by Dan Abnett
At nine, as promised, Lara walked the short distance to Merton and was in the bar a few minutes later. Kennard was already there with a couple of notebooks and a pint on the table in front of him. He stood when she entered.
“You promised I could buy you a drink,” he said.
“A tomato juice, if they have one,” said Lara. “Thank you.”
“Nothing stronger?” asked Kennard.
“Just the juice, thanks,” said Lara, standing at the bar next to him, just to make sure that really was all she got.
“Good dinner?” asked Kennard.
“Very,” said Lara. “Good company, too.”
“Not too good, I hope,” said Kennard. “I’d like the chance to compete.” He smiled. Lara thought he was trying just a little too hard.
“Tell me more about Colchis,” said Lara when they were seated.
Kennard began to flick through his notebooks.
“I can be more specific than that,” he said. “I can talk about the Golden Fleece.”
“Great,” said Lara. “The more I can learn, the better.”
“Everyone knows how Jason voyaged to Colchis on a quest for the Golden Fleece,” said Kennard. “Everyone knows the labours he had to perform to secure it.”
“Ploughing the field with fire-breathing oxen and getting past the ever-wakeful dragon,” said Lara.
“Don’t forget the army of warriors that grew out of the dragon’s teeth he sowed.”
“How could I possibly forget that?” asked Lara. “Although they were pretty stupid warriors if they were prepared to turn on each other over the throwing of a rock.”
“You make a fair point,” said Kennard. “Anyway, with the help of the sorceress, Medea, Jason won the Golden Fleece.”
“And...?” asked Lara when it became clear that Kennard wasn’t going to say any more without prompting.
“That’s where it ends for most people,” said Kennard. “Everyone assumes that Jason and Medea returned to Iolcus with the fleece. There are legends about the return journey, and there are other stories about Jason, but, for the most part, the Fleece is forgotten.”
“But not by everyone?” asked Lara.
“Well, I don’t want to get your hopes up,” said Kennard, “but I have found references to the Fleece over the past few hundred years. Some of them are pretty obscure.”
“So obscure that you don’t want to tell me about them?” asked Lara.
Kennard drained his glass and stood up.
“Let’s have another drink,” he said.
“Let me,” said Lara.
“No, I insist,” said Kennard.
“Then, I’ll have another tomato juice. Thanks,” said Lara.
“You’re sure I can’t tempt you with a glass of wine?”
“Really. I’m sure,” said Lara.
Kennard began talking again almost before he sat.
“Assuming that we’re disregarding all symbolism and looking for a literal fleece,” he said.
“By which you mean?” asked Lara.
“The Golden Fleece has been mooted as many things,” said Kennard, “as the wealth of Colchis during the Ancient period, as the sun, as a sea of golden grain… Lots of things.”
“OK,” said Lara. “Yes, let’s disregard all of that.”
“Good,” said Kennard. “This is where Professor Babbington’s teaching comes in handy. Since I’ve been studying under him, I’ve taken an interest in textual inconsistencies and in out-of-the-way stories. Over the centuries, various individuals and organisations have regularly made claims that they own or know the whereabouts of important antiquities or artifacts. The same is true of lost artworks.”
“And you’ve found references to the Golden Fleece.”
“Only one in the past fifty years, and it’s such a ridiculous long shot I can’t believe I’m telling you about it,” said Kennard.
“To be taken with a pinch of salt, then?” asked Lara.
“It’s a joke,” said Kennard. “No one in his right mind… Sorry, her right mind would take it seriously for a second. I really shouldn’t be telling you this. It isn’t archaeology. It isn’t real.”
“It’s a joke,” said Lara. “I get it.”
“There’s a man in Paris. His name is, of all things, Herodotus Menelaou. That’s the name he goes by, at any rate. I can’t believe it’s even his real name. Anyway, he once claimed, several decades ago, to own a piece of the Golden Fleece. I believe he was in Istanbul at the time. The facts are a little murky.”
“I can deal with murky,” said Lara. “Is he an archaeologist or a historian?”
“He deals in antiquities. I found the article in a French magazine when I was trawling online. The claim was bogus, of course. Menelaou said that he hadn’t sold the portion of the Fleece he owned because no one had offered him what it was worth. At the time he was asking a million francs for it.”
“When a million francs was worth a million francs,” said Lara.
“Something like that,” said Kennard. He was laughing now, a light, but vigorous laugh. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help you. I like you. I just wanted to have a drink with you. The fact is that the Golden Fleece is a fascinating area of study. It’s been pretty central to my own work on Colchis, but, as arrogant as he is, Babbington’s right. Ancient myths belong to the cultures that spawned them. Who knows if there’s a piece of an old mining fleece somewhere? I don’t. Think of it this way: If all the relics from the True Cross that exist in the world were brought together to recreate the original, how big do you suppose it would be?”
“Pretty damned big,” said Lara, sipping her juice.
“I hope you don’t feel too let down,” said Kennard.
“I don’t feel let down at all,” said Lara. “Have you been active much, digging?”
“Every chance I get,” said Kennard.
