Will Adams - The Lost Labyrinth

She gave the two policemen a glare. 'They won't let anyone in,' she said.

'How is he?'

'Not good.' She shook her head as though scolding herself for her low spirits, then forced a smile. 'It could be worse, though.'

'I'm glad.'

She took him by the elbow and led him a little way along the corridor, then began telling him in great detail about the injuries Augustin had sustained, the care he was getting, the changing prognosis. She spoke quickly, and her accent was hard for him, and she used technical language more suited for medical personnel speaking amongst themselves, placing it far beyond the grasp of Nico's English; but he understood intuitively that his role here wasn't to understand so much as to listen sympathetically. He nodded and sighed and clucked his tongue as appropriate, and let her talk her heart out.

It was a good fifteen minutes before she was done. She glanced around at the ICU doors, as if wondering whether something might not have happened with Augustin while she'd been away. Recognising his cue, Nico gave her the DVD and the spare DVD player he'd borrowed from a colleague at the university, explaining that Knox had wanted her to know how well Augustin's talk had gone. Her eyes began to well; she wiped them with a paper tissue. He watched her return to her lonely vigil, and he felt again a deep yearning for someone in his own life who'd feel that strongly about him.

The man in the wheelchair was still sitting outside the front doors. He'd lit himself a cigarette that he cupped in his hand like he was throwing a dart. 'Good visit?' he asked.

'Yes,' answered Nico, rather to his own surprise. 'It was.'

Mikhail could feel the adrenaline build as they caught up with the van a mile or two shy of the airport, then headed on in. It was an invigorating rather than unpleasant feeling, like a good workout. He smiled across at Nadya. 'Don't do it,' he told her.

'Don't do what?'

'Whatever it is you're planning.'

'I'm not planning anything.'

He grabbed her by her hair and pulled her face down onto his lap, her cheek against his prick. He unbuckled his belt and pulled it free, made a noose of it that he tightened around her throat. 'Keep it that way,' he advised.

Traffic began to congeal. Some men in uniform with their weapons holstered were chatting jovially among themselves. He heard the canned thunder of a take-off, and then an Olympic Airways jet appeared over the main terminal building, hurtling upwards into the cloudless blue sky. Another summer coming. It would be nice to spend one in Georgia for a change. He felt a little swell of resentment towards his father and grandfather, the way they'd made him live in exile for all these years. But that time was nearly over. And he'd be going home in triumph too, bringing the fleece with him to ensure his grandfather's victory. He'd be a national hero, able to pick his ministry. Defence was lucrative, sure, but he had a hankering for education. There was just something so rewarding about working with children.

They drove through the shadow of an overpass, then by a long line of parked bikes and motorcycles. Short-term parking was to their left; they followed the van in. There were berths for perhaps a hundred and fifty cars, but it was nearly full. The sheep were flying home for Easter. The van slowed ahead of them, found a place to park. Zaal pulled in nearby. When he'd put on the handbrake, Mikhail passed him Nadya's noose. 'You know what to do if she makes trouble?' he asked, as he made to get out.

Zaal nodded confidently. 'You know it, boss,' he assured him.

The afternoon was drawing on, so Gaille began her search for Petitier's darkroom outside, taking advantage of what daylight remained; but the greenhouses and outbuildings all leaked far too much moisture and light, and she couldn't find any trace of photographic supplies.

Her ankle was throbbing badly from all the walking she'd done. She didn't want to exacerbate the injury, so she decided to give it a rest, maybe run the idea past Iain when he returned, see what he thought. But going back into the house, she caught a faint reprise of the vinegary smell she and Iain had both noticed that morning. Vinegar was used as a fixing agent in photographic dark-rooms, Gaille knew. Or acetic acid was, at least. Surely that meant the darkroom was somewhere in this house. She checked the kitchen and larder for vinegar, just in case, then went room by room, searching cavities and closets, pulling books from the shelves to look behind them, tapping the walls for hidden spaces. Nothing. Her puzzlement grew. She stood in the middle of the main room with her hands on her hips and stared around her.

Her ankle was still throbbing. She sighed and sat down in the armchair. It was only then that she took proper notice of the rugs thrown negligently around, particularly the largest of them, the one beneath her feet, with its flamboyant if faded motif of Theseus and Ariadne standing at either end of a fiendish labyrinth, and the golden thread that connected them through it.

Lying on his side in the rear of the van, his wrists tied behind his back, Knox heard the roar of a take-off, and knew they'd reached the airport. A speed-bump was like a jab in his ribs, still aching from the water-boarding. They stopped and then reversed, presumably into a parking bay. He didn't have the first idea how to play this. He looked up at the big man; his arms folded, he stared implacably down. He'd get no joy there.

The passenger door opened and Mikhail climbed inside. He knelt on the passenger seat and reached back, grabbing Knox by his hair and pulling him towards him, then up onto his knees. 'I'm going to take off your gag now,' he said, touching his knife against his throat. 'You're not going to make a sound. What you are going to do is tell me exactly where this key is. Do you understand?' He waited for Knox to nod, then he loosened the gag, allowing him to spit it from his mouth, so that it dangled around his neck like some macabre medallion.

'Well?' asked Mikhail.

The corners of Knox's mouth were dry and sore. He licked some saliva balm onto them. 'I need to be able to see,' he said. Mikhail swayed back out of his way. He leaned forward. The Metro and railway lines were to Knox's left, the gleaming terminal building was to his right, and directly ahead and above was the enclosed walkway connecting the two. And, around the lot itself, a wide but well-trimmed hedge, much as he'd remembered.

'Well?' asked Mikhail.

'We were over the other side,' he said, nodding at a stretch entirely taken up by parked cars. It was just his bad luck that a 4x4 chose that moment to pull out, leaving a slot free for Boris to drive in to.

'Well?' asked Mikhail, once they were parked again.

'I can't see from in here. Let me out and I'll get it for you.'

'Sure,' scoffed Mikhail. He increased the pressure on his blade. 'I'd advise you to start remembering.'

'Augustin hid it, not me,' said Knox.

'But you were with him?'

'Yes.'

'Well, then.'

'It's about two thirds of the way along this side,' Knox told him. 'It's by the base of one of the shrubs. He scratched his initials in the bark.'

'And his initials are?'

'AGP.'

Mikhail nodded. 'Go,' he told Davit and Boris.

'Yes, sir.'

Knox watched with a sinking heart as they walked off on their futile search, while Mikhail's knife pressed cold as ice against his throat.

Gaille dragged the armchair back against the wall, then pulled the rug aside. And there it was, a wooden trap-door embedded in the cement. The wood had warped and swollen over the years, so that she had to give the rope handle a hard tug to open it on its hinges. It threw up a soft fog of dust and detritus as it came, then released a gentle but reassuringly vinegary aroma.