Will Adams - The Lost Labyrinth

The new plan came to Mikhail as suddenly and completely as the first. But this appealed to his nature far more, for it meant he had to rely on no one but himself. He pictured in his mind how it would go. A high-risk strategy, of course, but then everything was high risk in such situations. And if he could pull it off, he'd be clean away. He bowed his head and walked towards the businessman, already climbing behind the wheel. 'Excuse me,' he said, keeping a good distance back, so that the man wouldn't think him a threat. 'You don't have the time, by any chance?'

'Of course,' grunted the man. Belgian or Dutch, to judge from his accent, but an EU passport for sure, which was the main thing. 'Seven twenty-five.'

'Thanks so much,' smiled Mikhail. He nodded at the car. 'I like your taste. Nothing beats a good soft-top.'

The man grinned. 'I have five kids. All I ever get to drive back home is my wife's damned people-carrier. Makes a change to get in one of these from time to time, remember what a proper car feels like.'

'I'm the same with my own kids,' said Mikhail, reaching behind him for his knife. 'Until I've been away from the little bastards for a day or two, that is. Then all I can think of is getting home to see him.'

'Yes, well,' shrugged the man, buckling himself in, inserting his keys into the ignition. 'That's fatherhood for you.'

'Indeed, it is,' agreed Mikhail, walking towards him. 'Indeed it is.'

Pandemonium had settled down into mere chaos at the airport, not helped by the fact that flights were still arriving and departing, the Easter weekend too important to disrupt. Police and antiterrorist units had arrived in huge numbers, and were now checking everyone leaving or entering the terminal buildings, while also going meticulously through the parking lots and public areas before sealing them off, gradually cutting down the space in which Mikhail could move. They'd also set up a roadblock at the airport exit, to check all departing vehicles, but the tailback had quickly reached the terminal building itself, threatening to wreak havoc. The police had therefore thrown numbers at the problem, and cut their searches to an inspection of ID and a quick look in the boot, and the queues had shrunk back down.

Knox watched an ambulance leave, its blue light flashing but its siren silent, taking Nadya into Athens for treatment on her pulverised hand. She should have left long before, but she'd insisted on giving her statement first, to help exonerate Knox. He'd tried to convince her there was no need, for although Boris had zipped his lips, Davit had cracked like an old jug, and was spilling everything. Chatter on the police radio seemed to corroborate Knox's story too: a mansion north of Athens had been found blazing, along with the husks of two expensive cars. So, from almost being shot as a suspected terrorist, Knox had rapidly found himself demoted to a mere object of curiosity, passed into the safekeeping of a kindly policewoman, who at least took the trouble to find keys for his handcuffs. She unlocked and removed them now. His wrists were sore and swollen, and his fingers throbbed painfully with returning blood, but his spirits still lifted. 'Is that it?' he asked. 'Can I go?'

'The boss wants to have you looked over by a police doctor,' she told him. 'After all, if you've been tortured as you say you have…'

He gave a little snort. 'You mean he wants to make sure that my injuries match my account. Where's this doctor, then?'

'On his way. You don't mind waiting, do you?'

'Do I have a choice?'

He leaned against the parking-lot booth while he killed time; a police car pulled up alongside him, but it was Angelos and Theofanis in the front seats, not the doctor. 'What are you two doing here?' he asked.

'You're the one who wanted vouching for.'

'I only said you knew who I was. I didn't expect you to drive out here.'

'Yes, well, we still have some questions.' Angelos nodded at the back seat. 'Get in.'

'I'm waiting for a doctor.'

'Just get in.'

Theofanis turned in his seat as he climbed in. 'We're trying to fit everything together,' he said. 'Petitier. Your friend Augustin. This man Antonius we found hanged. Mikhail Nergadze. Whatever happened here earlier-' He didn't have time to complete his thought, however, interrupted by commotion on the airport exit road. They all looked across to see a car roaring against the traffic towards them, its headlights flashing and horn blaring to warn other cars out of its way, as though it had taken fright at the police roadblocks.

Knox caught a bare glimpse of the driver's face as he sped by, but it was enough. 'It's him,' he said numbly. 'It's Nergadze.'

Angelos didn't hesitate. He turned on his ignition, thrust it into first and then span a U-turn. A train of police cars was already in pursuit, and they joined its tail, hurtling the wrong way up a slip-road to an overpass, past the control tower, then through open gates down a track to a vast parking lot around which some offices were being built. Even in the darkness, it was obvious that there was no way out for Mikhail, other than the way he'd come in. 'We've got him,' muttered Theofanis.

Mikhail must have realised this too. He slowed and came to a stop. The police cars slowed likewise, blocking off his escape. They had their man; there was no need for heroics.

Angelos lowered his window. 'Give yourself up,' he shouted.

'Fuck you,' cried Mikhail. 'Fuck all of you. I'm not going back to gaol. I'm never going back.'

'You can have a lawyer. You can have a trial.'

'A trial?' he scoffed. 'I'm Mikhail Nergadze. You hear me? Mikhail fucking Nergadze! And who the fuck are you?' He stamped down his foot and began to accelerate across the open prairie of the tarmac, then turned in a long sweeping curve, hurtling almost flat out towards a container parked against the edge. Knox flinched as the Citroen's low bonnet passed beneath the container's high fuselage, then its windscreen and bracing struts hit in a shriek of metal and glass, and the soft-top squeezed up on itself like a concertina, before being hurled high in the air and landing some way back upon the tarmac, while the shorn bottom sped on beneath the container in a shower of friction sparks, before crashing through the wire fence and out into the trees beyond.

It was several moments before anyone reacted. They were all too stunned. But then flames started licking around the base of the container, while the broken Citroen groaned and hissed and screeched from its wounds. The police cars fanned out and drove warily across, none wanting to be first, hardened to horrors though they were. They reached the perimeter fence, stopped, got out. The air beyond the container was filled with banknotes, as though a bomb had gone off in the steel briefcase. They fluttered down all around them, and several of the policemen were already gathering them up in handfuls, stuffing them in their pockets, careless of their evidentiary value.

Knox and Angelos pushed past them. The topless Citroen had burst through the wire fence beyond, before coming to a halt in a tangle of brambles. The steel briefcase was open in the rear, obscene amounts of cash lying loose in and around it. Both its air-bags had deployed, though they hadn't done much good for Nergadze, still belted into the passenger seat, his left arm dangling down by his side, his gold watch still on his wrist, yet with his right arm and everything from his chest on up sheared clean off, along with the car's windscreen and roof, by the giant guillotine of the container trailer.

Gaille pleaded exhaustion and a headache shortly after they'd eaten, then asked about sleeping arrangements. Iain told her to take Petitier's bed, insisting he'd be fine in his sleeping bag on the living room floor. She didn't argue: chivalry had its benefits. She prepared for bed then covered the mattress with the cleanest blankets she could find, and climbed between them. Moonlight slipped into the room down the side of the curtains, throwing a pale blue tint upon the wall. She stared up the ceiling and wondered what to do in the morning, torn between checking out the rest of the basement and getting out of here altogether.