The Lost Labyrinth. Will Adams

the kids, how to help them. Maybe he should get in touch with Tamaz. They weren’t particularly close, but they were still brothers. Tamaz had invited him over for a drink a few weeks before, had introduced him to a man called Viktor, then had left them alone together. Viktor’s pitch had been simple and direct: give him Ilya Nergadze and name his price. Edouard, still believing back then the Nergadzes’ own view of themselves as victims of government propaganda, had stormed angrily away and hadn’t spoken to Tamaz since, but maybe—

      ‘Left turn, unh, coming up.’

      He shook his head. It was madness even to think of it. For all he knew, Viktor was a Nergadze mole, out to test his loyalty. He turned on the radio, punched channels until he found some music to soothe him. He drove for forty minutes, skirting eastern Athens to its northern foothills. The roads grew narrow and quiet. Through gaps in walls and fences, he caught glimpses of expensive villas. He reached a high stone wall topped with broken glass, a row of pines behind, like troops at the battlements. A private drive was flanked by ‘Keep Out’ signs, but the gates were open and his SatNav siren urged him on, so he crunched up the gravelled track to a whitewashed mansion lit by discreetly positioned spotlights, a gold Ferrari parked obliquely outside, its passenger door hanging open, as though someone had been in a hurry to get inside.

      Edouard pulled up behind it, then sat there for a while, hoping Boris and the others would arrive. He didn’t fancy going in alone. But the minutes passed and there was no sign of them, so he got out and went to the front door, which was fractionally ajar. A Nino Chkheidze love song was playing inside. A Georgian, then; this had to be the place. He knocked twice, but no one answered. The song set out on its familiar crescendo, came finally to its end. He knocked again before the next song could begin. Still nothing. He went cautiously inside, into a vast open-plan atrium two storeys high, topped by a magnificent glass dome, through which he could just about see the night sky. There was a gleaming white-and-chrome kitchen to his left, a polished mahogany dining table and chairs to his right; and, straight ahead, a semicircle of black leather sofas and armchairs facing a huge plasma TV tuned mutely to the 24-hour news. Marble staircases rose on either side of him to a first-floor landing that girdled the atrium like a belt. Numerous doors led off this landing, presumably to bedrooms and bathrooms.

      ‘Hello!’ he called out. ‘Anyone here?’ But he could hardly be heard above the music, so he made his way over to the music centre. A glass coffee table was covered with the debris of an impromptu celebration, two empty champagne bottles, some disposable patisserie trays, an overflowing ashtray and an enamel box of white powder that he hurriedly closed and tried to pretend he hadn’t seen. A skirt was lying discarded on the floor, a torn white blouse, white knickers, a blue sport’s bra. He found several remote controls, pressed mute buttons until finally there was silence. ‘Hello!’ he called out again. ‘Anyone home?’

      A door opened above and a man appeared on the landing, naked except for a saffron towel tucked around his waist. His torso and arms were lean and muscled like a middleweight boxer, and he had a crude prison tattoo on his right biceps. A Nergadze for sure, Edouard knew, partly from his characteristic broad nose and high forehead, partly from the swagger with which he held himself, but mostly from the calm yet purposeful way he was aiming a sawn-off shotgun down at Edouard’s face.

      II

      ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ demanded Knox angrily. ‘There’s no way on earth Augustin killed Petitier.’

      Nico held up a palm. ‘You misunderstand,’ he said. ‘I’m not suggesting he did. All I’m saying is that the police might be able to establish a motive.’ He shifted even further around in his seat, as far as his bulk would allow, squeezed between the door and the hand-brake. ‘Do you know why I offered Petitier the chance to give a talk?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘I was originally planning to take that slot myself, but I stood aside for him. I didn’t do that lightly, I assure you. I like to talk.’ He gave a self-deprecating chuckle. ‘It’s one of the reasons I organise these conferences, frankly, because no one else ever invites me. But I had a good reason to stand aside this time. You see, Petitier emailed me six weeks or so ago, demanding I let him address the conference. Very abrasive, very arrogant. I hardly even remembered him, though he used to be quite close to one of my colleagues at the university.’

      ‘And?’

      ‘I thanked him for his interest, but told him I’d already filled all the speaking slots. Which was true, of course; these things get finalised months in advance. I said he was welcome to speak at one of our roundtables. He insisted that wasn’t good enough and assured me it would be worth my while, that he had something extraordinary to share with the world. I asked him what; he refused to say. I assumed I’d hear no more. You always get these cranks hanging around conferences, convinced they’ve solved all the riddles of the ancient world. But then a package arrived at my office. A note from Petitier, along with ten Linear A and Linear B seal and seal-stone fragments wrapped in cotton wool. They’re not my specialty at all, so I took photos and emailed them around: because if these fragments were already in the public record, one or other of my colleagues would have been bound to recognise them. But none did. So it looked as though Petitier had at the very least found some new seals, and thus very probably an important new site too.’

      ‘Even so,’ said Knox. ‘That scarcely merits a platform at a conference like this.’

      ‘No,’ agreed Nico. ‘But there was something else. It slipped past me, because I’m no language expert. But one of my colleagues picked up on it at once. You see, while none of the Linear A seals were decipherable, two of the Linear B seals were. Or, at least, one word on each of them was.’

      ‘And?’

      ‘The first word is “gold” or “golden”.’

      ‘And the second?’

      A somewhat sheepish look spread across Nico’s face. ‘It means “fleece”,’ he said.

       SEVEN

      I

      Edouard raised his hands numbly as Mikhail Nergadze pointed his shotgun down at his face. ‘Please don’t shoot,’ he begged.

      ‘Give me one good reason.’

      ‘My name’s Edouard Zdanevich,’ he swallowed. ‘I work for your father. He sent me to—’

      ‘The antiquities expert.’

      ‘Yes.’

      Mikhail kept his shotgun aimed at Edouard’s face a moment longer, perhaps assessing the story, more likely to emphasise who was in control; but then he lowered it and held it down by his side. ‘I was expecting Boris and some others.’

      ‘They’ll be here soon. They had an errand to—’

      A muffled cry came unexpectedly from the room behind Mikhail. A woman, in obvious fear and distress. Edouard looked up in bewilderment. She cried out again, louder and clearer, as though she’d managed to spit out a gag. She sounded young. ‘Who’s that?’ he asked.

      ‘And that’s your business because?’

      The girl’s shouting continued, anxious, beseeching, panicked, her Greek too fast for Edouard’s limited grasp, but the gist all too clear. He hesitated. Mikhail smiled down at him, aware what must be going through his mind, curious how he’d respond. He couldn’t just stand there, so he climbed the stairs, suppressing his fear as he walked past Mikhail, then stopped in dismay when he saw the girl lying naked on the bare mattress, all the sheets, pillows and duvet having spilled to the ground. She saw him and tried to cover herself with her right arm and by turning onto her side. Her movements were so awkward that they drew attention to her left wrist, handcuffed to the bedpost. From her modest breasts, fat hips and fluffy pubis,