Will Adams - The Lost Labyrinth

She untied the rope from the orange tree, grabbed hold of his leash near his collar, wrapped it several times around her fist until she was confident she had him. Then she unbuckled him from the steel spike and led him around the side of the house to his refurbished pen. She'd anticipated a struggle, but he went happily enough, perhaps because he'd spotted his steel bowls. She unclipped his leash and went back out, bolting him in, then stood there wondering what else she could do.

His coat was all spiked up. He needed a brush; damned if she'd use her own. And she'd just used the broom to sweep his pen out; not much point using that. She went into the house to rummage. She checked the bedroom and bathroom and then the kitchen. A red light-bulb rolled into view as she tugged open a reluctant drawer. She frowned and held it up. A red light-bulb. What on earth would Petitier want that for? She only knew of a couple of uses for red lights: and it seemed somewhat unlikely that he'd been running a brothel out here. She looked out into the main room, at the black-and-white photographs on the facing wall. No one developed and printed black-and-whites commercially any more. There just wasn't the demand. She went over to them, looked more closely. One print had the sunlight deliberately overexposed to make it dazzle, a classic trick of DIY photographers. Her skin tingled as she reached the only logical conclusion.

Petitier had his own dark-room.

The best Nadya could figure it, she had half an hour left to live.

She sat in the back of the Mercedes with her wrists bound in front of her, rather than behind, the one concession Mikhail had made to her shattered hand. She didn't look at it, for it just hurt more when she did. Instead, she focused on the back of Zaal's head, his incipient bald-patch, the way his skin bunched and stretched against his collar as he glanced in his mirrors, the dark fuzz that had grown since his last haircut. Odd to think it might be the last thing she ever saw.

Her remaining half-hour broke down like this. In twenty minutes or so, Boris and Davit would arrive in short-term parking, and they'd ask Knox to show them the key. He'd bluff them for a while. Five minutes, say. But Boris would eventually lose patience. He didn't truly believe there was a key, after all, or a fleece. No one did, except Mikhail. So in twenty-five minutes he'd call through with the bad news. And that left her last five minutes, during which Mikhail would take painful revenge before he killed her.

The Mercedes' tyres made soft drum-rolls on the patched road, sticky and then smooth. She found the rhythm strangely lulling. Sticky. Smooth. Sticky. Smooth. Tall grasses were growing in clumps beside the road, their pale stalks sharp as weapons. She glanced across at Mikhail, who was watching her with wary amusement. 'There's something that's always bothered me,' she said.

'What's that?'

'The night you killed my husband: why didn't you kill me too?'

'You were a babe,' he said. 'I never kill a babe. Not unless I've fucked her first.'

'You still haven't fucked me,' she pointed out. 'Does that mean I'm safe?'

'You're not a babe any longer.'

She snorted softly as she looked away, assessing the Mercedes' interior for fight or flight. The doors were all locked and the windows sufficiently tinted to prevent anyone seeing much inside. And there was nothing for her to wield, save possibly the steel briefcase stuffed with all that cash lying upon the front passenger seat, too cumbersome for so enclosed a space, except perhaps as a shield. Perhaps she could hurl herself at Zaal, twist the wheel, force a crash. Or simply unlock the door and throw herself out. A broken leg, a broken arm, a fractured skull. Small prices to pay.

Mikhail must have read her mind, for he leaned forward to double-check that her door was locked, then he smiled and showed her a glint of his kitchen knife. She realised something then. Her own life was already lost. But play this right and she could still take this man down with her, and avenge her beloved husband at last. The thought made her smile, and the smile caught his eye. 'What?' he asked.

'I was just thinking how trusting you are,' she told him.

'Trusting?'

'Yes,' she said. 'Trusting.'

He was silent a moment or two, trying to work it out. But he failed, and the curiosity proved too much for him. 'In what way?' he asked.

The tyres accelerated their snare-drum whispers, the rhythm meshing with her heart, fast, loud, and urgent. Her mangled knuckles began to throb even more violently, her mouth grew sticky with apprehension, letting her know that this was her moment. 'The Greek police are bound to tie this all back to you.'

'We'll be long gone before they do.'

'They'll seek to charge you with Edouard's murder. They'll start extradition proceedings.'

'They can try all they like. I'm a Nergadze.'

'But that's the point,' said Nadya. 'You'll be fine, I agree, though maybe it'll mean lying low for a while. But what about Boris? What about Davit? They must realise your family will have to throw the Greeks a sop. And who better than one of them? I'll bet they're wondering right now which one of them is the most expendable. I'll bet they're wondering whether it wouldn't be wiser to look out for themselves. I mean, think about it: you've just sent them to collect an artefact worth millions, even on the black market, certainly enough to buy them a new identity and set them up for life.'

'Boris has been with my family for twenty years,' said Mikhail tightly. 'He'd never dream of betraying us.'

'Ah. That's okay, then.'

'He wouldn't dare. And he handpicked Davit himself.'

'Good. Then you've nothing to worry about. But I have to ask: what would you do in their situation?'

Mikhail sat back. A pensive glaze came over his eye. It was perhaps ten seconds before he reached forward and tapped Zaal's shoulder. 'Call Boris,' he said. 'Tell him to pull over and wait. We're going into the airport in convoy.'

A man in a wheelchair outside the entrance to Evangelismos Hospital watched amiably as Nico Chavakis laboured up the front steps. 'Crazy, isn't it?' said the man. 'Putting steps this steep in front of a hospital, of all places?'

Nico was wheezing too hard to answer, so he smiled and nodded instead as he walked on inside, feeling obscurely aggrieved, wishing he'd followed his first instinct of giving this DVD of Knox's talk to a courier to deliver, rather than coming all this way himself. But Augustin was only in Greece-and thus in hospital-because he'd accepted Nico's invitation to address his conference, so Nico felt a certain responsibility for him, however much he disliked such places. A visit was the least he could do.

He dabbed his brow and the corners of his lips, giving himself a chance to catch his breath, before putting his handkerchief back in his pocket and going to the information desk. The woman gave him directions to intensive care, but warned that he wouldn't be allowed in. His heart was still pounding erratically as he made his way along the corridor, so that he began to fear he might make it into Intensive Care the hard way, and he allowed himself a gallows chuckle at the thought.

The woman was right: the two policemen wouldn't let him through, no matter how he pleaded; but they did at least send for Claire. She came out a minute or so later, a stern expression on her face, as though time away from Augustin was time wasted. 'Forgive me,' he said hurriedly. 'I didn't mean to cause any trouble. My name's Nico Chavakis. I organised the conference.' He gave a little shrug, to let her know how sorry he was that things had turned out this way. 'I wanted to see how Augustin was doing. But they won't let me in.'