The Lost Labyrinth

Nico was only half listening, his mind already working on contingency plans. He could take Petitier’s slot himself. He’d been intending to give his talk on grain-goddess iconography anyway before Petitier had got in touch. It would be simple to resurrect. That left Augustin’s talk. He looked up at Gaille, still standing there, waiting for explicit permission to leave. ‘They’ve put Knox in gaol, you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘My sister-in-law’s a criminal lawyer,’ he said. ‘The finest in Athens. All the police here are terrified of her. She’s exactly who he needs right now. I’ll call her if you like.’

‘Would you? That would be fantastic.’

Another little thump of his heart. He held up his hand to ask her to wait it out with him, then kept it up to pre-empt the indignation to which she’d be entitled, once she’d heard what he was about to say next. ‘There is one thing,’ he said. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’ll call Charissa anyway, even if you say no…’

‘Say no to what?’

‘Augustin’s speech and slides are already loaded onto the teleprompter,’ he told her. ‘All it really needs is someone to read it out. Someone familiar with the topic. Someone who knows Alexandria well enough to have credibility with the audience and to answer questions intelligently. Someone the delegates will accept as a suitable replacement.’

‘Me?’ asked Gaille in surprise. ‘But I don’t know Alexandria anything like well enough. Honestly, I don’t.’

Nico stared blankly at her for a moment. The equality of women was a part of modern life he’d never quite got used to. ‘I wasn’t thinking about you so much,’ he said carefully. ‘I was thinking more about Knox.’

Her expression flickered, as though she’d read his mind; but then she nodded. ‘Get him out of gaol tonight and he’ll do it for you. You have my word.’

‘And you can speak for him, can you?’

‘Yes,’ said Gaille emphatically. ‘I can.’

II

There was a boiler in the top corner of the police interview room. Every so often it would click on and start heating up like a kettle, and its pipes would rattle and clank for a few moments before it abruptly switched itself off again. What with the only window painted shut, the room was unpleasantly humid and the walls were sweating like a fever. Knox, too, could feel moisture prickling all over him, disconcertingly like guilt. He rocked back in his chair and flexed his fingers together, striving to keep his memories at bay. But it was no use, they came at him like frames in a slide-show. Augustin on the hotel room floor, blood oozing from his scalp; the paramedics strapping him to their stretcher; Claire’s wails and ravaged face as she’d clutched his hand.

Knox had first met Augustin ten years before. The Frenchman had arranged a drinks party in honour of Richard Mitchell, Knox’s old mentor, inviting all of Alexandria’s leading archaeologists and citizenry. Richard, typically, had been waylaid at Pastroudi’s by a gorgeous young waiter with fluttery eyelashes and a slight lisp who’d kept bringing them pastries they hadn’t ordered, so he’d sent Knox on ahead to make his excuses. Augustin’s eruptions of Gallic temper were legendary, so Knox had feared for his eardrums; but it hadn’t been like that at all. He and Knox had got on from the start, one of those rare friendships that arrives fully formed, which they’d both known even then would endure. Any time Knox had been in trouble since, it had been to Augustin he’d turned first; and never once had he been let down. So what did it say about him that Augustin had taken such a savage beating while he’d just stood there and watched?

The door pushed open abruptly. Theofanis, the sprightly police officer who’d taken Knox’s statement earlier, walked back in. A second man followed. He was informally dressed, though from his manner and the way Theofanis deferred to him, he was obviously the boss. He came to stand in front of Knox and glared down at him. ‘You speak Greek, yes?’

‘I get by,’ agreed Knox. He’d studied the ancient language at Cambridge before adding its modern counterpart in less happy circumstances in Thessaloniki ten years before, running a failed campaign to gain justice for his murdered parents and sister.

‘I am Chief Inspector Angelos Migiakis,’ he said. He had an unhealthy, man-in-the moon kind of face, with a partial eclipse of black beard. ‘I am taking personal charge of this case.’ He jabbed Knox’s statement at his face. ‘Theofanis tells me you’re the one who found Alexander’s tomb. He tells me you’re quite the celebrity.’

‘I helped find Alexander’s tomb, yes.’

‘You think this entitles you and your friends to assault my officers while they’re carrying out their duty?’

‘Since when has it been the duty of the Greek police to grope women and put their husbands in hospital?’

