The Lost Labyrinth (17 page)

‘How did Petitier take that?’

‘I don’t know. I never saw him again. I moved out of the house while he was at work, and he left Athens shortly afterwards.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘That was a story in itself. The British School
put on a series of lectures to honour the memory of Sir Arthur Evans and his excavations at Knossos. Petitier apparently stood up during a Q&A and launched into a drunken rant. It was the last straw. The French School fired him for embarrassing them, and he left soon afterwards.’

‘What was his rant about?’

‘He accused Evans and his successors of doing with Minoan Crete exactly what other academics had done with the Doric Invasion; that is to say, rewriting history to boost the Greeks at the expense of Egypt and the Near East.’ He glanced at Knox to see if further explanation was necessary, and evidently decided that it was. ‘Crete only gained independence from the Ottoman Empire in 1898, you see. But independence wasn’t what the new Cretan government wanted; they wanted unification with Greece instead. They were desperate, therefore, to play up any and all historical links with Greece, while downplaying those with Egypt and Turkey. And this was almost the exact moment Evans began excavating at Knossos. Not that he needed any encouragement to make Crete more Greek. His head was stuffed so full of Greek myths and legends that within a week of breaking ground he’d found Ariadne’s bathroom. Not
a
bathroom or even a
royal
bathroom. No.
Ariadne’s
. After that, it was Minos’ throne room, and so on. It wasn’t archaeology. It was myth-making.’

Knox laughed. ‘And Petitier really said all that at a commemoration of his work?’

Franklin nodded. ‘And there’s a lot to what he said, to be fair. Had Knossos been excavated by an Egyptologist, for example, we’d almost certainly have a completely different view of Minoan Crete. We’d think of it as the westernmost part of the Eastern Mediterranean, not as the southernmost part of Greece. But once an idea gets into the popular consciousness, it’s almost impossible to get it back out.’ He gave a heartfelt sigh. ‘People simply don’t realise how much Egyptian material has been found in Minoan contexts. Pottery, jewellery, hippopotamus ivory, seals and scarabs. Musical instruments, weapons, lamps, everything you can think of. Minoan culture is widely celebrated as unique because of its bull-leaping and distinctive artistic style; yet we’ve found evidence of bull-leaping all across Egypt and Asia Minor, and identical styles of artwork in Tell el-Daba and elsewhere. And that’s not to mention the tantalising hints offered by language, too. The word “Minoan” derives from Crete’s legendary king Minos, for example. But Minos wasn’t a person’s name so much as a job title. And who was Egypt’s first pharaoh?’

‘Menes,’ answered Knox.

‘Credited with uniting Upper and Lower Egypt,’ nodded Franklin. ‘Yet modern scholarship suggests
Menes was a job title too. Egyptian didn’t have vowels, as you know, so that all we’re really sure of is that it had the consonants MNS,
exactly
the same as Minos. Coincidence?’

‘Probably,’ said Knox. The lighting in the pavilion auditorium suddenly came on. He looked around to see that a first few delegates had gathered at the back, chatting and drinking coffee. But there was no still sign of Nico.

‘The Egyptians aligned key buildings with the dawn,’ continued Franklin, oblivious of Knox’s distraction. ‘So did the Minoans. Did you know that on certain key days of the year, the first rays of the rising sun would spear through double doorways at Knossos and bathe the throne room in light? And look at religion: Osiris and Isis are the central gods of Egyptian myth. They had a strange kind of immortality, giving birth to themselves. The same was true of the Minoan gods. Dionysus was worshipped as a young man and a bearded king. Demeter was worshipped as a maiden, a mother and a crone. A very Egyptian theology that was transformed in Crete to become the basis of Greek religion right here in Eleusis.’

‘Speaking of which,’ smiled Knox, getting to his feet. ‘I should really read through my speech again before—’

‘And that’s another thing,’ said Franklin, taking Knox by the sleeve to prevent him getting away
before he was done. ‘Eleusis was a grain cult, remember. It was all about farming.’

‘Forgive me, but I really—’

‘No. You’ll like this. You see, Petitier was convinced that farming was the key to understanding how religion and culture had spread through the ancient world. He painted a word picture of a great golden plain of wheat and barley sweeping in from the east like sunrise, bringing socialisation, technology and enlightenment with it; and he was convinced that so beneficial a development would certainly have been memorialised in Greek legend. And because people like to credit their own, he speculated that the story would have been rewritten with Greeks as noble heroes wresting precious secrets from dastardly oriental villains, before bringing them back to Greece.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ murmured Knox. ‘Jason and the Argonauts.’

