The Age Of Zeus (50 page)

Before handing the scrap of paper to Aphrodite she said, "The Olympians keep the world honest through fear. Perhaps the Titans can keep the Olympians honest the same way. Perhaps that's the best we can hope for, détente, a balance of power, a kind of new Cold War."

Aphrodite, in answer, flashed a white and dazzling smile.

Even her teeth were perfect. The bitch.

56. THE CALL

"Y
ou were bluffing," Ramsay said in the taxi back to Sam's house. "All that stuff about a Cold War, a balance of power - psyching them out, yeah?"

"Well, to work, any good bluff has to have an element of sincerity."

"But détente - doesn't that mean they have to believe we're a force equal to them?"

"As long as they believe it, then it makes no difference whether we are or aren't."

He whistled through his teeth. "You are some piece of work, woman. You've got even me thinking there could be a nonviolent solution to all this, and I'm a 'shoot first, don't bother asking any questions' type of guy. This comes off, and a certain former billionaire we all know is going to be mighty pissed."

"And I care what he thinks because...?"

Ramsay downpipe-gurgled, and Sam realised she'd missed that wonderful ugly sound.

"Can we trust those two back there, though?" asked Mahmoud. No one was mentioning any names. The partition between the taxi driver and his passengers was shut, but it was as well to be discreet.

"I trust their sense of self-interest," Sam said. "And I think, by their own standards, they're trying to do what's best for all concerned."

"So now we wait for them to call."

"We do. It all depends how far they get with their leader. I'm not holding out much hope, but you never know."

"A part of me doesn't like the idea," Mahmoud said, "them not being brought to book for what they've done."

"Your brothers?"

"And all the rest of it. But another part of me thinks your proposal could actually be the right thing under the circumstances. It shows that we're better than them. We're not descending to their level. As a cop I was never in favour of the death penalty, even for the worst kind of murderers. Bang them up for life, yes, but don't kill them. The law shouldn't stoop to the level of the lawbreakers, it should rise above. I felt differently after what happened to my brothers and what that did to my dad and mum, but now, if there really is an alternative available, I think I could live with it."

Back at Kensal Rise, Sam put her mobile on charge and left it switched on, and a day passed and the only call she got was from her phone service provider enquiring whether she would like to upgrade to a pricier and staggeringly more complicated tariff. Another day passed, and still no word from Dionysus and Aphrodite. Her initiative appeared to have failed. She was disappointed but, if she was honest with herself, not that surprised. It was doubtful that Zeus could be persuaded to surrender his authority, his position, all he had gained, just like that, whatever the perceived threat to him and his cronies. Xander Landesman had dedicated five years of his life to plotting revenge against his father and a further decade to seeing it through and consolidating his grip over the world. Such a fire of spite and pride burned inside him that nothing short of death, it seemed, could extinguish it. And what he decided, all the other Olympians, beholden to him for the gift of their extraordinary powers, would loyally go along with.

"At least you tried," Ramsay said to Sam on the evening of the second day, over beers in the back garden. It was actually warm out, something of a miracle. The first proper good weather of the year, and they'd celebrated it with a barbecue on the patio and two six-packs of Samuel Adams which Ramsay had found at a local, specialist off-licence and pounced on like a man lost in the desert finding water. Now, on deckchairs, beneath a purple sky streaked with flamingo-pink contrails, slightly drunk on the beer, he and Sam were consoling themselves. Mahmoud was indoors, catching up on
Corrie
.

"Shot for the moon and missed," Sam said.

"More like Pluto than the moon. But still worth trying."

"I take it you mean the planet, not the cartoon dog."

"There's a planet called Pluto?"

"Don't think so any longer, actually. Hasn't it been downgraded to a dwarf planet or some such?"

"Oh, so now it's Dopey, not Pluto."

Sam laughed. "By the way, did you hear about those astronomers who want to rename the planets? It was on the news just the other day. They want to switch them from their Roman-god names to their Greek-god equivalents. Neptune to become Poseidon, Jupiter Zeus, Mars Ares, et cetera. Can't believe it. It's not enough that the Olympians have the earth, they have to have the solar system as well?"

"Ah, it's just whackjob scientists trying to be controversial, get noticed, maybe hoover up some extra funding," said Ramsay. "It'll never gain any traction."

"But why, even still, are there people who want to suck up to the Olympians? We were changing things, weren't we? Turning everyone against them, even the waverers. What happened?"

"We stopped. The campaign went into hiatus. That's what happened. Halfway through the game us guys suddenly walked off the field, and now folks in the bleachers are all confused. Who do they support? They thought the underdogs were going to bring the league champions down. The Olympians were the team they hated to love and they were just beginning to love to hate them, and think it was safe to, and then..." He flapped his lips, making a noise like a deflating balloon. "All over, so maybe they should start to hate to love them again." A shrug. "Crowd psychology's not one of my strong suits, but that would be my guess. We've let them down when we least needed to. I'm sure we can pick up from where we left off, though."

"Is this you trying to re-recruit me?"

He held out a fresh bottle of Samuel Adams. "Right now I'd settle for us, you and me, getting back to where we were not so long ago. The rest I can take or leave."

"I'll consider it," she said, twisting off the cap. Beer foamed, and for no good reason she thought of Aphrodite and her mythical birth in a turbulent froth of divine semen and sea water.

