The Lost Labyrinth (20 page)

‘Hey, boss,’ said Zaal to Mikhail, pointing across the car park to the site gates, from which a man was now emerging. ‘That’s Knox, isn’t it?’ he asked.

‘That’s Knox,’ agreed Mikhail. He rose to his feet but then hesitated. There were so many people milling around outside, including security guards by the site entrance, that even he must have realised that this was a wretched spot for an abduction. Besides, if Knox should spot any of them, he’d recognise them instantly from the night before. They therefore waited inside the café’s grounds until he reached his car and pulled away, then they threw some banknotes on the table and hurried out to their Mercedes.

Knox made good time out of Eleusis and back towards Athens. Despite Nico’s misgivings about the traffic police, the earlier four-car pile-up had been completely cleared away. He left the coast behind, passed through a stretch of rocky woodland, reached the top of a hill.

Nico had tried several times to telephone his
old colleague Antonius, but had got no reply. He’d grown increasingly alarmed, for apparently Antonius wasn’t just reclusive; he was a genuine agoraphobic who found it hard to leave his house even to go to the shops. His anxiety had infected Knox, who’d offered to drive by his house to check up on him. Nico had assured him it would be easy to find, for it was in the shadows of the Olympic Stadium. ‘You can’t miss it,’ he’d told him. ‘Big, white and gleaming. You can see it from everywhere.’

Everywhere but here, it seemed. He reached across and popped open his glove compartment, grabbed his car-hire map of Athens and flapped it out against his steering wheel, then tried to read it as he drove, his eyes flickering back and forth between the road and—

The black Mercedes came out of nowhere and cut across his bonnet, slamming on its brakes as it did so, forcing Knox to wrench around his steering wheel even as he hit his own brakes hard, tyres screeching on the dusty surface. He hit the verge and the Mercedes’ back bumper simultaneously, and his seat-belt snapped tight. A horn began blaring, he wasn’t sure whose. Something jolted him from behind. He glanced around to see a second Mercedes pinning him in. Men sprang from both cars: he recognised them instantly from last night. He tried to release his seat-belt but it jammed
and wouldn’t let him go. He tried to lock himself in instead, but too late. His door was hauled open and the man from last night gave him a glimpse of the sawn-off shotgun beneath his leather trench-coat. Then he reached calmly inside and took the key from the ignition. ‘You’re coming with us,’ he said.

Knox’s seat-belt finally released, slinking back into its housing like a shamed dog. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, trying not to let his fear show. ‘What do you want?’

The man nodded towards his Mercedes. ‘You’ll

Iain and Gaille drove out of Anapoli on a narrow, winding lane, deserted save for a flock of sheep that parted only reluctantly to their tooting. They crossed a deep gorge on a narrow wooden bridge, the planks rattling beneath them. There were olive groves either side of the road, black nets crowded into the claws of their branches, irrigation pipes coiled like mythic snakes around their trunks. They wended on between fields and woods and meadows to a tiny hillside hamlet called Agia Georgio where their further progress was barred by a metal gate. ‘I guess this is what they mean by the end of the road,’ said Iain. ‘You want to open it?’

‘Is it allowed?’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘It’s only to keep their goats in.’

A Doberman was dozing on the far side of the
gate, leashed to a metal spike. It woke at once and flew into a barking frenzy that set off a dog’s chorus in the village. She closed the gate hurriedly behind Iain, climbed gratefully back in. The Doberman threw itself up against her window as they drove past and raged impotently at her, leaving brown smears upon the glass.

‘Christ, but I hate those beasts,’ muttered Iain, looking more than a little pale. He drove through a village square to an unsealed track that deteriorated into lurching deep potholes. A tethered mule looked up briefly, then returned to munching grass. They reached an impassable row of heavy rocks placed as makeshift bollards across the track ahead, so Iain bumped off it to park in the cover of some trees, their whitewashed trunks reaching out of the ground like zombie arms. ‘We’ll have to walk from here,’ he said, getting out.

‘So how does Petitier get his supplies in?’ asked Gaille, as they went around back. ‘You think that was his mule back there?’

‘Could be.’ He popped the boot, crammed with camping gear.

‘Wow. You came prepared.’

‘Once a boy-scout…’ he smiled. Then he added: ‘I never know when I’m going to get the chance to go hiking.’ He transferred the provisions he’d just bought to his pack, then pulled on hiking boots.

‘What about me?’ asked Gaille, gesturing at her flimsy plimsolls. ‘I’m hardly equipped for this.’

