Tomb Raider: The Ten Thousand Immortals (17 page)

As Lara walked down the steep, winding road between the beautiful whitewashed buildings towards the quay, she became aware of the sensation, once again, that she was being followed. She glanced to her left and thought she saw Frink again, two or three yards behind her among the tourists. Then, Peasley was beside her, a can of cherry cola in his hand, his forehead glistening above the rim of his sunglasses.

A group of thirty or forty tourists was filling the road in front of them, moving at a slower pace. They were a touring party of more mature holidaymakers from somewhere in northern Europe. The accent was Germanic, and one very large man in oversized shorts and robust sandals seemed particularly gregarious.

“Well, you certainly seem to know where you’re going,” said Lara, skipping up to the man and squeezing in between him and other members of his party. She took him firmly by the crook of his arm. “And me, all on my own,” she said. “You do speak English, don’t you? Everybody does.”

“English?” asked the man, beaming down at Lara. “Of course I speak the English. I speak the English and the French, and a very little Spanish. The Spanish beaches, they are beautiful, but the tourists, they are most troublesome.”

“Too many English people,” said Lara. “The Greek Islands are so much more… Well, you can show me.”

Lara kept an eye on Peasley, who lurked at the edge of the group, but could not hope to penetrate it. She was safe.

One of the women in the group was scowling and said something rather loudly to her female companion. It was a couple of sentences that included the name “Norbert.”

“She says that Norbert is looking for a new girlfriend, and that he shouldn’t be looking at such a young woman,” the large man said to Lara, patting the hand that was tucked into his arm. “Sabine is jealous, of course. She should know that Norbert is a wonderful uncle to every pretty girl. She should know that Norbert only has eyes for her. She does not see it. Silly woman.”

He also spoke loudly enough for everyone around them to hear. Everyone in the group became very animated. It took a moment or two for someone to translate, because clearly the jealous woman’s grasp of the English language wasn’t as thorough as Norbert’s.

Lara took the opportunity to glance around for Peasely, who had followed the group. He was standing at a distance, and, as Lara watched, he turned away, pushing one hand deep into his pocket. Lara wasn’t fooled into thinking that it was the end of his pursuit of her.

“Well, Uncle Norbert, you have your happy ending, and I was so enjoying your company,” said Lara as the whole group came to a standstill and the scowling woman, who was now flushed and beaming, was propelled to the centre where Norbert was still holding Lara’s hand.

“You have brought us together,” said Norbert. “Walk with us, enjoy the company of a happy couple.” He said something to Sabine, who promptly took Lara’s other arm, and the whole party wandered down to the quay where their pleasure boat waited to take them on a jaunt around the island.

Kennard was waiting for Lara. She waved when she saw him, and he jogged towards them. Sabine laughed and said something. Norbert laughed, too. One or two other members of the party were also soon laughing. Lara looked at Norbert.

“Sabine said that if she’d known who was waiting at the quay, she might have set her cap at him instead,” said Norbert. “Now go to your handsome young man.”

“He’s not mine,” said Lara.

“But he could be,” said Norbert, and he winked.

Lara smiled.

“It was lovely to meet you, Norbert, and you too, Sabine,” she said. “Happy holidays.”

Lara and Kennard hopped aboard the dinghy, and Lara looked back along the quay as Kennard untied the boat and set the little motor running. She could see Frink and Peasley watching, helpless, as Lara escaped their clutches once more.

Chapter 21

T
he sound was sudden and deafening, and it seemed to come out of nowhere.

Lara’s heart hammered in her chest. She could feel the sweat break out on her forehead and between her shoulder blades. Her throat tightened. She couldn’t breathe. Her hands began to tremble.

Please no!
she thought.
Not here. Not
now.

Kennard had turned in the direction of the sound. The big European whom Lara had walked onto the quay with was waving from a pleasure boat, along with all his friends. He’d persuaded the skipper to sound his horn.

“Your new friend is hailing you,” said Kennard, turning back to Lara. Then, he noticed how pale she looked and the sweat on her upper lip.

She exhaled a ragged breath as she tried to control her respiration.

“Yes,” said Lara, smiling weakly.

“What’s wrong, Lara? You look terrible,” said Kennard.