‘There was a dying man in the room. My officers were taking charge of the scene, as they’re supposed to do.’

Knox closed his eyes. It was the first confirmation he’d had that Claire’s efforts to keep Petitier alive had failed. ‘He’s dead, then?’ he asked.

‘Yes. He’s dead. And I want to know why someone should want to kill him.’

‘How should I know that?’

Theofanis had gone over to the boiler, looking in vain for ways to turn it off. He gave it an irritable thump and then turned around. ‘You said he tried to tell you something before he died. Could it have been his killer’s name?’

‘I suppose,’ acknowledged Knox. ‘It sounded like “Elysium”, but I wouldn’t swear to that.’

‘Elysium?’ frowned Angelos.

‘Where virtuous and heroic souls spent eternity in Greek myth. The Elysian Fields. They were a kind of paradise.’

‘You’re not trying to tell me that Petitier thought he was off to paradise, are you?’ scoffed Angelos.

‘I don’t know,’ said Knox. ‘I never knew the man. But I’d say it was more likely it had something to do with his talk tomorrow.’

‘His talk?’

‘Yes. We’re all in Athens for a conference on the Eleusinian Mysteries.’ He paused to look for any sign of recognition on Angelos’ face, but didn’t see any. ‘They were a very important religious festival that took place at the port you now know as Elefsina, but which used to be called Eleusis.’ The Mysteries fully warranted their name, for the ceremonies that had taken place there had been protected by high walls, closed doors and an almost pathological insistence on secrecy that had worked so successfully that almost nothing was now known about them. It was a tantalising ignorance, not least because Sophocles, Pindar, Aristotle, Cicero, Plato and many other sophisticated, intelligent and sceptical people had considered the Mysteries to be among the greatest experiences of their lives. All the experts therefore agreed that something remarkable must have taken place there; the trouble was that no-one knew precisely what. ‘Eleusis was very closely associated with Elysium by the ancient Greeks, partly because their names were so similar, but also because the Mysteries were believed to offer celebrants a glimpse of life after death.’

‘And Petitier was due to give a talk to the conference tomorrow afternoon,’ nodded Angelos. ‘On what aspect, precisely?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Knox. ‘The organisers wouldn’t say, other than vague hints about how sensational it was going to be. But I’m sure they’d tell you, under the circumstances. Or maybe the text is on that laptop of his you took.’

Angelos raised an eyebrow at Theofanis. ‘Laptop?’ he asked.

‘I gave it to Stelios to check out.’

‘Go see if he’s made any progress, would you?’ He waited for Theofanis to leave, then turned back to Knox. ‘Your friend Augustin was also to give a talk tomorrow, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘But he lives in Egypt, as I understand. A Frenchman who lives in Egypt. How precisely is he qualified to give talks on ancient Greek ports?’

‘The Mysteries weren’t just celebrated here in Greece,’ replied Knox. ‘When Alexander the Great went conquering, he set up offshoots all over the ancient world, including Egypt. There’s a whole district called Eleusis in the southern part of Alexandria, and Augustin has been excavating there recently. That’s what his talk was to be on. My girlfriend and I have been helping him with it, so we decided to come along too, make a holiday of it.’

‘Your girlfriend?’ asked Angelos.

‘Gaille Bonnard,’ said Knox, nodding at his statement. ‘She was at the conference all afternoon.’

‘So why weren’t you with her?’

‘I wasn’t in the mood. Besides, I promised Augustin I’d drive him to the airport to pick up Claire.’ He suffered a sudden memory of her emerging from the arrivals hall with Augustin, incandescent with the joy of reunion, clutching a huge bouquet of white roses against her chest, while Augustin pushed a trolley laden with luggage. ‘Travelling light, huh?’ Knox had grinned, kissing her cheek, catching a distinctive chemical-lemon whiff of disposable face-wipe.

‘The damned shipping people!’ she’d exclaimed. ‘They screwed up like you wouldn’t believe. I had to bring everything with me. It’s cost me a fortune in freight!’ She’d shaken her head and turned to the trolley. ‘Pathetic, isn’t it? My whole life, and that’s all I’ve got to show for it.’

‘Your life’s with me now,’ Augustin had said.

