Will Adams - The Lost Labyrinth

Nico had tried several times to telephone his old colleague Antonius, but had got no reply. He'd grown increasingly alarmed, for apparently Antonius wasn't just reclusive; he was a genuine agoraphobic who found it hard to leave his house even to go to the shops. His anxiety had infected Knox, who'd offered to drive by his house to check up on him. Nico had assured him it would be easy to find, for it was in the shadows of the Olympic Stadium. 'You can't miss it,' he'd told him. 'Big, white and gleaming. You can see it from everywhere.'

Everywhere but here, it seemed. He reached across and popped open his glove compartment, grabbed his car-hire map of Athens and flapped it out against his steering wheel, then tried to read it as he drove, his eyes flickering back and forth between the road and-

The black Mercedes came out of nowhere and cut across his bonnet, slamming on its brakes as it did so, forcing Knox to wrench around his steering wheel even as he hit his own brakes hard, tyres screeching on the dusty surface. He hit the verge and the Mercedes' back bumper simultaneously, and his seat-belt snapped tight. A horn began blaring, he wasn't sure whose. Something jolted him from behind. He glanced around to see a second Mercedes pinning him in. Men sprang from both cars: he recognised them instantly from last night. He tried to release his seat-belt but it jammed and wouldn't let him go. He tried to lock himself in instead, but too late. His door was hauled open and the man from last night gave him a glimpse of the sawn-off shotgun beneath his leather trench-coat. Then he reached calmly inside and took the key from the ignition. 'You're coming with us,' he said.

Knox's seat-belt finally released, slinking back into its housing like a shamed dog. 'Who are you?' he asked, trying not to let his fear show. 'What do you want?'

The man nodded towards his Mercedes. 'You'll

Iain and Gaille drove out of Anapoli on a narrow, winding lane, deserted save for a flock of sheep that parted only reluctantly to their tooting. They crossed a deep gorge on a narrow wooden bridge, the planks rattling beneath them. There were olive groves either side of the road, black nets crowded into the claws of their branches, irrigation pipes coiled like mythic snakes around their trunks. They wended on between fields and woods and meadows to a tiny hillside hamlet called Agia Georgio where their further progress was barred by a metal gate. 'I guess this is what they mean by the end of the road,' said Iain. 'You want to open it?'

'Is it allowed?'

'Sure,' he said. 'It's only to keep their goats in.'

A Doberman was dozing on the far side of the gate, leashed to a metal spike. It woke at once and flew into a barking frenzy that set off a dog's chorus in the village. She closed the gate hurriedly behind Iain, climbed gratefully back in. The Doberman threw itself up against her window as they drove past and raged impotently at her, leaving brown smears upon the glass.

'Christ, but I hate those beasts,' muttered Iain, looking more than a little pale. He drove through a village square to an unsealed track that deteriorated into lurching deep potholes. A tethered mule looked up briefly, then returned to munching grass. They reached an impassable row of heavy rocks placed as makeshift bollards across the track ahead, so Iain bumped off it to park in the cover of some trees, their whitewashed trunks reaching out of the ground like zombie arms. 'We'll have to walk from here,' he said, getting out.

'So how does Petitier get his supplies in?' asked Gaille, as they went around back. 'You think that was his mule back there?'

'Could be.' He popped the boot, crammed with camping gear.

'Wow. You came prepared.'

'Once a boy-scout…' he smiled. Then he added: 'I never know when I'm going to get the chance to go hiking.' He transferred the provisions he'd just bought to his pack, then pulled on hiking boots.

'What about me?' asked Gaille, gesturing at her flimsy plimsolls. 'I'm hardly equipped for this.'

'Let's see how it goes,' he said. 'Chances are we'll be back in a few hours. Certainly before dark.'

'And if not?'

He patted his bulging pack. 'I've got a tent, sleeping bags, food, everything we could need.' He reached into his boot for a spare day-pack. 'But you might want to take a change of clothes, just in case.'

The hillside rose with daunting steepness to a rocky ridge high above Gaille. But she was here on Augustin's behalf, and this was no time for faint hearts, so she transferred some clothes and her wash-bag into his pack, then slung it on.

'Ready?' asked Iain, heaving on his own pack.

'As I'll ever be,' she agreed.

The shotgun jabbed like a cattle-prod in the small of Knox's back as he was marched over to the Mercedes. The giant opened the rear door and nodded him inside. He looked longingly at the road, all those cars, trucks and motorbikes hurtling indifferently past, belching toxic fumes in his face. He contemplated making a run for it, dodging through traffic or waving someone down. But even as he tensed, the giant took his arm and his nerve failed him. He bowed his head and climbed into the-

He heard the car before he saw it, its old engine roaring, its frantic tooting. He glanced around to see a rusting, patched-up Volvo pulling up in a shriek of brakes, its driver hunched over the wheel, his forearm up to shield his face, while a woman knelt on his passenger seat and reached around to throw open the rear door. 'Get in!' she yelled.

Knox didn't hesitate, he twisted his arm free, slapped aside the shotgun, leapt head-first across the back seats. 'Go,' shouted the woman. The driver stamped on the gas. Someone grabbed Knox's leg and hauled him back. He kicked himself free but was left dangling out the side, his shoes, ankles and knees banging and scraping along the road as the Volvo picked up speed. Acceleration slapped the door against his hips as he clawed the synthetic seat fabric with his fingernails in a losing battle to hold on. The woman screamed at the driver to slow down, she grabbed Knox's forearm and gave him a precious moment to adjust his grip and then haul himself inside.

The shotgun boomed twice, pellets pinging and clattering on the Volvo's body-work, leaving circles of frost on the rear-window. Knox slammed the door, glanced back at the man standing in the road reloading his shotgun while traffic swerved around him and his men sprinted for their Mercedes.

'He's got a shotgun!' wailed the driver. 'He's got a fucking shotgun!'

'What's going on?' asked Knox. 'Who are you people?'

'Oh, Jesus!' said the driver, checking his rearview. 'They're following us. I don't believe this. I don't fucking believe this.'

'Who are you?' asked Knox again.

'I was about to ask you the same question,' replied the woman, with impressive cool.

'Why follow me if you don't know who I am?'

'We weren't following you.' She nodded at the SatNav monitor. 'We were following them.'

'Oh, Jesus!' muttered the driver. 'They're closing.'

Knox looked around. The first Mercedes was still a good two hundred yards behind, but gaining fast; the old Volvo couldn't possibly outrun them on open roads. The driver must have realised this, for he hauled on his steering wheel to take a sharp right turn, tyres squealing in protest as they turned again almost immediately left along an alley behind a car dealership.

'Well?' asked the woman, belting herself in. 'Who are you?'

'Daniel Knox,' he told her, looking back through the rear window. 'And you?'

'Nadya. And this is Sokratis. So why are the Nergadzes after you?'

The first Mercedes appeared into the alley behind them, then the second. Knox swore out loud. 'The Nergadzes?' he asked.