be a joke. He looked up, seeking inspiration, at the great shield on the wall opposite. It was so brightly polished that he could see the blur of his own reflection, and the orange glow of the fire like a halo behind him. It carried the Nergadze family crest,
a lion rampant holding a spear. He’d commissioned that too, along with all the other weaponry and suits of armour that bedecked the walls. Curious about how convincing these fakes were, he’d taken several to Tbilisi where he’d arranged for Edouard, their tame historian, to come across them as if by accident. How the great expert had drooled! How they’d laughed at him once he’d gone! But if Gurieli could fool someone like him…‘I need to speak to some people before I can share this with you all,’ he said. ‘But, believe me, you can expect to hear some very exciting news indeed.’

The meeting broke up soon afterwards, everyone trading cheerful banter as their mouths watered in anticipation of another Nergadze banquet. Ilya tugged Sandro back by his sleeve. ‘You’d better get me my damned fleece,’ he said.

‘Don’t worry, father,’ Sandro assured him. ‘I’ll get it for you. One way or another, I’ll get it.’

‘To success!’ toasted Mikhail, as they stood around the coffee table with their shot-glasses of vodka straight from the freezer.

‘To success!’ they echoed.

The icy viscous liquid chilled and warmed simultaneously Edouard’s throat and chest. His eyes began
to water so that he had to blink. He wasn’t used to such strong liquor, but refusing wasn’t an option. Boris refilled their glasses, then Mikhail threw himself into an armchair and put his feet up on the coffee-table. ‘So do you all know what you’re doing here?’ he asked.

‘I do,’ said Boris.

‘Me, too,’ said Zaal.

Edouard settled on the far arm of the sofa, the furthest he could get from Mikhail. ‘I only know what your father told me,’ he said.

‘And that is?’

Edouard allowed himself the faintest of smiles. ‘That we’re here to buy the golden fleece.’

‘You think this is a joke?’ frowned Mikhail.

‘The fleece doesn’t exist,’ said Edouard. ‘It never existed. It was only ever a legend, that’s all.’

‘You’re wrong,’ said Mikhail. ‘It existed. It exists. And we’re going to buy it tomorrow.’

Edouard spread his hands. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘your father and grandfather asked me to come here because I’m an expert in these things. And, as an expert, I’m telling you that there never was any such thing as the golden fleece. It was just a mishmash of local traditions and fanciful storytelling and—’

Mikhail’s face darkened. He pushed himself to his feet and walked over to where Edouard sat on the arm of the sofa. ‘I’m telling you that the golden fleece exists. Are you calling me a liar?’

‘No,’ said Edouard, dropping his eyes. ‘Of course not. I only meant that—’

‘Only meant?’ scoffed Mikhail. He placed the tip of his index finger on the bridge of Edouard’s nose, then gently pushed him backwards. Edouard tried to resist, but there was something inexorable about Mikhail, he felt himself tipping and then he overbalanced and went sprawling, his vodka spilling over his wrist and the floor. ‘You intellectuals!’ said Mikhail, coming to stand above him. ‘You’re all the same. You sneer at everything. But let me tell you something. I spoke to a man this morning, a professor of history as it happens, because I know such things matter to your kind. He’d
seen
this fleece for himself. He’d travelled to Crete just last week, specifically to see it, to make sure it was for real. He’d held it in his hands and he’d weighed it and felt its texture. It’s for real. He swore on his life that it was for real.’

‘He told you that?’

‘And he had no reason to lie, I assure you.’ Mikhail stared down at him, his pupils triumphant pinpricks of blackness. ‘The fleece is coming here to Athens,’ he said. ‘It’s coming because
I’m
in Athens, and it’s my destiny to bring it home to Georgia. Some things are written.
This
is written. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ croaked Edouard.

‘Tomorrow morning, we’re going to see it.
Tomorrow morning, we’re going to
buy
it. And then we’re taking it home. Any more questions?’

‘No.’

‘Good,’ said Mikhail. He turned away from Edouard, leaving him lying there feeling limp and soiled.

‘So what’s our plan, then, boss?’ asked Boris, splashing out more vodka.

‘The man who has the fleece is planning to unveil it at a talk tomorrow afternoon. So we’re going to go visit him first thing in the morning, and persuade him to sell it to us.’

‘He’s expecting us, then?’

‘Not exactly. But I know where he’s staying.’

‘What if he doesn’t want to sell?’

Mikhail laughed. ‘He’ll want to by the time I’m through with him, believe me. He’ll be begging us to buy it.’

‘Then why pay for it at all?’ grumbled Zaal. ‘Why not just take it?’

‘Because this isn’t just about the fleece,’ Mikhail told him. ‘This is about the election too. It’s about my grandfather
buying
the fleece on behalf of the Georgian people,
however much it costs
, because that’s the kind of patriot he is.’

Edouard’s heart-rate had resettled. He got to his feet, refilled his own glass with vodka, tossed it back, restoring a little courage. ‘This professor you spoke to,’ he said. ‘The one who went to Crete
to see it. If I’m to verify the fleece for you, I’ll need to speak to him myself.’