Will Adams - The Lost Labyrinth

Mikhail stared hard at him, trying to read the intent behind the words. But then a happy thought evidently struck him, for he smiled. 'Very well,' he said. 'I know just the thing.'

Nina Zdanevich had barricaded herself and her three children into her room the night before, pushing her chest of drawers across her door in case anyone tried to pay a midnight visit. But no one had. She was heaving it back into its proper place when she heard gunfire on the battlements. The Nergadzes and their friends taking pot shots at the birds upon the lake, no doubt. They liked to shoot things, the Nergadzes, particularly things that couldn't shoot back.

But this time they did shoot back.

Electrified, she rushed to the window. It wasn't easy to see, because her room looked out along the line of lake's bank, and everything was happening either to her left or to her right; but she could see a helicopter approaching so low over the water that its blades were ruffling its surface, and from the other direction armoured jeeps zigzagging down the slopes, making difficult targets of themselves. It took her a moment to understand what was going on. Because nothing had happened until now, she'd thought her husband had failed her. But he hadn't failed her. By God, he hadn't.

'What's going on?' asked Kiko.

She was about to tell him and the girls something reassuring when machine guns ripped out a different answer, and helicopters thundered over the castle walls. She heard a soft thump and some unknown instinct must have recognised it from television, for she shrieked and turned and spread her arms to protect her children, just a millisecond before she felt the explosion pulse out from the castle wall, then the window blew out and sprayed glass like shrapnel across the room, dust and plaster falling on them like soft rain; while paintings fell from the walls and slammed into the floor, their frames shattering.

'Over here,' she cried, running to the wall. 'Get down.'

Her children did as she ordered, bless them. She grabbed the mattress off the bed and hauled it over them, began murmuring prayers that they all knew, holding each others' hands in the darkness. A boot slammed against their door and it flew open. She risked a peek. A man with an AK-47 ran to the window, knelt and fired off a succession of short bursts before his fire was finally and emphatically returned, rounds spattering the walls and ceiling, ricochets whining against the mattress. He dropped his gun and clamped both hands to his neck. The blood seeped through all the same. He caught her eye as he turned and ran, and they shared a human moment, bafflement and fear.

The bullets kept on coming. Kiko was crying, Eliso and Lila were shivering and pale. They couldn't stay here. The gunfire eased a moment. 'Follow me,' she cried. 'Keep your heads down.' She crouched as she led them into the corridor, a chain of held-hands. It was chaos outside, people running from their rooms, half of them still in their nightclothes, all fleeing in different directions, bumping into each other, no one sure what was happening or what to do. Another loud explosion; the windows overlooking the courtyard blew in, covering the floors with glinting shards. She looked down at her children's bare feet. 'Careful,' she said, sticking close to the interior wall. 'Tread where I tread.'

She saw through a window onto the courtyard the shattered wooden gates hanging on their hinges, armoured vehicles driving over the drawbridge and into the castle. A helicopter set down in the courtyard, soldiers bulked up with bullet-proof vests charged out and took positions. Other helicopters hovered low overhead, shooting at the battlements. People began coming out of doors, arms raised in surrender, then lying face down on the ground while soldiers bound their wrists with flexi-cuffs. That was where she wanted to be, as near to safety as you got in situations like this. She reached the turret, set off down the spiral steps, met a man coming the other way, a rocket-launcher on his shoulder, his face exultant with battle fury. She reached the ground floor, stopped and looked out. Gunfire banged, splinters of stone flew. 'I'm with children!' she cried. The shooting stopped. She looked out again. A kneeling soldier in a flak jacket beckoned to her. She put up her hands and went out, her children following. The soldier pointed her to the grass, motioned for them to lie down. Kiko was wailing and crying; the girls were whey-faced, unsteady on their legs. But they did as they were told. Nina put her arms around them, protecting and comforting them as best she could. The gunfire went on and on, the crump of flash grenades, the yelling of soldiers living on their nerves; but suddenly it began to die away, and just like that it stopped.

Different noises now. Softer. Men whimpering and crying out, women sobbing, horses whinnying and crashing hooves against their stalls. People began emerging from the buildings, important people, people she recognised from the television, who she hadn't even realised were guests here. There was a look in their eyes, as though they realised how little their wealth and status counted for right now. Ilya Nergadze himself was led out to a prison van. For a moment, Nina exulted, she even contemplated shouting something triumphant; but then she saw the murderous rage upon his face, and looked away at once, praying he hadn't seen her.

A man in a shabby black police uniform walked across the grass towards her, holding a bloodstained handkerchief to his nose. He looked like nothing, except for the way everyone deferred to him. 'You must be Nina,' he said, his bloodied nose making him sound as though he had a cold. He squatted down and ruffled Kiko's hair. 'And you must be Kiko.'

'Yes,' said Kiko, wiping his nose and then his eyes. 'Who are you?'

'My name is Viktor,' he said. 'I'm a friend of your father's.'

'He called you?' asked Nina.

'Yes. He called me.'

'All this?' she asked, bewildered. 'Just because he called you?'

Viktor laughed. 'Let's say he gave us an excuse.' He stood to his full height once more. 'Speaking of which, I don't suppose any of you know about some gold being melted down, do you?'

Knox didn't know what the man had said to save him from the pliers, but he was grateful, that was for sure. But then Mikhail smiled and barked out orders in Georgian, and the tame giant went outside and returned with a garden bench, its varnish sweating from a recent shower. 'Put him on it,' said Mikhail, switching to English, presumably because he wanted Knox to know what he was up to. 'Strap him down tight. I don't want him moving.'

Knox tried to fight, but it was hopeless, bound hand and foot as he was. The giant mummified him with duct tape, pinioning him to the bench, his wrists still tied behind him, jabbing uncomfortably into the small of his back. Mikhail walked unhurriedly away. Knox could hear him on the stairs. He came down a minute later holding a leather gag. Knox held out as long as he could, clenching his jaw tight, turning his face to the side, breathing through his nose, but Mikhail simply pinched his nostrils together and waited until he ran out of air, then shoved in the leather bit, clasped it behind his head and tightened it until the strap gouged Knox's lips and gums. Then he tightened it a little further, just because he could.

'Let me go,' pleaded Knox. But the gag made mush of his words.

'Fetch me a towel, please, Davit,' said Mikhail.

'What kind of towel, sir?'

'A hand-towel. Not too big.'

'Yes, sir.' He fetched a green one from a downstairs bathroom. 'Will this do, sir?' he asked.

'Perfect, thank you, Davit,' said Mikhail. He leaned closer to Knox, the better to confide. 'All that talk of enhanced interrogation techniques while I was in the States. It makes a man curious.' He folded the towel in half and placed it over Knox's face. The fabric itched his skin. With it over his eyes, he could see nothing but the material itself, glowing faintly from the sun. Footsteps walked away from him, kitchen closets opened and closed. There was a jangling, as though someone had pulled out a nested set of saucepans, and rested them on the counter. A tap was turned on. Water sprayed on metal, a loud initial drumming that gradually quietened and deepened. Some vessel being filled, a large saucepan or a casserole dish, to judge from the time it took. The procedure was repeated with a second pan. Then the footsteps came back over.