Her eyes had glittered; her complexion had turned a glorious glad red. ‘Yes,’ she’d agreed. ‘It is.’

The interview room door opened and Theofanis came back in. ‘I need a word,’ he told Angelos.

‘What about?’

His eyes darted to Knox. ‘Not in here,’ he said. They went out into the corridor, where Theofanis explained something to his boss in a voice too low for Knox to overhear. But it clearly wasn’t good news, if the cry of exasperation that Angelos gave was any guide, or the sound of something glass smashing against a wall.

The door opened again a few moments later and Theofanis came in, looking a little shaken. ‘I’m to take you down to the holding cells,’ he told him. ‘We’ll pick this up again later.’

III

Olympia’s arms were aching as she looked up Ayiou Konstandinou for any sign of her bus. The schoolbooks she’d borrowed from Demetria were growing heavier by the minute, but the pavement was too wet from the recent shower to set them down. She longed to take the weight off her feet, but there was only one bench nearby, and the man sitting there was watching her out of the corner of his eye, his hand in his lap, tickling himself with his thumb. And while it excited her when handsome young men stared at her that way, creeps like this merely left her feeling soiled.

The gold Ferrari caught her eye at once. It wasn’t just that it was absurdly sexy with its low deep growl and long bonnet and polished bodywork, it was the way the driver handled it, straddling lanes and dawdling like a parade lap, showing off his trophy. She watched enviously as he drew nearer, for she liked nice things, Olympia. It gave her something of a shock, then, when the car swerved across traffic and pulled up alongside her. She stooped by the window, assuming the driver wanted directions. But he got out instead, slammed closed his door, smiled pleasantly at her.

‘Do I know you?’ she asked.

He didn’t answer directly. Instead, he walked around to join her on the pavement, his hands held unthreateningly down by his sides. He was a little taller than medium-height, burly and blessed with the kind of tough good looks that made her feel a little strange inside. Mid-to-late twenties, from the look of him, perhaps ten or twelve years older than her. A high forehead and a flat nose and a thin goatee beard, his dark hair cropped short as a soldier’s—though how many soldiers could afford cars like that? Wolfish sharp canines and eyes of such dazzling pale blue that she assumed he had to be wearing contact lenses. A perfectly tailored suit over an open-throated white silk shirt, his shoes soft sheathes of calfskin-leather, his gold watch a little loose around his left wrist, so that it jangled like a bracelet. ‘Let me help you with those,’ he said in correct yet heavily-accented Greek, taking the top two books from her.

‘What are you doing?’ she protested. But she couldn’t exactly stop him, not while still holding the rest of her stack. Besides, there was just something about him, the kind of man who’d do exactly as he wanted, whatever anyone said. He popped his small boot, stowed her books inside and came back for the rest. She watched as he packed those away too, then slammed the boot closed. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked again.

He rejoined her on the pavement, still smiling blandly, as though this was all the most natural thing in the world. But the hammering of her heart assured her that it wasn’t natural at all. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked, her voice crumbling just a little. She looked around for someone to help, someone from the world of adults. But they were all involved in their own business: even the creep on the bench was now looking the other way. ‘Please give me my books back.’

‘They won’t come to any harm in there,’ he said.

‘But they aren’t even mine.’

‘They’ll be fine,’ he told her, taking her hand. ‘Trust me.’ His skin was faintly scratchy to the touch, like the finest imaginable sandpaper. He smiled into her eyes with a directness and self-assurance that made her feel ridiculously weak, like on those mornings when her pillow fell to the floor and she couldn’t even grasp it to pick it back up. He nodded as if he understood exactly, and wanted her to know that she shouldn’t worry, because it was going to be okay. Then he opened the passenger door of the Ferrari and made the tiniest gesture for her to get in. She hesitated, aware she’d have to be crazy to comply, but somehow she found herself doing so. He slammed the door emphatically, walked around to the driver’s side, climbed in beside her. ‘Your seat-belt,’ he said, reaching across her to click it into place. ‘We wouldn’t want you coming to any harm, would we?’

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘My name’s Mikhail,’ he told her. ‘And yours?’

She hesitated a moment. ‘Olympia.’

