Will Adams - The Lost Labyrinth

'To turn people back into animals?'

'Exactly, Zaal. Very well put. The trouble is, of course, that you need a certain level of pain to eradicate that gap; but people can't talk under that level of pain. It's not physically possible. You therefore have to relieve the pain to conduct the actual interrogation. And as soon as you relieve the pain, that gap can grow again, your subject regains a little control over their own strings. So the true purpose of torture is to eliminate that gap for good, and we do that with dread. Not suffering itself, but the anticipation of it. Watch.' Knox's feet began to rise, he heard the swill of water, he bucked and kicked and screamed. 'See,' said Mikhail. 'I'm not doing anything to him at all. All I'm doing is lifting up his feet. But right now he'll tell me just exactly what I want to know.' He removed the towel then reached behind Knox's head and loosened the gag. 'Won't you, Mr Knox?'

'Yes,' wept Knox.

'So what am I after?'

'The fleece. You want the golden fleece.'

'Because you have it, don't you?' And he folded the towel and made to place it over his face once more.

'Yes,' screamed Knox. 'I have it! I have it! I have it!'

'You see,' said Mikhail. 'That's how torture works.'

Gaille had already given Petitier's journal code her best shot in French, English, German and Greek, both modern and ancient. But perhaps she should be trying other languages still. He was almost certain to have been an accomplished linguist: archaeologists had to be, not merely because they dealt so directly with ancient languages, but also because the important literature was still divided between English, German and French.

So what other languages had Petitier known? She went along his shelves. He had a couple of works in Italian, another in Spanish. She couldn't help but notice that many of the volumes were still in pristine jackets, and she recognised several that had only recently been published. Academic texts like these didn't come cheap. Along with the solar panels on the roof, and the well-provisioned pantry, it seemed that, whatever else had motivated Petitier to announce his discoveries to the world, it wasn't the need for money. She went back to her chair, but her mind was clouded with fatigue, and she knew she'd never make any real headway unless she cleared it first. She clenched and then splayed her hands fast fifteen times, an old student trick that unfortunately seemed to have lost its potency, so she went outside instead, to get some exercise and fresh air.

The German shepherd was having a snooze. That was something. She went around the side of the house, where a pen had been put up in a clearing, presumably for the dog when it wasn't on guard outside the front door. It was a wire cube some two metres square, ugly, uncomfortable and offering no shade at all, and its corners were filthy with dusty, dried-out stools, not cleaned for months.

She continued on around the back. There was a citrus grove there, with an outbuilding beyond it, and then a chicken run with a wooden hutch, out of earshot of the house. The birds clucked and jerked in alarm at her approach, all trying to hide behind each other. There were gutters on bricks for food and water, but they were empty. Her exasperation with Petitier grew stronger. The outhouse door gave a tormented squeal when she pulled it open. A long-handled broom, a spade, a fork and some other gardening tools were slouching against the left-hand wall, a sack of chicken-feed against the right. She grabbed handfuls from it that she tossed through the wire for them to peck at, then fetched a basin of water from the house. She let herself into the run, slopped the water into the trough, then retrieved eleven eggs from the hutch.

The greenhouses were next. The wooden framed door of the first dragged on the ground, as though unopened in weeks. It was murky inside from the dirty polythene, sweltering and pungent with rotting vegetation. There were parallel beds of rich dark soil either side of the central aisle, and raised plastic guttering above, with tiny holes pricked in them, from which to sprinkle water. She went a little way along the walkway, checking out the produce, congested and in serious need of attention. Tomatoes, potatoes, eggplants, sweet-corn, broccoli, pomegranates, peppers, cucumbers. More than Petitier could possibly have needed for himself and his menagerie; presumably he sold his surplus in Agia Georgio or Anapoli in exchange for supplies. She took enough for herself and Iain, was glad to re-emerge into fresh air.

The doorway of the second greenhouse was even more overgrown, an impenetrable tangle that made it hard for her to fight inside. But the interior was surprisingly well tended, far more so than the first. She walked down the aisle with mounting astonishment. The beds were filled with crocuses, poppies, marijuana and other exotic plants. And, at the far end, a miniature forest of hallucinogenic mushrooms: the distinctive red-and-white caps of amanita muscaria, the muted tans of psilocybin. She laughed out loud. How about that? The man was a stoner. She went back to the house. The dog had woken up. She hoped that she'd earned a little credit with the food and water she'd given him. Not a bit of it. If anything, they'd restored his strength and determination to defend his territory. He snarled and snapped and strained so hard for her that she feared one or other of his leashes would give way. Fine, she thought. Be like that. She stowed her eggs and vegetables away in the pantry, then settled once more to work on Petitier's journals.

Mikhail was delighted to have broken Knox so cleanly, but when he looked around at Boris for commendation, all he saw was doubt instead. 'Yes?' he asked. 'Is there something you want to say?'

Boris pulled a face, apologising in advance for any potential offence. 'It's just, I was wondering, this man you talked about the night we arrived The professor. The one who'd seen the golden fleece for himself. The one who'd touched it. Remember?'

'Of course I remember. What about him?'

'Did he…I mean, did he tell you this freely? Or did you have to…you know?'

'What does that matter?' asked Mikhail. 'He wasn't lying, if that's what you're getting at. He told me the truth.'

'Yes, I'm sure, but how can you-'

'He was telling me the truth,' bridled Mikhail. 'Or are you questioning my judgement?'

'No, sir. Of course not.'

'Good.' The question had soured his mood, however. It was time to show these people that his judgement could be trusted. He looked down at Knox. 'Tell me how it happened,' he said. 'Start at the beginning.'

'It was all Augustin's idea,' said Knox urgently. 'I didn't want anything to do with it.'

'What was his idea?'

'Petitier came to him asking for help. He thought someone was after his fleece. But Augustin wanted to turn it in. I mean it's history, for Christ's sake. Petitier went crazy. They got into a fight. And then…you know. But he was only defending himself.'

'Is that what he told you?'

'He'd never have done something like that deliberately.'

'Sure!' snorted Mikhail. It always amazed him how trusting these sheep were. 'And what happened then?'

'He called me in my room. He was in a panic. I promised to help. We were due to collect his girlfriend from the airport, so we decided to make it look as though we'd left Petitier unharmed, that he'd been attacked and robbed after we'd left. We took the fleece into the airport before she arrived, stashed it in one of those airport lockers.'

'And the key?'

'We knew we were likely to be searched when we got back, so we buried it out there. There are hedges all around short-term parking. We meant to go back for it when everything had settled down, but Jesus!'