Will Adams - The Lost Labyrinth

'You're going in?' asked Edouard.

'Maybe.'

'When? When will you go in?'

'When we're ready.'

'What about my son? What about my-' But he was talking to a dead phone. He turned it off, put it away in his pocket. Just in time. He heard footsteps outside, then pounding on the door. He went to it, opened it a crack.

'Aren't you finished yet?' asked Zaal.

'Nearly done,' said Edouard.

'Mikhail says to get some sleep. We've an early start tomorrow.'

'Why? What's happened?'

'We broke her,' said Zaal proudly. 'You should have seen her. What a fucking mess. And it's all true. About the fleece, I mean. She just confirmed it. Knox has it, apparently. Even better, he's having breakfast with her in a few hours. Or so he thinks.' He gave a happy laugh. 'Poor sod! That's one appointment he's going to regret having made.'

Morning. Gaille woke to find Iain shaking her gently by her shoulder. 'Time to get up,' he murmured.

She sat up clutching the mouth of the sleeping bag, peered past him out the flap of the tent. The sun wasn't yet risen, but the surrounding hills had turned from black outlines to muted greens and greys. 'Already?' she asked.

'We need to get into the house.'

She waited until he'd gone back out, then climbed from the sleeping bag. It was cold enough that she hurried to pull on her trousers, blouse, socks and shoes. Her ankle was sore beneath the strapping, but it wasn't as bad as it might have been.

Iain was sitting with his feet dangling over the roof's edge, a coil of rope over his shoulder, a crowbar in his hand. He put a finger to his lips, then beckoned her over and pointed out the German shepherd asleep below. 'Look at its leash,' he whispered.

She rested her weight on her hands, leaned over the edge. The morning light was so milky that she had to squint. The dog's collar was attached by a black cord several metres long to a steel spike hammered into the ground near the front door, allowing it the freedom of movement to guard it as well as the sides of the house. She retreated a little way. 'So?' she murmured.

He held up the crowbar and the rope. 'I found these in an outhouse. We can use them to neutralise it.'

'It's a guard dog!' protested Gaille. 'It's only doing its job.'

'I'm not planning to brain it,' said Iain. 'Not unless I have to. The crowbar's for the front door. But first we have to get that damned hound out of the way.'

'How?' she asked.

Iain allowed himself a smile. 'That's where you come in,' he said.

Viktor stood in the forest fringes and stared through field-glasses down at Ilya Nergadze's castle. His mind was a little fried; he wasn't as young as he'd once been and all-nighters took their toll.

When he'd got his warrant just five hours earlier, he'd never imagined everything could be put together this quickly. But he'd underestimated the power of having a direct line to the presidential palace. He'd forgotten what special forces could do when they put their mind to it.

The castle looked impossibly romantic in the morning light, like something from a movie. Its drawbridge was up, and there was no sign of movement, except for the guards walking their rounds upon the battlements. Patches of mist lay in the little valleys in the meadows. There were wild swans on the lake and, somewhere, a hoopoe was calling. A more peaceful scene was hard to imagine.

Not for much longer.

There were techniques for taking down people as powerful as Ilya Nergadze. Humiliation was one. Film them doing something shameful, and they were politically finished. That had been his initial plan. Ilya's predilection for young boys was well-known, though getting footage was easier said than done. But Viktor's brief hadn't been merely to bring down Ilya. It had been to destroy his entire brood, their capacity for revenge. So he'd devised other approaches. They'd been ready to go for weeks. All he'd needed was the pretext.

Nikortsminda was the Nergadze's stronghold. That made it their weakness too. They thought themselves safe here, impregnable. That was why, though the whole clan never all gathered together in Tbilisi, they often did here. And they saw themselves as above the law. The last time a policeman had come here uninvited, he'd been chased off with shotguns.

Viktor's ears had pricked up when he'd heard that.

Through his field-glasses, he could see tarpaulins on the battlements. Word was, they were gun emplacements arrayed to defend the castle from ground, lake or aerial assault. He hadn't been able to verify it, but he wouldn't put it past them. Such was the arrogance of the Nergadzes here in Nikortsminda; such was the arrogance he needed for his plan to come off. He felt flutters in his chest, exacerbated by the Kevlar vest beneath his shabby police uniform. 'Are the phones out yet?' he asked.

'On your command,' said Lev.

'And the mobile masts?'

'Like I said, on your command.'

'What about our teams?'

'They're all in place. Like they were five minutes ago.'

It was the speed with which this had been put together that worried him. In plans this rushed, it was all too easy to overlook something. In plans this rushed, you couldn't assemble overwhelming force, you had to rely on surprise-and he'd already missed the dawn. But election day was looming, and his boss was getting fretful. He took a deep breath. He'd joined the service out of a genuine desire to serve his country, not to make a career. But the life grew on you; you came to realise that nothing else would do. Fuck this up, and his career was toast. But make a success of it…

'Okay,' he said. 'Let's do it.'

Franklin had been generous enough to offer Knox a bed for the night; now he followed up by insisting on driving him to a nearby Metro station so that he could make his breakfast with Nadya. The train arrived just as he reached the platform; he had to squeeze into a crowded carriage, uncomfortably aware that he was still wearing yesterday's shirt.

He got off at Monistariki. A woman in unnecessarily high heels grabbed the escalator handrail in front of him and clung on like a first-time ice-skater. It was overcast when he emerged into the square; hawkers showed off their latest toys, while others spread out fake designer handbags and pirated DVDs on blankets. He glanced up at the white marble of the Parthenon, the camera flashes of early-bird sightseers giving off sparks like a glitter-ball. A boy blew bubbles that drifted on the light breeze, keeping Knox company as he walked along a narrow street of restaurants and shops. He found himself caught up with a Japanese tour party; they seemed to be heading towards his cafe, so he allowed himself to be swept along with them, fighting an urge to yawn. They emerged into a small square, most of the buildings showing patches of fresh paint: this was too important a tourist area for graffiti to be tolerated. Several mopeds were chained against the high wall to his right, the perimeter of some historic site. This whole area was studded with them. He and Gaille had already visited several during their-

He heard the man before he saw him, shouting into his mobile phone as he scanned the crowds, a hand clamped over his ear to block out the hubbub. The giant from yesterday, not a doubt of it, but he hadn't yet spotted him. Knox instinctively span on his heel and hurried away, his head ducked, his shoulders hunched, pushing his way through the tourists, praying his luck would hold. At the corner he risked a glance around. To his dismay, the giant was coming after him, bullying his way through the crowds, yelling into his phone. Knox broke instantly into a run, though it was impossible to move quickly through the narrow thronging streets.