‘Charmed to meet you, Olympia,’ he said. He looked at her in that unblinking way he had, reached across and brushed a strand of hair on her temple back behind her ear, then gently stroked her cheek with his thumb. Her skin tingled where he touched her, her heart twisting and dipping on a fairground ride. There was a moment of almost complete stillness as he smiled more broadly and she found herself smiling in response, unable to help herself. ‘You’re very beautiful, you know, Olympia,’ he said. ‘You’re going to break a lot of hearts.’

She didn’t reply to that. She didn’t know what to say. He settled in his seat, turned on the ignition. The engine made a glorious roar, like some savage beast caged at the zoo. He released the hand-brake, glanced over his shoulder for a gap in traffic. Unfamiliar sensations cramped inside her, hot and icy, sharp and sweet. Strange thoughts had been coming to her at night recently, thoughts of men just like this. But not for a moment had she imagined that one would come into her real life. A voice in her head, her mother’s voice, beseeched her to get out while she could, yet she knew she wouldn’t. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked. But really she was asking: ‘What are you going to do with me?’

‘You’ll see,’ said Mikhail, as he pulled away.

FOUR

I

A young man with flaming orange hair watched intently as Knox was led into the holding cells. He frowned and sat forward, the strangest expression on his face, as though he recognised Knox and had something of vital importance to tell him. Then he promptly vomited onto the floor.

A mop was brought, but the orange-haired youth simply lay shivering on his side on the wall-bench. None of the cell’s other occupants seemed bothered, so Knox cleaned it up himself. The main door opened at regular intervals, police escorting suspects in and out of the various steel cages. A forty-something man arrived, struggling with his police handlers, accusing them of stitching him up; but, the moment they left him there, he laughed and winked as though it were only a game. A youth with a swollen lip kept testing his front tooth to see if it was loose. An elderly man in a shabby suit wiped his face with his handkerchief in an effort to hide the fact that he was crying. But then the main door opened one more time and Gaille came in, talking intently with a policeman. Knox’s heart leapt, he jumped to his feet and hurried over to the cage door, waited impatiently for the policeman to open it.

‘Christ!’ he muttered, taking her in his arms, hugging her tight, not realising until now quite how much he’d needed to see her. ‘What news of Augustin?’

She gave a little grimace. ‘He’s in intensive care at Evangelismos Hospital. He hadn’t regained consciousness last I heard. Claire’s out of her wits. I promised we’d go straight over, if that’s okay?’

‘I’m free to go?’

‘You will be any moment. Nico called in his sister-in-law.’ She glanced around, lowered her voice, wary of being overheard. ‘Her name’s Charissa. She’s only about two foot tall, but my god! We were getting nowhere until she turned up, and suddenly the police were jumping through hoops and barking like seals.’ Her brow knitted. ‘It is seals that bark, isn’t it?’

‘Dogs have been known to, as well.’

She took his wrist. ‘Listen, I had to make a promise on your behalf. I’ll explain later, but I gave my word you’d stand in for Augustin tomorrow morning and give his talk. Is that okay?’

‘Is that how you got the seal-trainer to come?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Then it’s fine,’ said Knox.

Nico appeared at the door, dabbing his throat with a green-and-white handkerchief. He was about the unhealthiest-looking man Knox had ever met, fat to the point of caricature, mere stubs of arms and legs, so that in his dark shirt and suit he looked like some gigantic anthropomorphic beetle, a character from a children’s book brought miraculously to life. ‘My dear Knox!’ he exclaimed. ‘I can’t believe they put you in such a place!’

‘Don’t worry about it. And thanks for coming.’

‘Of course. Of course.’ He stepped to one side, revealing the woman hidden behind him. She was short, slim, stern and unmistakeably formidable. ‘This is Charissa,’ he said. ‘My dear brother’s wife.’

‘Gaille just told me what you’ve been doing,’ said Knox. ‘Thanks so much.’

She waved his gratitude aside. ‘I spend too much time in conference rooms. Places like this do my heart good.’

‘Not mine,’ said Knox. ‘How soon can I get out?’

‘At once,’ she told him. ‘It’s a disgrace they brought you here at all.’

‘Thank Christ!’

‘I’m afraid that concludes the good news, however. The police seem to have it in for your friend Pascal. They intend to charge him the moment he regains consciousness.’

‘Those bastards!’ scowled Knox. ‘They started it. One of them groped Claire, I swear he did. They’re just covering their arses.’