For the next half an hour, they talked about other things. Lara had successfully changed the subject, and allowed Kennard to maintain his interest in her, while keeping him at arm’s length. She had a name to look up in Paris, but she just might need Kennard again before her quest was over.
An hour later she was back in her room, booking tickets to Paris. She couldn’t get anything before Sunday, so she decided to stay on in Oxford for Babbington’s final lecture. It wouldn’t look good if she disappeared now. Besides, she wanted the opportunity to say good-bye to Willow.
Chapter 10
Lara was back at her flat on Friday night after finally exchanging phone numbers with Kennard.
She’d also checked on Sam. There was no news.
Lara packed light for her trip to Paris. She always packed light. Documents and currency were always more important than belongings, and luggage could be a burden if she wanted to move fast.
She hadn’t planned the stay over in Oxford, but there was enough fresh food in the fridge for a decent meal. She fixed herself some pasta and sat down with the Book. She added Menelaou’s name and the details of his business in Turkey, which she found on the Internet. He’d had a reputation as an antiquities dealer, shipping artifacts from the Mediterranean and the near East across Europe during the latter part of the twentieth century. He had retired suddenly, and his business had disappeared without a trace.
Kennard Montez had mentioned that Menelaou lived in Paris. It took Lara some time to find the address. She could not find a residential record for anyone with his name, but she did find a registered business with an office address. She hoped it was him. He must be an old man, but she trusted that Herodotus Menelaou was an unusual name among Parisians, even in a population in excess of two million. The address was on the Left Bank, not far from her hotel.
After adding her notes, Lara looked back through the section. She didn’t have very much that was new. She had some brief notes on gol
d mining in Colchis and the stuff about Menelaou. Still, it was a lead.
Lara ate her pasta as she leafed back through the pages of the Book. She was sure there was something else. She skipped back to the pages on transference. With nothing to do but wait until she could get on the train in the morning, Lara decided to unravel the strange notes on Ares and the Ten Thousand Immortals.
There were listings in the Book, including the gods of all the major ancient civilisations. Ares was listed in the Greek section. As Lara knew, he was the god of war, but not so much of honour and victory as of violence and devastation. She could find no connection to immortality or to the transference of spiritual energy between corporeal beings.
“Oh,” she said as she found another reference to the god. She took up her pen and made a margin note: “Dragon’s teeth warriors, see Jason and the Golden Fleece.” She had not known that Ares had been the progenitor of Cadmus, the water dragon from which the dragon’s teeth sown in a field had grown into an army of warriors. It was a story that intersected directly with one of Jason’s tasks in retrieving the Golden Fleece from Colchis.
“That can’t be a coincidence,” said Lara.
Then, she turned her attention to the Ten Thousand Immortals. She knew them only as an ancient Persian army, also known as “Anusiya.” She checked the wiki page she’d bookmarked and quickly found reference to them and cross-references connecting them to the Spartans, the famous three hundred who had fought the Persians. The Immortals appeared never to die, because, whenever a member of the fighting force fell, there was another to take his place, maintaining their numbers at exactly ten thousand.
Again, there was no reference to transference or to healing or genuine immortality. There was, however, a connection in time and place to ancient Greece and, therefore, a connection to the Golden Fleece.
Lara made more notes in the Book.
An hour had passed, and her pasta was cold. She threw it away, got a bottle of water from the fridge and some fruit that was still edible, and went back to the Book. She checked her work. There was nothing left to do but sleep and continue her research until she got on the train to Paris.
The trip across London and through the Channel Tunnel to the Gare du Nord was uneventful. The train was always busy, but Lara found her seat without incident, and despite her vigilance she saw nothing and no one suspicious.
It didn’t make her feel any better. A good tail shouldn’t be spotted.
Lara checked the platform of the Metro station, but didn’t recognise anyone from her train carriage. She felt oddly relieved. She wasn’t sure why, but she’d felt uncomfortable, as if she was being watched.
Lara boarded the Metro for St. Germain. The journey was less than fifteen minutes, and the train stopped frequently. She was in no hurry; she could get off if she was worried.
Lara looked around at the other passengers. It was a Sunday. There were a lot of tourists. That was inevitable; it was the international station, so most of them had come in on the London train. She craned her neck slightly to watch the last passengers get on the train. She recognised the man in the quilted windcheater. He’d been in her carriage, reading The Guardian. She took a shot of him on her phone. She didn’t like that he stayed by the carriage doors.
He’s just a tourist, Lara, she told herself. This is Paris. Everyone comes to Paris. He’s probably come to meet someone for a romantic weekend. Give the man a break.
Nevertheless, Lara moved further along the carriage, close to the next set of doors. The train passed quickly through Gare de L’Est and Château D’Eau. Windcheater didn’t move. Lara stayed on the train. As they left Gare de L’Est, Windcheater used his phone for a very brief conversation that Lara didn’t hear, except that she could tell it was in English, not French.
She thought he adjusted his position so that he could see her.
By the time the train pulled in at Strasbourg—Saint-Denis, Lara had decided to get off, but very few passengers disembarked at that point, and she wanted a crowd. She took a breath and resisted the urge to bolt. Windcheater glanced in her direction. He stayed on the train.
