The Lost Labyrinth

II

'To success!' toasted Mikhail, as they stood around the coffee table with their shot-glasses of vodka straight from the freezer.

'To success!' they echoed.

The icy viscous liquid chilled and warmed simultaneously Edouard's throat and chest. His eyes began to water so that he had to blink. He wasn't used to such strong liquor, but refusing wasn't an option. Boris refilled their glasses, then Mikhail threw himself into an armchair and put his feet up on the coffee-table. 'So do you all know what you're doing here?' he asked.

'I do,' said Boris.

'Me, too,' said Zaal.

Edouard settled on the far arm of the sofa, the furthest he could get from Mikhail. 'I only know what your father told me,' he said.

'And that is?'

Edouard allowed himself the faintest of smiles. 'That we're here to buy the golden fleece.'

'You think this is a joke?' frowned Mikhail.

'The fleece doesn't exist,' said Edouard. 'It never existed. It was only ever a legend, that's all.'

'You're wrong,' said Mikhail. 'It existed. It exists. And we're going to buy it tomorrow.'

Edouard spread his hands. 'Look,' he said, 'your father and grandfather asked me to come here because I'm an expert in these things. And, as an expert, I'm telling you that there never was any such thing as the golden fleece. It was just a mishmash of local traditions and fanciful storytelling and-'

Mikhail's face darkened. He pushed himself to his feet and walked over to where Edouard sat on the arm of the sofa. 'I'm telling you that the golden fleece exists. Are you calling me a liar?'

'No,' said Edouard, dropping his eyes. 'Of course not. I only meant that-'

'Only meant?' scoffed Mikhail. He placed the tip of his index finger on the bridge of Edouard's nose, then gently pushed him backwards. Edouard tried to resist, but there was something inexorable about Mikhail, he felt himself tipping and then he overbalanced and went sprawling, his vodka spilling over his wrist and the floor. 'You intellectuals!' said Mikhail, coming to stand above him. 'You're all the same. You sneer at everything. But let me tell you something. I spoke to a man this morning, a professor of history as it happens, because I know such things matter to your kind. He'd seen this fleece for himself. He'd travelled to Crete just last week, specifically to see it, to make sure it was for real. He'd held it in his hands and he'd weighed it and felt its texture. It's for real. He swore on his life that it was for real.'

'He told you that?'

'And he had no reason to lie, I assure you.' Mikhail stared down at him, his pupils triumphant pinpricks of blackness. 'The fleece is coming here to Athens,' he said. 'It's coming because I'm in Athens, and it's my destiny to bring it home to Georgia. Some things are written. This is written. Do you understand?'

'Yes,' croaked Edouard.

'Tomorrow morning, we're going to see it. Tomorrow morning, we're going to buy it. And then we're taking it home. Any more questions?'

'No.'

'Good,' said Mikhail. He turned away from Edouard, leaving him lying there feeling limp and soiled.

'So what's our plan, then, boss?' asked Boris, splashing out more vodka.

'The man who has the fleece is planning to unveil it at a talk tomorrow afternoon. So we're going to go visit him first thing in the morning, and persuade him to sell it to us.'

'He's expecting us, then?'

'Not exactly. But I know where he's staying.'

'What if he doesn't want to sell?'

Mikhail laughed. 'He'll want to by the time I'm through with him, believe me. He'll be begging us to buy it.'

'Then why pay for it at all?' grumbled Zaal. 'Why not just take it?'

'Because this isn't just about the fleece,' Mikhail told him. 'This is about the election too. It's about my grandfather buying the fleece on behalf of the Georgian people, however much it costs, because that's the kind of patriot he is.'

Edouard's heart-rate had resettled. He got to his feet, refilled his own glass with vodka, tossed it back, restoring a little courage. 'This professor you spoke to,' he said. 'The one who went to Crete to see it. If I'm to verify the fleece for you, I'll need to speak to him myself.'

'Really?' asked Mikhail. 'How?'

'Give me his address. I'll go visit him.'

'And what good will that do you?' asked Mikhail. 'Unless you take a Ouija board, of course.'

'Oh Christ!' muttered Edouard.

Mikhail laughed. 'Don't worry. I know what I'm doing.' He turned to Boris, like a doctor discussing an intriguing case with a colleague. 'I even got him to write his own note. Amazing what people will do.'

'So who's the guy with the fleece, then?' asked Zaal. 'The one we're going to see in the morning, I mean?'

'His name's Roland Petitier,' said Mikhail. He threw Edouard another disdainful glance. 'Another professor, as it happens.'

The plasma TV was still tuned mutely to the news, showing footage of a white-sheeted body on a trolley being loaded onto an ambulance, while banner headlines ran across the top of the screen. Edouard felt a touch of reckless, almost childish glee as he drew Mikhail's attention to it. 'You don't mean him, I suppose, do you?' he asked.