The Lost Labyrinth

III

Edouard paced back and forth downstairs, Nadya's screams jolting through him like electric shocks. He was a coward. He knew that for sure now. He'd always suspected it, of course, despite fond daydreams of himself as one of those quiet, understated men whose heroism only appeared at the hour of greatest need. But that hour was now, and his heroism was nowhere to be seen.

She shrieked again. His heart went out to her, as it would to any fellow human in such pain. How long could it go on? Her scream dissolved into sobs and pleas. He didn't know which was worse to listen to. But one thing was for sure: it was better to be down here listening, then up there, having it done to him.

Curiously, he'd shown a moment of boldness earlier; though of course that had been before the torture had started. After the delivery boy had brought the mobile phone, Mikhail had come inside and put it down on the arm of the settee, then forgotten about it. Edouard, frantic to do something for his family, had pocketed it and taken it to the loo, had sent his brother a text message asking for a contact number for his friend Viktor. He'd quickly grown fearful that Mikhail would notice the mobile was missing, however, so he'd hidden it down the side of the settee, where no one was likely to find it unless they looked, but where it could easily have fallen by accident.

The bedroom door opened. Zaal came out, leaned over the balcony. 'Oi!' he called out. 'Mister Nergadze wants a bottle of vodka and some glasses.'

Edouard looked at him sickly. 'You want me to go up there?'

'Unless you've got a teleporter.' The door closed again. Edouard went to the kitchen, pulled a new bottle from the freezer, found glasses in the cabinet. Another shriek pierced the air. He closed his eyes and waited for silence. What had he become involved in? There could be no excuse for this, no penance. It was an ineradicable stain upon his soul.

'About time,' grunted Zaal, when he took in the vodka. 'Thirsty work, this.'

'Put it on the dressing table,' said Mikhail.

He glanced at Nadya, he couldn't help himself. Her face was white, her cheeks glazed with tears, her jaw and chest with vomit. He caught the smell and saw her hand in the same moment, and the bile rose in his own throat, he dropped the glasses and the vodka and turned and sprinted back out onto the landing then to the nearest loo, but not quickly enough, the pale acidic mush spattering the floor and the seat and porcelain sides, his stomach cramping a second and then a third time. He felt it dribbling down his cheeks and chin, onto his clothes. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist.

There was laughter behind him. He turned to see Mikhail and Zaal in the doorway. 'Christ, that stinks,' said Mikhail.

He felt dizzy and weak, but he pushed himself up all the same. 'I'm not built for this kind of thing.'

'Clean this up. And yourself too.' He shook his head. 'You should have more self-respect.'

The vomiting had left Edouard weary, yet it had cleared his head and taken the edge off his fear too. He realised with an almost abstract curiosity that, for this moment at least, he felt unburdened by anxiety. Was that all courage was? he wondered. The absence of fear? He stood there a moment, half-expecting the sensation to pass, but it didn't. Almost as an experiment, he went downstairs to the kitchen for a bucket and mop, surreptitiously retrieved the mobile phone too. Back upstairs, he closed and locked the bathroom door, turned on both basin taps. A slight chill in his forehead, a tightness in his chest, a shiver rippling gently through him. His window was growing short. It was now or never.

He turned on the mobile, clasped it against his chest to muffle its noises. His brother had replied with a contact number. The mobile was pay-as-you-go; it barely had enough credit for local calls, let alone international ones. He knew his debit card details by heart, however. He topped up the account, punched in Viktor's number, ever more aware of the risk he was taking. The Nergadzes would find out about this eventually; and it was a matter of pride with them that no one crossed them and got away with it.

'This is Viktor,' said a man. 'Who's this?'

'Edouard Zdanevich,' whispered Edouard, fearful of being overheard, despite the running taps. 'We met once at my brother Tamaz's house.'

'Yes,' said Viktor. He sounded wide awake, even though it was well into the early hours in Georgia. 'He told me you might call. What can I do for you?'

Edouard hesitated, uncertain how to start. 'It's my wife and children,' he said. 'They're in danger.'

'You're calling me about your wife and children?'

'The Nergadzes have them,' murmured Edouard. 'They're using them as hostages.'

'Hostages? For what?'

Edouard could hear strange noises at the other end of the line, clicks and humming and low murmurs, hints of furious behind-the-scenes activity, of people listening in, of others being woken and briefed. He took a deep breath. 'I spoke to my wife this morning,' he began. 'She said they'd all been out horse-riding earlier with Ilya. Then she said that Kiko had been out riding before, with a man named Nicoloz Badridze.'

'I'm not with you.'

'Badridze was a child molester. My wife was trying to tell me that Ilya Nergadze is…doing things with my son.'

'They were out horse-riding, you say? That hardly sounds like molestation.'

'For god's sake!' he pleaded. 'You have to do something.'

'You think we can issue a warrant against a man like Nergadze on the basis of this? Are you mad?'

'You have to.'

'No we don't. We really don't.'

'But my son…'

'Then give me something concrete,' said Viktor. 'I know you can. You're on the inside; that's why I contacted you in the first place. With something concrete I can get a warrant. We can get your family out of there, and who knows what a search might turn up. But without anything concrete-' Nadya shrieked again, her cries loud enough for Viktor to hear, even over the running taps. 'What the hell was that?' he asked.

Edouard hesitated. Tell him what was going on here, maybe he'd notify the Greeks and they'd send in the police. The Nergadzes would know instantly who'd blown the whistle, and his wife and children would pay dearly. 'They're watching movies downstairs,' he said.

'Oh,' said Viktor.

'You need cause for a warrant,' said Edouard. 'Fine. Then how about this. Sandro and Ilya Nergadze are right now destroying priceless artefacts that belong to the Georgian nation.' He described his earlier conversations with Sandro, the plan to melt down the Turkmeni cache to forge a golden fleece.

'And these pieces don't belong to the Nergadzes? You're sure of that?'

'They gave them to the nation in front of god-knows how many TV and press cameras. I've got the paperwork at the Museum, if you want to check.'

A click on the phone and a new voice came on. A woman. 'You'll testify to that?' she asked, a little groggy with sleep. 'Under oath?'

'Who is this?'

'Never mind that,' said Viktor. 'Just answer the question.'

'Yes,' said Edouard. 'I'll testify under oath.'

'Good,' said the woman. 'Then you can have your warrant.'

'Thank you,' said Viktor. 'Now listen to me, Edouard. You're not to mention this to a soul, not even to your wife. You're not to do anything at all that might draw attention to yourself, or arouse suspicion. Not until we've acted. Not until you have my explicit clearance. Understood?'

'You're going in?' asked Edouard.

'Maybe.'

'When? When will you go in?'

'When we're ready.'

'What about my son? What about my-' But he was talking to a dead phone. He turned it off, put it away in his pocket. Just in time. He heard footsteps outside, then pounding on the door. He went to it, opened it a crack.

'Aren't you finished yet?' asked Zaal.

'Nearly done,' said Edouard.

'Mikhail says to get some sleep. We've an early start tomorrow.'

'Why? What's happened?'

'We broke her,' said Zaal proudly. 'You should have seen her. What a fucking mess. And it's all true. About the fleece, I mean. She just confirmed it. Knox has it, apparently. Even better, he's having breakfast with her in a few hours. Or so he thinks.' He gave a happy laugh. 'Poor sod! That's one appointment he's going to regret having made.'