‘Let’s see how it goes,’ he said. ‘Chances are we’ll be back in a few hours. Certainly before dark.’

‘And if not?’

He patted his bulging pack. ‘I’ve got a tent, sleeping bags, food, everything we could need.’ He reached into his boot for a spare day-pack. ‘But you might want to take a change of clothes, just in case.’

The hillside rose with daunting steepness to a rocky ridge high above Gaille. But she was here on Augustin’s behalf, and this was no time for faint hearts, so she transferred some clothes and her wash-bag into his pack, then slung it on.

‘Ready?’ asked Iain, heaving on his own pack.

‘As I’ll ever be,’ she agreed.

The shotgun jabbed like a cattle-prod in the small of Knox’s back as he was marched over to the Mercedes. The giant opened the rear door and nodded him inside. He looked longingly at the road, all those cars, trucks and motorbikes hurtling indifferently past, belching toxic fumes in his face. He contemplated making a run for it, dodging through traffic or waving someone down. But even
as he tensed, the giant took his arm and his nerve failed him. He bowed his head and climbed into the—

He heard the car before he saw it, its old engine roaring, its frantic tooting. He glanced around to see a rusting, patched-up Volvo pulling up in a shriek of brakes, its driver hunched over the wheel, his forearm up to shield his face, while a woman knelt on his passenger seat and reached around to throw open the rear door. ‘Get in!’ she yelled.

Knox didn’t hesitate, he twisted his arm free, slapped aside the shotgun, leapt head-first across the back seats. ‘Go,’ shouted the woman. The driver stamped on the gas. Someone grabbed Knox’s leg and hauled him back. He kicked himself free but was left dangling out the side, his shoes, ankles and knees banging and scraping along the road as the Volvo picked up speed. Acceleration slapped the door against his hips as he clawed the synthetic seat fabric with his fingernails in a losing battle to hold on. The woman screamed at the driver to slow down, she grabbed Knox’s forearm and gave him a precious moment to adjust his grip and then haul himself inside.

The shotgun boomed twice, pellets pinging and clattering on the Volvo’s body-work, leaving circles of frost on the rear-window. Knox slammed the door, glanced back at the man standing in
the road reloading his shotgun while traffic swerved around him and his men sprinted for their Mercedes.

‘He’s got a shotgun!’ wailed the driver. ‘He’s got a fucking shotgun!’

‘What’s going on?’ asked Knox. ‘Who are you people?’

‘Oh, Jesus!’ said the driver, checking his rearview. ‘They’re following us. I don’t believe this. I don’t fucking believe this.’

‘Who are you?’ asked Knox again.

‘I was about to ask you the same question,’ replied the woman, with impressive cool.

‘Why follow me if you don’t know who I am?’

‘We weren’t following you.’ She nodded at the SatNav monitor. ‘We were following them.’

‘Oh, Jesus!’ muttered the driver. ‘They’re closing.’

Knox looked around. The first Mercedes was still a good two hundred yards behind, but gaining fast; the old Volvo couldn’t possibly outrun them on open roads. The driver must have realised this, for he hauled on his steering wheel to take a sharp right turn, tyres squealing in protest as they turned again almost immediately left along an alley behind a car dealership.

‘Well?’ asked the woman, belting herself in. ‘Who are you?’

‘Daniel Knox,’ he told her, looking back through the rear window. ‘And you?’

‘Nadya. And this is Sokratis. So why are the Nergadzes after you?’

The first Mercedes appeared into the alley behind them, then the second. Knox swore out loud. ‘The Nergadzes?’ he asked.

‘You don’t know them?’

He shook his head. ‘They were at my hotel last night. But apart from that…’ A pipe had burst ahead, water bubbling across the grey tarmac, their tyres slithering so sharply sideways when they took the next turn that Knox spilled across the back seats. ‘Who are they?’

‘The one with the shotgun is Mikhail Nergadze. He’s the grandson of Ilya.’ His blank look made her shake her head. ‘You’ve never heard of Ilya Nergadze?’ she asked.

‘Who?’

‘He’s one of Georgia’s richest oligarchs. And right now he’s running to be our next president.’

‘I didn’t even know you had elections on.’

‘Our incumbent was forced into holding them,’ she nodded. ‘He’s been under pressure since the South Ossetia fiasco. You do remember that, at least?’

‘The breakaway republic,’ said Knox. ‘You tried to seize it back. The Russians had other ideas.’ They streaked past a furniture warehouse, employees staring open-mouthed as the Volvo left scorch-marks on their concrete apron.