‘Exactly,’ smiled Franklin. ‘And the crops they brought back with them, he called “the golden fleece”.’

Nadya Petrova put on her shawl and dark glasses before emerging into the arrivals hall of Athens airport. Sokratis, the private detective she’d contacted
through the Internet the night before, was waiting for her as arranged. He was a short and unprepossessing man with sallow skin, a tired brown suit and an unattractive habit of picking the septum of his nose between his thumb and forefinger while trying to make it look as though he was merely scratching. He didn’t offer to help her with her bags either, just turned and led her out to his rusting green Volvo, its front bumper patched with silver tape, its tyres as slick as a racing car’s.

‘Any success?’ she asked, buckling herself in.

Sokratis nodded briskly. ‘There were four of them, like you said. They got into two big black Mercedes with tinted windows. Three in the first, one in the second. I followed the second; less chance of being spotted. He headed to the hills north of Athens.
Very
expensive up there,
very
exclusive. If you’re not a shipping billionaire or a Russian oligarch, forget about it. And the house…’ He waved his fingers as though scalded. ‘I couldn’t follow him down the drive, he’d have spotted me for sure. So I went on a little way, gave him a few minutes to get inside, then made my way in on foot. There was another car already parked there, a gold Ferrari. But I figured you were interested in the Mercedes, so I was putting my transmitter on it, when guess what?’

‘What?’

‘The second damned Mercedes suddenly turned
up!’ He gave a laugh, designed to let her know how cool he was in a crisis. ‘I had to get out of there pretty damned quick, let me tell you.’

‘But you got the transmitter on, yes?’

‘Sure did.’ He proudly patted the SatNav monitor screwed clumsily to his dashboard. ‘No sign of life yet this morning, but we’ll know the moment they’re on the move.’

‘Good job,’ she said. ‘You’ve done well.’

‘All in a day’s work,’ he said. ‘Speaking of which…’

She nodded and handed him a white envelope from her bag. He opened it up at and counted the notes twice, folded them away in his wallet. ‘So what’s this all about, then?’ he asked. ‘Husband being naughty, is he?’

‘Something like that.’

‘It always is,’ he chuckled. ‘That’s all I ever get these days, divorces.’

‘Is that a problem?’

‘Not as long as I keep getting paid.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Then we understand one another.’

The morning was drawing on, and Mikhail still hadn’t emerged from his room. ‘Shall we knock?’ asked Zaal.

‘He took the Ferrari out again last night,’ muttered Boris. ‘I think he brought someone back with him.’

‘Is that a yes or a no?’

‘If you want to knock, don’t let me stop you.’

‘Maybe another ten minutes.’

It didn’t take that long. His door opened suddenly and he appeared on the balcony, looking very Hollywood in shades, jeans, a white cotton T-shirt and his leather trench-coat. A waif-like young woman in a sequined dress and high heels followed him closely down the stairs, using him for cover. With her short brown hair and slight
frame, she had rather the look of Gaille Bonnard about her, and Edouard couldn’t help but wonder if that brief encounter in the lift last night hadn’t given Mikhail an itch that he’d gone out specifically to scratch. ‘Knox will be starting his speech soon,’ he said brusquely, as though he’d been the one kept waiting. ‘We’re leaving in five minutes. Be ready.’

‘I’m going to have to stay behind,’ said Edouard. ‘Your father has asked me to work on—’

‘You’re coming.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘I said you’re coming,’ said Mikhail. ‘Speak to my father from the car.’ He turned and walked away before Edouard could protest further, over to the kitchen where he began giving instructions to Boris.

‘Don’t worry so much,’ said Davit, with unexpected sympathy, from an armchair. ‘It’ll be fine.’

‘I’m a historian,’ shrugged Edouard, as he went over to join the big man. He felt clammy with perspiration. ‘This kind of business…’ He shook his head.

‘I understand,’ said Davit. ‘It can take a bit of getting used to.’

Edouard sighed as he sat down. ‘How come you look so familiar?’ he asked. ‘Have we met before?’

‘I don’t think so. But perhaps you watch rugby?’

‘That’s it!’ said Edouard, snapping his fingers. ‘The Tbilisi Lions! You play lock for them.’

