The Lost Labyrinth

IV

They found Knox's Citroen parked on the cobbles outside the site entrance. Edouard backed into a nearby space, the quicker to get away, then he and Zaal went over to the other Mercedes, from which Boris and Davit were climbing out. The rear window hummed down; Mikhail beckoned from within. They all went over. Mikhail had his trousers unzipped and down around his thighs, Edouard was startled to see, and the hooker's face was buried in his lap. 'Well, boss?' asked Zaal, not skipping a beat. 'What now?'

Mikhail pointed to a nearby cafe, its garden overlooking the car park. 'Go wait for me in there,' he said. 'Order me coffee and an ouzo. I'll be with you in a minute.' The window hummed back up.

They took a corner table with a view of the site's entrance and the cars. Edouard watched in fascination as Mikhail's Mercedes started to rock back and forth, the shock of passers-by at the shadow theatre behind the tinted windows. The sheer contempt for others, to fuck a hooker in broad daylight; how Edouard envied that. Climax arrived and passed; the Mercedes fell still. A few more moments passed and then the rear door opened and the hooker got out, her jacket slung over her shoulder, picking at her crotch and wobbling a little as she walked, her high heels unsuitable for the cobbles. Mikhail himself emerged a few moments later. He checked his reflection in the tinted glass, straightened his collar, then headed towards the cafe.

Boris' mobile began to ring at that moment. He answered it, then passed it to Edouard. 'For you,' he said.

'You have my answers for me?' asked Sandro bluntly.

'You have my wife for me?' responded Edouard.

'She's here now. You have thirty seconds.'

'Nina?' he asked eagerly. 'Are you okay?'

'I'm fine,' she assured him, though her tone sounded guarded. 'We went out riding this morning. Even Kiko. It was the first time he's been out since that time with Nicoloz Badridze.'

'Nicoloz Badridze?' frowned Edouard, shifting up to make room for Mikhail. 'You don't mean-'

'Yes,' she said. 'Nicoloz Badridze. But don't worry. Uncle Ilya rode beside him all the time, he kept his hand upon his arm, so there was no chance of him falling. We're all having a fine old time. Do you understand?'

'Yes,' said Edouard hollowly. 'I understand. Tell the children I'm thinking of them.'

'Of course. We'll hear from you again soon, I hope.'

'Yes,' he said. 'I'll do everything I-'

'That's thirty seconds,' said Sandro, taking back the phone. 'Now tell me about my fleece.'

It took Edouard a moment to clear his mind and focus. 'Listen,' he said. 'We'll never get away with this if people's first reaction is disbelief. I mean, once they start laughing, they never stop. So it has to be credible. Forget about a fleece that's made of gold but which handles like sheepskin. It's too improbable and too technically challenging, both for the ancient Georgians and for us. But I have another idea. It won't be as spectacular, but it'll be far more plausible.'

'Go on.'

'Metals were hugely important commodities in the ancient world. Silver, tin, bronze, copper, iron, you name it. They were all shipped around the Mediterranean in ingots, sometimes shaped like bricks but just as often in flat rectangles with small protrusions at each corner, maybe to make them easier to carry, but which look undeniably like animal skins.'

'Ah!' said Sandro.

'Exactly. Archaeologists call them ox-hide ingots: but actually they look more like sheepskins. And there's no reason at all why one of these ingots couldn't have been made of gold. And if it was made of ancient Colchian gold…'

Silence as Sandro considered it. 'I suppose it will do,' he said finally. 'Can you get us details?'

'We have pictures and specifications of several on the Museum Intranet. I can email them to you as soon as I get to a computer.'

'Forget that. Just give me your log-in details.'

Edouard sighed. With people like the Nergadzes, you got in ever deeper and deeper. He gave him what he wanted, handed the phone back to Boris. Their drinks had arrived: his coffee cup rattled a little as he picked it up, thinking again of his conversation with his wife, of the name she'd mentioned. Nicoloz Badridze! He'd hoped never to hear of him again. The man was a paedophile, released after twenty years in prison to be housed in an apartment block just a few doors from their Tbilisi home. The knowledge that such a monster was living so close to their twins became unbearable to them. They'd finally sold up and moved, feeling unutterably guilty because the buyers had had a daughter of their own, and they hadn't said a word. Neither he nor his wife had ever mentioned Badridze's name since.

Not until now.

He rocked forward from his waist, until the rim of the table pressed against his chest like an incipient heart attack. Ilya Nergadze out riding with Kiko, his hand upon his arm. He remembered suddenly Ilya's remark about his charming son, and that beautiful lady-boy serving champagne on the plane. Christ! What had he exposed his beloved son to?

More to the point, what was he going to do about it?