Tamaz. They weren’t particularly close, but they were still brothers. Tamaz had invited him over for a drink a few weeks before, had introduced him to a man called Viktor, then had left them alone together. Viktor’s pitch had been simple and direct: give him Ilya Nergadze and name his price. Edouard, still believing back then the Nergadzes’ own view of themselves as victims of government propaganda, had stormed angrily away and hadn’t spoken to Tamaz since, but maybe—
‘Left turn, unh , coming up.’
He shook his head. It was madness even to think of it. For all he knew, Viktor was a Nergadze mole, out to test his loyalty. He turned on the radio, punched channels until he found some music to soothe him. He drove for forty minutes, skirting eastern Athens to its northern foothills. The roads grew narrow and quiet. Through gaps in walls and fences, he caught glimpses of expensive villas. He reached a high stone wall topped with broken glass, a row of pines behind, like troops at the battlements. A private drive was flanked by ‘Keep Out’ signs, but the gates were open and his SatNav siren urged him on, so he crunched up the gravelled track to a whitewashed mansion lit by discreetly positioned spotlights, a gold Ferrari parked obliquely outside, its passenger doorhanging open, as though someone had been in a hurry to get inside.
Edouard pulled up behind it, then sat there for a while, hoping Boris and the others would arrive. He didn’t fancy going in alone. But the minutes passed and there was no sign of them, so he got out and went to the front door, which was fractionally ajar. A Nino Chkheidze love song was playing inside. A Georgian, then; this had to be the place. He knocked twice, but no one answered. The song set out on its familiar crescendo, came finally to its end. He knocked again before the next song could begin. Still nothing. He went cautiously inside, into a vast open-plan atrium two storeys high, topped by a magnificent glass dome, through which he could just about see the night sky. There was a gleaming white-and-chrome kitchen to his left, a polished mahogany dining table and chairs to his right; and, straight ahead, a semicircle of black leather sofas and armchairs facing a huge plasma TV tuned mutely to the 24-hour news. Marble staircases rose on either side of him to a first-floor landing that girdled the atrium like a belt. Numerous doors led off this landing, presumably to bedrooms and bathrooms.
‘Hello!’ he called out. ‘Anyone here?’ But he could hardly be heard above the music, so he made his way over to the music centre. A glass coffee table was covered with the debris of an impromptucelebration, two empty champagne bottles, some disposable patisserie trays, an overflowing ashtray and an enamel box of white powder that he hurriedly closed and tried to pretend he hadn’t seen. A skirt was lying discarded on the floor, a torn white blouse, white knickers, a blue sport’s bra. He found several remote controls, pressed mute buttons until finally there was silence. ‘Hello!’ he called out again. ‘Anyone home?’
A door opened above and a man appeared on the landing, naked except for a saffron towel tucked around his waist. His torso and arms were lean and muscled like a middleweight boxer, and he had a crude prison tattoo on his right biceps. A Nergadze for sure, Edouard knew, partly from his characteristic broad nose and high forehead, partly from the swagger with which he held himself, but mostly from the calm yet purposeful way he was aiming a sawn-off shotgun down at Edouard’s face.
II
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ demanded Knox angrily. ‘There’s no way on earth Augustin killed Petitier.’
Nico held up a palm. ‘You misunderstand,’ he said. ‘I’m not suggesting he did. All I’m saying isthat the police might be able to establish a motive.’ He shifted even further around in his seat, as far as his bulk would allow, squeezed between the
‘Left turn, unh , coming up.’
He shook his head. It was madness even to think of it. For all he knew, Viktor was a Nergadze mole, out to test his loyalty. He turned on the radio, punched channels until he found some music to soothe him. He drove for forty minutes, skirting eastern Athens to its northern foothills. The roads grew narrow and quiet. Through gaps in walls and fences, he caught glimpses of expensive villas. He reached a high stone wall topped with broken glass, a row of pines behind, like troops at the battlements. A private drive was flanked by ‘Keep Out’ signs, but the gates were open and his SatNav siren urged him on, so he crunched up the gravelled track to a whitewashed mansion lit by discreetly positioned spotlights, a gold Ferrari parked obliquely outside, its passenger doorhanging open, as though someone had been in a hurry to get inside.
Edouard pulled up behind it, then sat there for a while, hoping Boris and the others would arrive. He didn’t fancy going in alone. But the minutes passed and there was no sign of them, so he got out and went to the front door, which was fractionally ajar. A Nino Chkheidze love song was playing inside. A Georgian, then; this had to be the place. He knocked twice, but no one answered. The song set out on its familiar crescendo, came finally to its end. He knocked again before the next song could begin. Still nothing. He went cautiously inside, into a vast open-plan atrium two storeys high, topped by a magnificent glass dome, through which he could just about see the night sky. There was a gleaming white-and-chrome kitchen to his left, a polished mahogany dining table and chairs to his right; and, straight ahead, a semicircle of black leather sofas and armchairs facing a huge plasma TV tuned mutely to the 24-hour news. Marble staircases rose on either side of him to a first-floor landing that girdled the atrium like a belt. Numerous doors led off this landing, presumably to bedrooms and bathrooms.
‘Hello!’ he called out. ‘Anyone here?’ But he could hardly be heard above the music, so he made his way over to the music centre. A glass coffee table was covered with the debris of an impromptucelebration, two empty champagne bottles, some disposable patisserie trays, an overflowing ashtray and an enamel box of white powder that he hurriedly closed and tried to pretend he hadn’t seen. A skirt was lying discarded on the floor, a torn white blouse, white knickers, a blue sport’s bra. He found several remote controls, pressed mute buttons until finally there was silence. ‘Hello!’ he called out again. ‘Anyone home?’
A door opened above and a man appeared on the landing, naked except for a saffron towel tucked around his waist. His torso and arms were lean and muscled like a middleweight boxer, and he had a crude prison tattoo on his right biceps. A Nergadze for sure, Edouard knew, partly from his characteristic broad nose and high forehead, partly from the swagger with which he held himself, but mostly from the calm yet purposeful way he was aiming a sawn-off shotgun down at Edouard’s face.
II
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ demanded Knox angrily. ‘There’s no way on earth Augustin killed Petitier.’
Nico held up a palm. ‘You misunderstand,’ he said. ‘I’m not suggesting he did. All I’m saying isthat the police might be able to establish a motive.’ He shifted even further around in his seat, as far as his bulk would allow, squeezed between the
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