‘I’m not talking about that,’ said Charissa. ‘I’m talking about Petitier.’

‘How do you mean?’ frowned Knox.

‘You may not know, but he was pronounced dead on arrival at hospital. And the police are planning to charge your friend with his murder.’

II

An apartment, Tbilisi, Georgia

The thumping started again in the flat above, Rezo and his wretched home improvements. Nadya Petrova glared up at her ceiling. She kept going up to remonstrate with him, but there was something about him in his dungarees, with his dusty, paint-spattered hair and his crinkled, cheerful smile, that made her forget her indignation. Until she came back down again, at least, and he resumed his banging.

She sighed and finished her article a little more abruptly than she might otherwise have done, read it through and posted it on her blog, then turned off her laptop. That would have to do for the day. She’d been working monstrously hard this past week, had promised herself the night off. She sat there a moment longer, staring out of her high window, contemplating the rundown yet beautiful buildings on the steep hillside beneath her, their twisted brick chimneys and sloping roofs overrun by ivy and those violet flowers that hung there like bunches of grapes: and for a moment she glimpsed a metaphor for her beloved city that she might use in one of her upcoming newspaper articles, but her mind was too tired to hold onto it, and then it was gone.

She pushed herself to her feet and made her way through to her kitchen. Her limp, the result of riding pillion with an idiot biker trying too hard to impress her, was always more pronounced after a day at her desk. She had soup left over from lunch. She turned on her gas stove to heat it up, then took a bottle of white wine from her refrigerator. She didn’t open it at once, savouring the moment. Remarkably, it still gave her a mild illicit thrill to uncork the first bottle of the night. The promise of happiness, or at least of respite. She looked thoughtfully back up at her ceiling. Maybe Rezo would like a glass. At least it might keep him quiet.

Her telephone began to ring before she could decide. Her nape instantly stiffened; she hated her phone. She told herself to ignore it, let voicemail do its work. But she was a journalist at heart, and you never knew. ‘Yes?’ she sighed. ‘Who is this?’

‘It’s me. Gyorgi.’

‘Gyorgi?’

‘From Airport Operations, remember?’

‘Forgive me,’ she said, reaching for her notepad and pen. ‘It’s been a long day.’

A mirthless laugh. ‘Tell me about it. I came on at six this bloody morning. And what time is it now?’

‘Is he coming home, then? Is that why you called?’

‘No. But the Nergadze Gulfstream is about to leave for Athens again. I thought you’d like to know. Four passengers out, no return yet scheduled. You want details?’

Nadya uncapped her pen with her teeth. ‘Please.’

‘Same terms as before, right?’

‘Sure,’ she said. She couldn’t remember what she’d paid him last time, but he sold himself cheap, she remembered that much. Gambling problems, so Petr had said. But who was she to criticise?

‘Okay, then. Departing Tbilisi International 6.45 p.m. our time. Flight time ninety minutes, arriving Athens Eleftherios Venizelos private jet terminal 7.15 local, thanks to the time difference. Passenger names are Boris Dekanosidze, Edouard Zdanevich, Zaal Markizi, Davit Kipshidze. Mean anything to you?’

‘No.’ In fact, Nadya recognised three of the names, but she had no intention of telling that to a man this indiscreet. ‘I don’t suppose I can get to Athens before them, can I?’

‘What am I? Your travel agent?’

‘I was only wondering.’

‘There aren’t any direct flights from Tbilisi to Athens,’ he sighed. ‘You’d have to change in Istanbul or Kiev. And you won’t get there tonight, not setting out this late. Maybe tomorrow morning.’

‘Thanks. I’ll see you get your money.’ She put down the phone and sat there a minute, massaging her temples. The wine was beckoning. She was exhausted, and fully entitled to her exhaustion too. She’d earned tonight off. There was no way she could beat the plane to Athens, so what could she hope to accomplish? But then she remembered that salty look in Mikhail Nergadze’s eye at the press conference, and it was like touching the shallow puddle around her kettle and jolting from the shock.

She sat up straight. Maybe she couldn’t get to Athens before the Nergadze plane, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have someone waiting when it landed. It was what the Internet had been invented for. With a sigh, she put her white wine back in the freezer, then limped through to her study to switch her laptop back on.