Shortly after Réaumur-Sébastopol, while Lara was glancing over the latest passengers to embark, she spotted a young woman about two metres further up the carriage on the other side of her. She hadn’t been there when she’d got on the train at Gare du Nord, but she had been in the same carriage as Lara on the Channel Tunnel train. Lara distinctly remembered the ponytail pulled through the band of the baseball cap.
Was that who Windcheater had been speaking to on the phone? Was she surrounded?
Lara held her nerve. She was on a busy Metro train. There was nothing they could do to her, not here. She had to get rid of them. She had to get off the train and into a crowd, and she had to make sure she lost them before she got to her hotel.
And who the hell are they? thought Lara. What do they want with me?
Lara was well placed, close to the carriage doors. Windcheater would have to use the exit he was closest to, and Ponytail would have to follow her out. If she left the train at the busiest stop, she stood a chance of losing at least one of them, and maybe both.
The train stopped again. The stations were barely a minute apart, hardly giving Lara time to think. As the train pulled up at the platform at Étienne Marcel, there were only a few people waiting. One or two people left the carriage. Although she could feel the sweat collecting between her shoulder blades, Lara stayed where she was. By her reckoning there were only four more stops before her station at Odéon. She had to get off soon.
Lara tried to stay calm. She turned to look at Ponytail again as the train pulled out of the station. The girl dipped her head before their eyes met. Lara took it as a sign that she was being watched. She had to get off the train, and it had to be soon.
Lara was relieved to see a lot of people on the train begin to move as the seconds ticked down to the next stop. This was it. There were people on the platform too. She tried not to telegraph her movements, but she quickly decided to get off the train at Les Halles, a busy market area at the heart of the city.
She was off quickly, one of the first, and she didn’t look back. She simply walked confidently through the passengers waiting to board, and made her way through the station.
She did not see the second man, had not seen him, was not expecting him. As he passed her on the escalator, she glanced up at him. She was moving quickly and was surprised that someone was moving faster than she was. He stayed right in front of her. She didn’t dare to slow down. If she was being followed, and she was sure that she was, she couldn’t risk slowing down.
The place was busy. The underground station was below the Forum des Halles shopping mall, and it was crowded with people.
Breathe Lara. Nearly there.
Then, as Lara walked onto the main concourse among the shops and the milling people, the lean man with the crew cut, who had strode past her on the escalator, suddenly turned. He was smiling, as if he knew her. Lara was too startled to do or say anything as he took her arm and began to lead her across the concourse.
Lara began to tug at her arm. The man gripped it more tightly.
“Don’t struggle,” he said. “It’s pointless.”
Lara swung her head around. No one seemed to be taking any notice. She pulled at her arm again, and looked around for Windcheater and Ponytail. She couldn’t see either of them. She pulled at her arm again and looked at the man holding on to her. He was still smiling, but they had almost come to a stop. Lara tried kicking out at his legs, but he did not respond.
“I told you,” he said. “It’s pointless struggling.”
Lara relaxed for a moment. Let him think she was going along with it. They walked a few more paces, and then Lara let out a full-throated shout.
“Étranger!”
Crewcut stopped dead in his tracks, still holding firmly on
to Lara’s arm. Several shoppers nearby stopped to look in their direction. Lara struck Crewcut two or three times in the chest with the flat of her hand, as if she were desperate. She was desperate. Crewcut smiled back at her, and spoke in soothing tones.
“It won’t do you any good,” he said. “I’m in control of this situation. Shout all you like.”
A stern looking middle-aged woman in a smart suit tentatively began to approach Lara, but she was gestured away by a policeman. Lara didn’t know where he’d come from, but she was relieved to see him. Then, Ponytail was beside her.
“It’s all right, Lara. Everything’s all right,” she was saying in a soothing voice. She held out a bottle of water to Lara. “Here, drink this. You’ll feel better.”
What the hell’s going on? thought Lara. Is this some kind of ploy?
“Étranger!” she said again, pulling at her pinned arm and looking straight at the policeman.
Crewcut, still smiling, began to speak calmly to the policeman in fluent French. Lara understood some of the conversation, but not all of it, and she didn’t have enough conversational French to interject effectively. She heard her full name used early in the conversation, and then “Lara” two or three more times.
“I’m being kidnapped!” Lara shouted at the policeman, desperate. “I don’t know these people!”
“He’s just explaining that you suffer from an anxiety disorder,” said Ponytail, calmly.
Lara stared at Ponytail, eyes wide. She could hear what the woman was saying, but she couldn’t believe what was happening.
“He’s just reassuring the policeman that everything’s fine, that you’re in safe hands,” said Ponytail. “You’re just panicking, Lara. Calm down.”
Too right, I’m bloody panicking, thought Lara. She turned to the policeman.
“I don’t know these people,” she said. “They’re not my friends, and they’re not my family. I’m calm! I’m damned well calm!”
She wasn’t calm though. Lara was shaking. She was angry. She wasn’t just outnumbered, these people were clever.