‘Used to,’ grinned Davit.

‘I saw you jumping against Pavel in the semis a few years back. What a game that was.’

‘He was a good line-out man, Pavel. The best I ever went up against.’

‘You gave him one hell of a fight.’

‘We still lost.’

‘Games like that, no one really loses.’

‘I can tell that you’ve never played sports for a living.’

Edouard grinned. ‘He’s my son’s hero, Pavel. All he wants in life is to be a lock. Poor kid takes after me, though. He’ll be lucky if he’s big enough to play scrum-half.’

‘Best position, scrum half,’ Davit assured him. ‘All the glory, all the girls, none of the damage.’

‘Try telling him that.’

‘Maybe I will, if I see you at one of the games. I could introduce him to Pavel if you like.’

‘Would you? He’d love that. Honestly, he worships you guys. I’d be his hero for a year if you—’

‘Are you two going to be yapping all night?’ asked Boris, standing by the door with Mikhail and his hooker.

‘Coming,’ said Davit, pushing to his feet.

‘Hell!’ muttered Edouard, feeling a little sick again. ‘What if we’re seen? What if someone remembers us?’

‘Don’t worry,’ murmured Davit, nodding towards Mikhail. ‘Who’s going to remember you with Morpheus over there to look at?’ He spoke in a low voice, yet Mikhail must have heard. He turned immediately their way and began to march towards them with such coldness in his eyes that Edouard and Davit both froze. He undid and drew out his leather whipcord belt as he advanced, feeding one end back through the buckle to make an improvised noose, wrapping the free end twice around his fist, the better to hold it. He raised it up and feinted to lasso Edouard, but at the last moment turned on Davit instead, throwing it over the big man’s head and hauling it tight with such swiftness that he had no time to interpose his fingers. Then he tugged so hard that he spilled backwards over the arm of his chair, sending shudders through the polished wooden floorboards. And now Mikhail dragged him behind him, while Davit kicked and squirmed and scrabbled uselessly at the strangling leather, unable to prevent it tightening around his throat and cutting off his windpipe, his face bulging and turning crimson.

Edouard watched in horror. Davit was only in trouble for trying to reassure him. He felt he should be doing something to help, but he was paralysed by fear. Davit slapped the ground in submission, yet Mikhail still didn’t relent. His struggles began
to weaken, his eyes threatened to turn upwards, and finally Mikhail dropped the belt contemptuously onto the floor, allowing Davit to get a fingertip beneath the noose to loosen it, then to turn onto his side and suck great draughts of air into his starving lungs.

Mikhail sank down onto his haunches to gather up his belt and feed it back through his belt-loops. Then he lifted Davit’s head by a hank of hair and looked him in his eyes. ‘I need you alive,’ he said. ‘You should be glad of that.’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ gasped Davit, tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘I didn’t mean anything.’

‘If you ever say anything disrespectful about—’

‘I won’t! I swear I won’t!’

‘Don’t interrupt me,’ said Mikhail. ‘I don’t like being interrupted.’

‘I’m sorry,’ wept Davit. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything.’

‘Good. Then as I was saying, if you ever again say anything disrespectful about me again, it won’t matter whether I need you alive or not. Is that clear?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, what?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Mikhail let him go, then stood up and looked disdainfully down. ‘Pull yourself together,’ he said. ‘We’ve got work to do.’

Iain and Gaille headed up into the central highlands, quickly leaving the built-up northern coast behind. A row of wind turbines stood like Easter Island statues on a ridge, holding vigil over the seas. Away to her right, the snow-capped peaks of the White Mountains came into view. Nearby, crude stepped terraces had been cut in the hillsides, their fields full of raw young crops, while sunlight glittered on their mica-rich stone walls. Traffic clogged as the road narrowed through villages and towns. They’d been driving for less than an hour when they crossed another ridge and the southern sea came into view, the plain beneath them crawling with ugly grey polythene-clad greenhouses, like so many maggots.

Iain leaned forward and pointed away to their left. ‘See that hill?’ he asked. ‘Phaistos.’

‘Where the disc came from?’ asked Gaille. The Phaistos disc was a famous fired-clay Minoan tablet stamped front and back with spirals of unfamiliar symbols. It had baffled archaeologists, historians and everyone else who’d studied it, who’d explained it away as everything from a mathematical theorem to a board-game.