"Thank you for that," Ramsay said. "Not least 'cause sleeping on that couch of yours is giving me a hell of a crick in the neck."

"So all you're after is somewhere comfy for the night. How romantic."

"I thought romance didn't enter into this."

"You have me there," Sam admitted.

Indoors, her mobile rang.

She and Ramsay exchanged glances.

"Probably just another sales call," she said, starting to get up.

"I'll go!" Mahmoud shouted from the house.

"Would you mind?" Sam shouted back. The deckchair was proving tricky to extricate herself from. She was perhaps a little tipsier than she thought.

The twiddly melody of her ringtone halted and she heard Mahmoud say, "Yes?"

Then there was silence.

A long silence.

That got longer still.

Sam and Ramsay exchanged glances again.

"Zaina?" Sam called out. "Did you pick that up? Did they ring off? Who was it?"

No reply.

A chilly breeze prickled the back of Sam's neck.

Except that there
was
no breeze.

She and Ramsay levered themselves out of the deckchairs and crossed the lawn. Ramsay looked as apprehensive as Sam felt, and as puzzled about it too, for there was no cause for apprehension, was there?

The back door led through a utility room extension into the kitchen, where Sam's mobile lay on the countertop, still hooked up to the mains. Of Mahmoud there was no sign. Sam grabbed the phone and checked the memory. Whoever had rung a couple of minutes ago had withheld their number.

"Zaina?"

A creak of a floorboard, overhead.

Ramsay pointed in that direction, then aimed two fingers at his eyes for
look
, followed by a pumping of the fist to indicate
move out
.

Sam would have laughed at him, but somehow, as things stood, the use of military patrol hand signals didn't seem so absurd. Not least because at that moment she noticed something. A knife was absent from the knife block next to the toaster. The slot where one of the large carvers was normally sheathed gaped empty.

She drew Ramsay's attention to this.

He looked a question at her:
you're sure?

"Don't think we used it tonight," she whispered. "It should be there."

"But not for definite?" he whispered back.

"If it's not there, I don't know where else it would be."

"Shit." He rolled his eyes. "OK, there could be a perfectly innocent explanation for all this. That was a wrong number and Zaina's gone up to her room to get a book or something and the knife's been mislaid and you and I are making a big deal outta nothing."

The fearful note in his voice undermined everything he said.

"Why hasn't she answered me then?" Sam said.

"I'm trying not to think about that. Come on."

They headed up the stairs single file, stealthy. The guest room, which Mahmoud was using, lay directly above the kitchen. It used to be Sam's bedroom when she was a girl, and still visible on the door were the shapes of eight wooden letters that had spelled out her name, bright white against the surrounding age-yellowed paintwork. She kept meaning to sand the door down and repaint it, get rid of the ghost name. She had repapered the walls of the guest room itself to cover up the greasy Blu-Tack residue which marked where posters of Take That and the Spice Girls - and, later, Jarvis Cocker and Blur - used to hang. The door had been next on her to-do list, but somehow she couldn't bring herself to erase every last trace of her childhood from the house.

Now the door stood slightly ajar and the white letter silhouettes seemed to be calling to her, beckoning her in. The light inside the guest room was not on. Yet she knew Mahmoud was there. She could sense her, a waiting presence in the dark.

Ramsay rapped carefully with one knuckle, just above the second A of SAMANTHA.

"Zaina? You OK? Sam and I were wondering if there's a problem of some kind. Who was that on the phone? Was it, maybe, Aphrodite?"

Please not
, Sam said to herself, but she had been thinking exactly the same thing. Aphrodite had called and had spoken to Mahmoud in her special way, her influential way, and had ordered her to do something - something that involved a carving knife.

"Zaina, we're going to come in," said Ramsay. "Nice and gentle. This is me and Sam. Your friends."

"Titans," came Mahmoud's voice from the dark. The word rose and fell, eerily neutral, neither quite interrogative nor statement.

"Yeah, Titans. Like you. So is it OK? Us coming in?"

No answer.

Ramsay eased the door inwards, a hinge squeaking softly. He and Sam peered into the darkness, trying to make out as much detail as they could by the twilight glow coming in through the uncurtained window. Bed, wardrobe, dresser, chair, fireplace, radiator - but nothing of Mahmoud.

"Zaina, if Aphrodite's been speaking with you, whatever she's said to you I want you to ignore. It's lies, all of it. You have to remember, Sam and me, we're the good guys, and so are you. We're on the same side. We -"

Sam glimpsed the glint of the blade an instant before it came jabbing through the gap between the door's hinges. She yelled out a warning, but not in time. The knife slashed down Ramsay's arm, raking it from shoulder to elbow. Ramsay recoiled with a shout, colliding with Sam and sending them both asprawl on the landing carpet. He rolled off her, clutching his arm in pain. Sam leapt to her feet.

Mahmoud came out from behind the door and stood framed in the doorway, bloodied carver in her hand. Her eyes were unnaturally wide and staring. Her smile was likewise unnaturally broad. She looked lost and dazed and at the same time serenely happy.

"Oh Sam," she said, shaking her head slowly from side to side. "I cut your man. I penetrated him. Just like he penetrates you, when you let him. Doesn't like it, though, does he? Being penetrated. Look at him."