Will Adams - The Lost Labyrinth

A faint sheen had appeared on the general's brow. When he'd made his promises, Ilya Nergadze's cause had still seemed hopeless. 'As I was saying,' he growled. 'Even if you can make all this happen, even if it looks like the president is stealing victory, the whole army won't suddenly switch sides. At best, what you'll get is factions. I can certainly help you exploit those factions.'

'I should hope so,' muttered Sandro, sitting back in his chair, looking up at the family portraits that liberally decorated the walls of the great hall, dating from the reign of Erekle II right down to the present day. All had the characteristic Nergadze features; all were shown as noble and brave and powerful; all were signed by one or other of the great masters of Georgian art. And all were fakes he'd commissioned over the past few years, to give their family a necessary patina of heritage and respectability. The whole world was a fraud; some people knew it, but most didn't.

'But that's not enough,' continued the general. 'You need to understand how the army works. When the usual chain of command breaks down, as it will in this situation, you become dependent upon other factors. In particular, you become dependent upon the will of the soldiers themselves. They'll no longer have to obey orders so much as choose which orders to obey. And they'll follow the officers they admire and trust, not the ones with the most pips and stripes. Those are the people we need on our side; and it may surprise you to know that bribes will only go so far with such men. It may surprise you to know that men like this, the soldiers that other soldiers most look up to, actually value notions like honour and courage and patriotism.'

'Spare us the sermon,' said Ilya. 'Get to the point.'

'Very well,' said the general, meeting Ilya's gaze. 'The point is this. They won't do it. Not for you, at least. They don't like you enough.'

'Why not?' asked Ilya.

'Because they think you're corrupt. And they won't risk civil war just to replace one corrupt politician with another.'

There was a shocked silence. No one spoke to or about Ilya Nergadze that way. 'How dare you?' burst out Sandro. 'My father's not corrupt.'

'Really?' replied the general dryly. 'Then why the fuck does he pay me a hundred thousand dollars every month?'

A ripple of laughter, evident admiration for such blunt talk, was quickly stifled. 'Very well,' said Ilya, who knew when to bully and when to listen. 'What do you suggest?'

'Our country is still bleeding from the Russian fiasco,' said the general. 'People are desperate for change, but not just any change. They want change with hope. They want change with honour. Convince them that you're the man of destiny Georgia is crying out for, and the army will flock to you like to a saviour, I won't need to persuade anyone. At the moment you're head of a political party; you need to become head of a movement. You need to inspire people. You need to hold up a flag for them to follow. Until then…' He shook his head.

Silence fell around the table following this sober assessment. Everyone knew in their hearts it was true, not just for the army, but for Georgia as a whole. Ilya leaned forward. 'A flag for them to follow,' he murmured. 'There is something.'

'What?'

He glanced at Sandro. 'My son is working on it as we speak.'

Everyone looked Sandro's way. He felt his gut clench. Surely it was too early to float the idea of the golden fleece. If nothing came of it, they'd be a joke. He looked up, seeking inspiration, at the great shield on the wall opposite. It was so brightly polished that he could see the blur of his own reflection, and the orange glow of the fire like a halo behind him. It carried the Nergadze family crest, a lion rampant holding a spear. He'd commissioned that too, along with all the other weaponry and suits of armour that bedecked the walls. Curious about how convincing these fakes were, he'd taken several to Tbilisi where he'd arranged for Edouard, their tame historian, to come across them as if by accident. How the great expert had drooled! How they'd laughed at him once he'd gone! But if Gurieli could fool someone like him…'I need to speak to some people before I can share this with you all,' he said. 'But, believe me, you can expect to hear some very exciting news indeed.'

The meeting broke up soon afterwards, everyone trading cheerful banter as their mouths watered in anticipation of another Nergadze banquet. Ilya tugged Sandro back by his sleeve. 'You'd better get me my damned fleece,' he said.

'Don't worry, father,' Sandro assured him. 'I'll get it for you. One way or another, I'll get it.'

'To success!' toasted Mikhail, as they stood around the coffee table with their shot-glasses of vodka straight from the freezer.

'To success!' they echoed.

The icy viscous liquid chilled and warmed simultaneously Edouard's throat and chest. His eyes began to water so that he had to blink. He wasn't used to such strong liquor, but refusing wasn't an option. Boris refilled their glasses, then Mikhail threw himself into an armchair and put his feet up on the coffee-table. 'So do you all know what you're doing here?' he asked.

'I do,' said Boris.

'Me, too,' said Zaal.

Edouard settled on the far arm of the sofa, the furthest he could get from Mikhail. 'I only know what your father told me,' he said.

'And that is?'

Edouard allowed himself the faintest of smiles. 'That we're here to buy the golden fleece.'

'You think this is a joke?' frowned Mikhail.

'The fleece doesn't exist,' said Edouard. 'It never existed. It was only ever a legend, that's all.'

'You're wrong,' said Mikhail. 'It existed. It exists. And we're going to buy it tomorrow.'

Edouard spread his hands. 'Look,' he said, 'your father and grandfather asked me to come here because I'm an expert in these things. And, as an expert, I'm telling you that there never was any such thing as the golden fleece. It was just a mishmash of local traditions and fanciful storytelling and-'

Mikhail's face darkened. He pushed himself to his feet and walked over to where Edouard sat on the arm of the sofa. 'I'm telling you that the golden fleece exists. Are you calling me a liar?'

'No,' said Edouard, dropping his eyes. 'Of course not. I only meant that-'

'Only meant?' scoffed Mikhail. He placed the tip of his index finger on the bridge of Edouard's nose, then gently pushed him backwards. Edouard tried to resist, but there was something inexorable about Mikhail, he felt himself tipping and then he overbalanced and went sprawling, his vodka spilling over his wrist and the floor. 'You intellectuals!' said Mikhail, coming to stand above him. 'You're all the same. You sneer at everything. But let me tell you something. I spoke to a man this morning, a professor of history as it happens, because I know such things matter to your kind. He'd seen this fleece for himself. He'd travelled to Crete just last week, specifically to see it, to make sure it was for real. He'd held it in his hands and he'd weighed it and felt its texture. It's for real. He swore on his life that it was for real.'

'He told you that?'

'And he had no reason to lie, I assure you.' Mikhail stared down at him, his pupils triumphant pinpricks of blackness. 'The fleece is coming here to Athens,' he said. 'It's coming because I'm in Athens, and it's my destiny to bring it home to Georgia. Some things are written. This is written. Do you understand?'

'Yes,' croaked Edouard.

'Tomorrow morning, we're going to see it. Tomorrow morning, we're going to buy it. And then we're taking it home. Any more questions?'

'No.'

'Good,' said Mikhail. He turned away from Edouard, leaving him lying there feeling limp and soiled.

'So what's our plan, then, boss?' asked Boris, splashing out more vodka.