Will Adams - The Lost Labyrinth

Knox's own lungs were screaming for relief. He pulled himself upwards but the windscreen had buckled just enough that all the air had bubbled away. The cabin door had closed again and now was almost impossible to open against the wall of water; but he managed it in the end, kicked for the surface high above, keeping his body streamlined as he surged upwards, fighting the urge to open his mouth, using his will as never before to suppress his natural reflexes until finally he breached the surface and sucked in the glorious air, letting it flood and circulate back through his system.

Around him, the detritus of the crash. Life-jackets and broken lengths of plastic, and things on fire. He couldn't see anyone in the water, but people were wailing in anguish and agony on the deck above him, sounds to gladden the heart. The adrenaline of combat started to subside; he felt the full sear of the burns he'd taken on his back.

A fighter jet marked with Greek insignia roared so low over the yacht that he flinched from it, its vapour trail making strange contortions of the sky. Then he looked north towards the coast, and saw two helicopters sweeping across the sea, and all he felt was a terrible anger that now they were coming, now when it was too late.

The man from the British Embassy wore a black suit and tie, as though he'd come to a funeral. As in a sense he had. He settled himself primly beside Knox's hospital bed, his discomfort with such places evident from his efforts to look at ease.

'Who are you?' asked Knox.

'You've caused quite a stir, you know,' the man told him, smoothing down his trouser leg. 'You've had all kinds of important people flying back and forth.'

'Is that right?'

'It is, it is,' he beamed. 'You're the toast of the Foreign Office. The way the Greeks have treated you and your friends…' he shook his head with mock reproach. 'A very nursable grievance, that. We'll be able to leverage it for years.'

'I'm glad to have been of use.'

The man seemed to realise that his levity was inappropriate, for he assumed a more sober countenance. 'That's not why I'm here, of course.'

'Is it not?' asked Knox, turning his head towards the window. He could see the perfect blue sky outside. Sometimes there were gulls, but not right now.

'How much do you know about what's been happening?' asked the man. 'With the Nergadzes, I mean?'

'Nothing.' Nico had been in, but mostly he'd talked about the ongoing excavation of Petitier's cave and the successful decryption of his journals, the manic personality they'd revealed. 'I have found the lost labyrinth,' one entry had run. 'I have found the golden fleece. I have found Atlantis.' And Iain's book, being published early to seize the moment, looked set to make a fortune for his widow and son, even though-or perhaps because-it was becoming clearer and clearer just how closely he'd modelled his own theories upon Petitier's research. But Knox was indifferent to it all; it meant nothing.

'Ilya is going to be released, you see,' said the man. 'He's reached an accommodation with the president. That's how it works, with men like that. They reach accommodations. He's pleading guilty to some minor infractions, he'll spend a little time in gaol. No great punishment, all things considered, but it'll mean the end of his political aspirations, and of his family's too. And when powerful people are humiliated and crippled like this, they tend to look for scapegoats.'

That caught Knox's attention. 'Me?' he asked incredulously.

The man nodded. 'He blames you for his grandson's death. Or he claims to, at least, which isn't quite the same thing, not with these people. He's not exactly shedding many tears over Mikhail, believe me; but he was family, so he has to be seen to care. More to the point, he has to be seen to do something. He needs people to know that there'll be the gravest possible consequences for anyone who crosses him.'

'You're not saying he's put a price on my head?'

'A huge price,' said the man, with evident satisfaction. 'Five million euros, to be exact. Complete overkill, if you'll pardon the expression. These days, you can commission a hit for a couple of grand. Hit-men are feeling the pinch just like everybody else. But of course it's not really about you. Nergadze is using you as a way to warn his enemies not to take him lightly, just because he looks weakened. Not that that's much consolation, I imagine. It's no fun, having a price on one's head.'

'You've had one yourself, have you?'

He shook his head. 'No. But I've worked with people who have. You might say that protection is a specialty of mine. Which is why I was asked to come here and talk to you, of course.' He made a steeple of his hands. 'The thing is, protection isn't easy. Even in the United Kingdom, it isn't easy.'

'That's okay, then. I live in Egypt.'

'Not any more, you don't. Our Egyptian friends won't take you back. You wouldn't last a week there, anyway. Not with that kind of price on your head. No, it's back to Britain with you, and you'll just have to get used to living in a security cocoon. Not much fun. And very expensive for our poor old taxpayers.'

Ah! thought Knox. Now we get to it. 'Unless…?' he asked.

'You do have an option, as it happens,' smiled the man, as though he'd only just thought of it. 'I wouldn't normally raise this, not while you're recovering; but these are extraordinary circumstances, and if we're to do it, this is our moment.'

'Do what?'

'You suffered extensive burns, you see. Not life-threatening, not any more. Though your being a rare blood-type didn't help. You might want to get yourself a bracelet in the future, or one of those medallion jobbies. Save everyone a lot of grief. But the point is this: the world believes you're still perilously sick. So imagine if we were to arrange for a Medevac plane to fly you back to England. Imagine you were to have a setback. Acute renal failure, say. It often happens to burn victims. Imagine you were to go onto life support, but despite the heroic efforts of our very best doctors…'

'And then what?' asked Knox. 'Plastic surgery? A new identity?'

'Maybe a tweak here, an injection there. But nothing major. You may be a household name, but you're not a household face at all. You've kept an admirably low profile for someone in your position. My colleagues have already taken the liberty of releasing some photos of you, tweaked just enough to give a false impression. Throw in some three-day stubble, tinted contact lenses, highlights for your hair…Trust me. We're good at this kind of thing. It would give you a whole new start. Think of that. Half the people I know would give their right arms for a whole new start. And it wouldn't be forever, not if you don't fancy it: just until old man Nergadze dies, and the family implodes, which it will. They always do in the end. Maybe you could teach. Not Egyptology, of course. That'll be out for a while. History, say. Or diving. Didn't you work as an instructor once? I have a friend from my service days who runs a marine salvage business down in Hove. He's always moaning about how hard it is to find high-quality underwater archaeologists. Shipwreck sites are so regulated these days, people like you are in great demand. Think about that. You could travel overseas again. I know how much you like to travel.'

'Yes,' said Knox. He understood something now, something that had been puzzling him. Augustin had come by earlier, pushing himself in his wheelchair, recuperating from his own injuries. 'What a pair we make,' he'd grunted, as he'd helped himself to Knox's fruit.

'Yes.'

'I watched that pig's ear you made of my lecture.'

'The best I could do with the material I had.'

Silence had fallen, then grown heavy. Augustin had covered Knox's hand with his own. 'I'm so sorry about Gaille,' he'd said. 'I don't know what to say.'