‘Something like that,’ she agreed. A lorry hurtled across a T-junction ahead, forcing Sokratis to stamp on his brakes so hard that Knox was thrown against the back of Nadya’s seat, and their engine stalled. Sokratis twisted the key frantically, but it wouldn’t start. The two Mercedes closed up fast behind. At last the engine caught. Sokratis squirted through a gap in traffic that shut before either Mercedes could follow.

‘But what the hell do they want with me?’

They passed an open lot filled with tractors, combines and other agricultural machinery, screeched left down a narrow alley, hit a pothole hard, bouncing them up in the air, then swung left around a corner. The main road was tantalisingly close ahead, but their access to it was blocked by a row of white-painted tubs of hyacinth and acacia. ‘Hell!’ yelled Sokratis, throwing up his hands in frustration.

‘Let’s run,’ said Nadya.

‘And leave them my car?’ demanded Sokratis. ‘No way. They’d track me in a minute.’ He thrust his Volvo into reverse, but his SatNav showed a Mercedes coming up fast. ‘Shit!’ he wailed.

There was a mobile home dealership to their left, a parking area outside it, three broken-down caravans packed tight together, then a gap to the dealership wall occupied only by a green wheelie bin, its lid sticking up from the excess
of garbage rotting inside. Knox jumped out and hauled the bin away. A black cat came screeching out of it before skipping off over the caravans. Sokratis reversed into the created gap, hitting the brick wall so hard that his rear bumper fell off with a clang, and Knox hauled the bin back across the Volvo’s bonnet just as the first Mercedes appeared.

Nadya beckoned to him, wanting him back inside should they need to get away fast. He let go of the bin and tried to squeeze down the gap between caravan and car; but there was a slight slope at the front of the parking area, and gravity went to work, the wheelie bin rolling slowly down it, threatening to give them away. Knox dived full length, scraping his chest on the gravelled surface, grabbing one of the bin’s wheels with his right hand, clawing it from beneath with his left, his fingernails scratching the stiff plastic.

Beneath the bottom of the bin, the undercarriage of a black Mercedes cruised past, gliding to a halt by the flower tubs. The second Mercedes came up behind it a moment later, stopping barely five feet away from Knox. The Volvo’s suspension gave a little creak behind him, Sokratis or Nadya shifting in their seats. Doors opened and closed. Leather boots and shoes gathered for a heated discussion in some unfamiliar tongue. Knox was lying awkwardly on the tarmac, sharp stones pressing
into his ribcage, but he didn’t dare move a muscle. The wheelie-bin felt heavier and heavier. His biceps began to burn with the strain.

An old path snaked back and forth up the hillside, but Iain hadn’t the patience for that. He set off directly upwards with massive strides, turning and waiting rather pointedly for Gaille every few minutes. Despite that, she began enjoying herself. The freshness of the altitude kept her cool, and the walk was undeniably beautiful. Willows leaned over a small man-made lake, admiring themselves in its still waters. Lizards basked upon their trunks while bellwether sheep tinkled nearby. They reached a glade dotted with gloriously coloured hives, their mouths blurred with bees, so that the air hummed like some faulty electrical appliance. ‘Good honey?’ she panted, as much to slow Iain down as anything.

‘The best,’ nodded Iain, turning to face her, then walking on backwards. ‘Always has been. They even say that Alexander the Great was embalmed in Cretan honey.’ He raised an interrogative eyebrow. ‘Well? You found his body.’

‘What? You think I should have
licked
him?’

‘I suppose not,’ he laughed. ‘Still, it’s a shame we’ll never know.’

‘Alexander died in Babylon,’ observed Gaille. ‘What would the Babylonians have been doing with Cretan honey?’

‘The best embalmers back then came from Egypt. You should know that. Alexander’s generals sent for them, and they brought their supplies with them. Egyptian honey wasn’t up to snuff. It’s to do with the seasons, of course. Bees don’t make honey for fun. Take it away from them and their hives will die, unless they can gather more pollen. So beekeeping ideally needs a land in permanent blossom.’

‘Somewhere like Crete?’ smiled Gaille.

‘Exactly.’ He swept his hand across the hillside, a kaleidoscope of grasses, anemones and irises, orchids and asphodels, poppies and other wildflowers, all bounded by a natural fence of yellow gorse and the pink buds of Judas trees in early blossom, even a thousand metres or so above sea level. ‘Heraklion used to be known as Chandia, which is where our word “candy” comes from. And the first alcoholic drink brewed here was mead. Dionysus is usually celebrated as the god of wine, but he most likely started out as the god of mead. In fact, some of the earliest myths about him may very well be brewing instructions.’