The Lost Labyrinth. Will Adams

tears and blood to her face. There were spatters of red on the mattress too, along with other motley stains that Edouard had no desire to analyse. He turned appalled to Mikhail. ‘What the hell have you been doing to her?’ he demanded.

      ‘Nothing she didn’t want.’

      ‘How can you say that? Look at her! She’s begging you to let her go.’

      ‘What a person says isn’t necessarily what they want.’

      Edouard shook his head. ‘How old is she?’

      ‘How would I know that?’

      ‘Didn’t you think about asking?’

      Mikhail laughed. ‘Look at you! You just want her for yourself, don’t you?’

      ‘You’re sick.’

      ‘Go ahead. She won’t mind, believe me. She’ll enjoy it.’

      ‘What kind of man are you?’

      ‘The kind you’d be, if you had any balls.’

      ‘I’m letting her go,’ said Edouard. ‘Where’s the key?’

      ‘I’m not done with her yet.’

      ‘Yes, you are.’ He spoke boldly and locked gazes with Mikhail, certain that righteousness would be enough. But Mikhail’s ice-blue eyes punctured his confidence, and he realised too late that this was a different kind of man to any he’d ever dealt with before, even to the other Nergadzes. His heart began to race, he felt a dryness in his throat, smelled a faintly rancid odour that he intuitively recognised as his own fear. It triggered an unwelcome memory: waiting to be seated at a Tbilisi restaurant many years before, a drunken man tripping over his own feet and bumping into a second man sitting on a barstool nursing a glass of malt liquor clanking with ice, making him spill a little over his hand. His apology had been too slow, too dismissive. The strangest look had passed over the seated man’s face. He’d shattered his crystal tumbler on the marble bar-top, then turned and thrust its splintered base into the drunk’s face before giving it a sharp leftwards twist, shredding the man’s eyeball and ripping his nose and cheek apart, blood spurting and spattering across the bar and around the restaurant as he’d crashed howling into tables. Over the years since, Edouard had forgotten the victim’s ravaged face, but not the chill calculating look on the assailant’s face in the half-second before he’d attacked, as though rage was an army within his control, a force to be deployed at will.

      The girl must have seen the shift in power; her sobs grew louder, more despairing. Her fear infected Edouard. He felt beads of sweat on his forehead, and trickles running coldly down from his armpits. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, lowering his eyes submissively. ‘I didn’t mean anything.’

      For a moment he feared his apology wouldn’t work, but then the intensity of the moment seemed to slacken, and just as suddenly it was gone altogether. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ shrugged Mikhail. ‘We do have business to discuss.’ He picked up his trousers, fished out a small steel key, tossed it across.

      Edouard’s hands were shaking as he struggled to unlock the cuffs; but finally they snapped open and the girl grabbed a sheet to cover herself, hurried sobbing to the bathroom. ‘I’ll get her clothes,’ said Edouard, heading back out onto the landing. Boris and his men had just arrived, were taking seats around the coffee table, lighting cigarettes. He gave them a sour look, for they must have heard his confrontation with Mikhail. But you needed a thick skin to work for the Nergadzes; you needed to know who was boss. ‘Maybe we should give her something,’ suggested Edouard, when he went back up. ‘To keep her mouth shut.’

      ‘She won’t talk,’ said Mikhail.

      ‘How can you be sure? I mean, what would your grandfather say if this got out?’

      ‘I didn’t do anything to her that she didn’t agree to. Ask her if you like.’

      Edouard knocked on the bathroom door. ‘I’ve got your clothes.’ The door opened a fraction, her hand shot out and grabbed them. He stood there, all too aware of Mikhail watching him, until the door opened again and she emerged, her face washed but pale, her hair brushed, holding the rip in her blouse.

      Edouard put an arm around her shoulder and led her towards the bedroom door, but Mikhail stepped in front of her. He had his white jeans in his hand, and now he pulled his leather thong belt free from its loops. The girl’s face crumpled at the sight. ‘No,’ she begged. ‘Please no.’

      Mikhail smiled reassuringly. ‘Don’t be alarmed. I just wanted to make a point to our friend Edouard here. He thinks you’re going to tell people what happened tonight. But you’re not, are you?’

      ‘No. No. I swear I’m not.’

      ‘Not even if they try to force you?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Because you know where I live,’ she said, as if repeating lines. ‘Because of what you’ll do to me and my parents and my brother if I do.’

      ‘Exactly,’ said Mikhail. And he stepped out of her way.

      Edouard steered her out the door, to the stairs and down. ‘Where do you live?’ he asked.

      ‘Piraeus,’ she said, her whole body shuddering wildly, as though she’d just come in from a blizzard.

      ‘I’ll get one of the guys to drive you.’

      She grabbed his arm. ‘Can’t you take me? Please.’

      Mikhail emerged onto the landing, now dressed in the white jeans, a maroon silk shirt and a black leather trench-coat. Boris rose to his feet. ‘Great to see you again, boss,’ he said. ‘It’s been too long.’

      ‘Who are those two with you?’

      ‘Davit and Zaal,’ said Boris, indicating them in turn. ‘They’re good men. I chose them myself.’

      ‘You brought the money?’

      Boris nodded and cleared space on the coffee table, then laid a large steel case flat upon it. He entered combinations into the two locks, then opened it up and turned it around for Mikhail to see. There were fat bundles of euros within, every denomination from 50s to 500s, more cash than Edouard had ever seen. Even the girl gave a little gasp.

      ‘How much?’ grunted Mikhail.

      ‘Four million,’ said Boris.

      ‘I asked for ten.’

      ‘This is all we could arrange at such short notice. Besides, you know how negotiations are. If you show up with ten million, then ten million is what they’ll—’

      ‘Is that what my grandfather told you to tell me?’

      ‘Yes.’

      There was a moment of silence as Mikhail absorbed this response. It was like watching a land-mine that had just made an unexpected noise. ‘Fine,’ said Mikhail, finally. ‘It will do.’ He walked downstairs and over to the case, took out a bundle of 50-euro notes, rolled it up into a cylinder. Then he went to the girl, hooked a finger into her bra, tucked the bank-notes inside. ‘Buy yourself something pretty,’ he told her. ‘A dress or a necklace or something. You can wear it for me when you come back tomorrow.’

      ‘Come back?’ she asked, appalled.

      ‘You will, you know.’ He turned to Edouard. ‘Women always fall for their first man. It’s in their genes or something.’

      ‘I’m not coming back,’ she protested. ‘I’m never coming back.’

      ‘That’s what they all say,’ he grinned. ‘But then they come back after all. They just can’t help themselves.’ He turned to the others. ‘Davit. I want you to drive her into town. Find her a taxi. Make sure