The Lost Labyrinth. Will Adams

for days on the back of his generosity. Yet the gold pieces weren’t on display at any national museum. They were on display here, where ordinary Georgians would never have the chance to see them.

      Footsteps approached briskly outside, then the double doors banged open and Ilya Nergadze marched on in, followed closely by his son Sandro and one of his small army of bodyguards. He went everywhere on the march, old man Ilya, like a general on the morning of battle. He was tall and extravagantly thin, with a high brow, a flat nose and a tight line to his mouth, as though life had been unforgivably cruel to him, rather than to everyone who’d come into his orbit. His hair and eyebrows, until recently a snowy white, now glistened with black dye, while his skin had been noticeably tightened by nip-tuck surgery and botox injections, an effort at youthfulness that should have made him look ridiculous, except that people like him somehow never looked ridiculous, particularly not in their presence, perhaps because everyone was too afraid to snigger.

      ‘I’m grateful you asked me here,’ said Edouard, joining them at the rosewood conference table. ‘We need to finalise the transfer of—’

      ‘All in good time,’ said Sandro, sitting opposite him. He was considered the diplomat of the family; which was why he’d been appointed head of his father’s presidential campaign.

      ‘But people are talking,’ protested Edouard. ‘My colleagues at the museum keep asking me when they’ll—’

      ‘He said all in good time,’ said the bodyguard.

      Edouard looked sourly at him. Nergadze bodyguards typically knew better than to talk in the presence of their superiors. But this one looked more relaxed than most, perhaps forty or so, wearing a turtleneck sweater beneath his black jacket. He was unshaven, too, perhaps the better to show off the crescent scar in his cheek, where no stubble grew. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Edouard stiffly. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’

      ‘This is Boris Dekanosidze,’ said Sandro. ‘My head of security. I wanted you to meet him because you’re going to be working together over the next few days.’

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘You’re leaving for Athens tonight. Directly after this meeting, in fact.’

      ‘I’m doing nothing of the sort,’ retorted Edouard. ‘I thought I’d made it clear that I won’t accept any more commissions until you honour your—’

      ‘You’ll accept whatever commissions we tell you to accept,’ said Ilya.

      ‘There’ll be plenty of time to complete the transfer of the cache once you return,’ added Sandro, in a more emollient tone. ‘But right now, we have an urgent situation, and we need your help.’ He nodded to Boris, who slid a manila folder across the polished rosewood. Edouard opened it reluctantly, then read through the correspondence inside with growing bewilderment. ‘This is a joke,’ he said finally. ‘It has to be.’

      ‘My grandson Mikhail is going to see the item in question tomorrow morning,’ said Ilya. ‘You will go along with him.’

      ‘But you don’t even have a grandson called Mikhail,’ protested Edouard.

      ‘Do I not?’ asked Ilya.

      ‘Boris will be with you too,’ said Sandro, into the ensuing silence. ‘He’ll pay for this item once you’ve authenticated it.’

      ‘If I authenticate it, you mean,’ said Edouard.

      A look of profound irritation clouded Ilya’s face. ‘Please don’t persist in telling us what we mean.’

      Another silence fell. Somewhere deep in the house, a burst of uproarious laughter was timed so perfectly that Edouard couldn’t help but think that Nergadze’s guests were watching him on CCTV. Not for the first time, he realised how inconsequential he was to these people. Their presidential campaign was in full swing, and Ilya was making good headway in the polls. Nothing else mattered to them. ‘You can’t seriously expect me to authenticate a fake,’ said Edouard.

      ‘It won’t be a fake,’ observed Sandro. ‘Not once a man of your reputation has verified it.’

      ‘It would ruin me. I won’t do it.’

      ‘You will do it,’ said Ilya.

      Edouard forced and held a smile, aware he wouldn’t get anywhere by confrontation. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’d like to help. Really I would. But I can’t. Not this weekend. My wife is already furious about how much I’ve been away recently. She issued me with an ultimatum, as it happens. We spend this weekend together, or else. You know what wives are like.’

      ‘Don’t worry about your wife,’ said Ilya.

      ‘But you don’t understand. I gave her my word. If I fail to—’

      ‘I said, don’t worry about her.’

      There was something in his voice. ‘How do you mean?’ asked Edouard.

      ‘I mean that your wife and your daughters will be very well looked after while you’re away. And that charming son of yours too.’

      Edouard kept a family photograph in his wallet. He liked to take it out whenever he felt low. It came unbidden to his mind now: himself looking rather portlier than he’d like, yet undeniably grand in his chartreuse suit and yellow cravat, a quiet protest against the black worn by almost every other adult male in Tbilisi, as though their whole nation were in mourning. Nina in her gorgeous blue velvet dress. The twins Eliso and Lila in matching cream blouses and ankle-length black skirts. Kiko in the white-and-red rugby shirt signed by the Georgian national team. ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked.

      ‘They are to be my guests,’ said Ilya. ‘Just until you return from Athens.’

      Edouard dropped his hand to his pocket, felt the contour and weight of his mobile phone against his thigh. A phone call, a text message, telling Nina to put the kids in the car, take them away somewhere, anywhere.

      ‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ said Ilya, reading his thoughts. ‘They already are my guests. My grandson Alexei is taking them to my Nikortsminda estate as we speak.’

      ‘They’ll be very well looked after,’ Sandro assured him. ‘We’re having a family get-together this weekend. It will be a holiday for them. Fresh mountain air, riding, sailing, good company, delicious food. What more could anyone want?’

      ‘And you won’t have them on your mind, this way,’ added Ilya. ‘This way, you’ll be free to concentrate all your energies on the successful conclusion of our project.’ He leaned forward a little. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

      Edouard felt himself sag. Nina had begged him not to get entangled with these people. She’d begged him. The only time in their marriage that she’d gone down on her knees to him, taken his hands, kissed them and wept imploringly into them. But he’d gone ahead anyway. He’d known better.

      ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Perfectly clear.’

      III

       Omonia Police Station, Central Athens

      Chief Inspector Angelos Migiakis was not in a good mood. He rarely was when forced to defer afternoon visits to his mistress because of a call of duty. Even less so when that duty was to sort out yet another mess that threatened to engulf his crisis-plagued department. ‘So what did Loukas say?’ he asked.

      ‘He backed up Grigorias,’ replied Theofanis. ‘He says that this man Augustin Pascal attacked Grigorias for no reason, that Grigorias was only defending himself.’

      ‘Then what’s the problem?’

      ‘Because Loukas is lying, that’s what.’

      ‘You’re sure?’

      ‘I’ve