Will Adams: The Lost Labyrinth

'Forget it.'

'I want you to know something. Whatever decision you make, you'll have my complete and unquestioning support. Claire's too. You do realise that, don't you?'

Knox hadn't understood what he was getting at, not at the time; but now it seemed clear that this man had been scouting for their opinions.

'Well?' he asked. 'What do you say?'

'This would save you a lot of money, would it?'

'That's not the only reason,' he replied. 'Your quality of life will be better, I promise.'

'May I think about it?'

'Of course. But we can't wait forever. How about I come by again in the morning?'

'Fine,' said Knox. He turned his head to the side until he heard the door close. Sometimes, he could sense a great black pit opening up in the world, he'd be confronted again by the loss of Gaille, by the completeness of his failure as a man. He could feel it opening now. His breath grew faster as he braced himself. It started as it always did with a reprise of that helpless terror he'd felt when Mikhail had had him strapped down to his bench and then poured water into his mouth and made him drown. It would be haunting him for months, he knew, if not years. And the knowledge provoked in him an intense rage, not just at Mikhail, who he'd held responsible until now, but at Mikhail's father and his grandfather too; particularly at his grandfather. He'd known Mikhail was a psychopath, yet he'd sent him to Athens all the same, surely aware of the carnage he was likely to wreak. And instead of feeling remorse at what he'd done, all he could do was use his death as an excuse for more of his wretched power-games.

Rather to Knox's surprise, his rage felt good. Or, more accurately, it felt better than despair had done.

He hadn't listened closely to the man from the embassy. He already knew he'd accept his offer, if only because he lacked the will to refuse. But, as he lay there, a new thought came suddenly to him. Personal experience had taught him how hard it was to attack extreme wealth head-on. So long as the Nergadzes knew he was alive, they'd find it easy to protect themselves from him, or perhaps even succeed in getting rid of him altogether. But should they believe him dead…

He let the idea take rough shape in his mind. A new identity, a new look, a new passport. A year or two to recuperate and let the Nergadzes think they'd got away with it. And then some way to get undetected onto their home turf. And the man from the embassy had even given him an idea for that. For a moment, Knox envisaged himself working on some marine salvage job near the Black Sea coast, where all the oligarchs had their summer houses. Then in a room alone with Ilya Nergadze. How he'd get from one to the other he didn't yet know; but he had all the time in the world to work out the details.

He relaxed back into his mattress, his pillow, looked up at his window, that parallelogram of perfect blue. A gull swooped into view, lit silver-white by the sun, hovering like the holy ghost upon a thermal before drifting slowly out of sight. For the first time in days, he began to feel a little better, a little stronger.

What was it Nico had said that night at the restaurant? Having a purpose, that's the key.

Yes. Having a purpose. Acknowledgments The Bronze Age Eastern Mediterranean, which provides the historical backdrop to this novel, is both intensely complex and endlessly fascinating. My immense gratitude, therefore, to my good friend Clive Pearson and to Dr Don Evely of the British School of Athens, Minoan experts both, for being so generous with their time and knowledge in helping me get a better grasp of it. Even more importantly, I'd like to thank them each for reading the first draft of the manuscript and making so many valuable suggestions and corrections. I have followed most, but not all, of their recommendations; so it's even truer than usual that any mistakes that remain are mine and mine alone.

Many other people helped me with my research too, both in the UK and on my travels in Greece and in Georgia. Kat Christopher, in particular, took immense trouble on my behalf in Athens, but I'd also like to thank Thanos and Angela for a delicious lunch, as well as Martin, Ioannis, Sandro, Thomas and the many others who helped out in one way or another.

Finally, and most importantly, I'd like to thank my agent Luigi Bonomi and my editor Wayne Brookes for their unfailing enthusiasm, advice and support. I owe them both a tremendous debt. The Eleusinian Mysteries are one of the great enigmas of the ancient world. Celebrated for some two thousand years at the port of Eleusis, they were the high point of Greek religious life, until finally they were supplanted by Christianity in the early centuries A.D. Sophocles considered thrice happy anyone initiated into the rites. Cicero called them Athens' greatest gift to man. Plato praised them as the perfect intellectual pleasure. But the Mysteries were protected by an extraordinary cult of secrecy. People were put to death for merely hinting at their true nature. So, despite a few tantalising hints, no one today is quite sure what happened within the sanctuary's high walls; or, more to the point, what the secret was that needed such extreme measures to preserve. About the Author