Lara gripped the side of the dinghy. She suddenly realised where she was, and felt horribly trapped. She couldn’t get out of the dinghy. She couldn’t walk around. She couldn’t breathe, God damn it!

Not here,
she thought.
I can’t deal with this here.
She wanted to get up and pace. She couldn’t. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. She shook out her tingling hands. Her chest felt impossibly tight.

“Damn it, Lara, breathe,” she gasped. “Don’t let yourself—”

Too late.

Kennard reached out a hand to Lara.

“Tell me what’s happening, Lara,” he said. “Quickly.”

“Panic attack,” said Lara, spitting out the words in one short exhalation.

“It’s happened before?” asked Kennard.

“Yes,” said Lara. She was clenching and unclenching her shaking hands, since she couldn’t pace. She was trying to breathe out, but her breath was catching in her throat. She seemed not to be able to breathe in or out. Her head spun, and sweat dripped down her back and ran along her hairline.

“Let’s get you onboard,” said Kennard, as he pulled the dinghy alongside the dig boat.

Lara shrugged off his help. She couldn’t bear his touch, but she was shaky climbing aboard, and it took her several moments, holding on with both hands and watching her feet.

Lara’s mind was spinning. A sea of faces loomed in front of her. Then, Kennard’s voice broke through again.

“Let’s get you below,” he said. “You need to rest.”

Lara did as she was told, and entered the largest of the cabins below decks. It was where the crew congregated for meetings and to socialise, but it also converted into sleeping quarters for four. There was even room to pace.

Lara grabbed a bottle of water from a carton and broke the seal. She sipped from it to help her breathing.

“You’re shaking,” said Kennard. “You’re hyperventilating. You need to try to breathe.”

“I’m fine,” said Lara, between sips. “Go. I’m better alone.”

“You could breathe into a bag,” said Kennard. “That might help.”

“I’m fine. Go,” said Lara again.

“If you’re sure,” said Kennard.

As she looked at him, all Lara could see was the flare gun in his hand, and the face of the jet skier. She saw it huge in her mind. She saw the face with the melting mask pulled off. She saw the skin, puckered and blistering from the burns. She saw Ares’s henchmen.

Suddenly, she was sitting in front of Ares in his office on the Champs-Élysées. Then, the images of Ares in all those photographs tumbled through her mind: Ares during the American Civil War; Ares during Crimea, during the Boer War and the Second World War; Ares on the all major battlefields of the past hundred and fifty years.

Lara sipped at the water, and walked up and down the narrow cabin. She let the images go, and tried to concentrate on what had caused her to panic.

“Breathe, Lara,” she told herself. “It was nothing. It was just a foghorn. It took you by surprise, that’s all. You’re safe.” The boat was quiet, at anchor. The divers must be in the water, so there were only a couple of crew onboard. Lara could hear water lapping gently at the sides of the boat. She could feel the slight rhythmic movement of the boat as it rocked very gently in the tidal harbour. It was soothing.

It took several minutes, but Lara began to calm. Her breathing steadied, and she was finally able to take a deep breath without it hitching in her throat. Her bottle of water stopped trembling as it reached her mouth, and the sweat on her back began to dry.

Lara began to sort through the images that had raced through her anxious mind.

Ares wanted the Golden Fleece, and he wanted Lara dead, except he’d gone after
Alecto
. The jet skier had pointed his weapon at Kennard.

So am I still a threat to him, or just a complication? And what about Kennard?
she wondered.

Lara sat down and put the cap on her water bottle. She rummaged around in her rucksack and pulled out the Queen Mary tin. Then, she heard footfalls on the steps down into the cabin. She thought it must be Kennard, come to check on her.

It wasn’t.

When she looked up, she saw another face, the face of someone she recognised… except she hadn’t been introduced to him on the boat. The face clenched its jaw, mumbled something, and then turned and took the steps back up to the deck two at a time.

That was odd. He must have come down to the cabin for a reason. Lara thought for a moment. She wondered why she couldn’t place the crewman and why she couldn’t remember his name. She was sure she hadn’t been introduced to him on the boat. Where, then… Where had she met him?

Calm, Lara decided that it was a good distraction, a useful one. She was confident that she must have met the man in Oxford, that he must be another Merton student, or one of the other post-grads at Babbington’s lectures. She’d ask Kennard.

Lara stowed the tin back in her rucksack, picked up the half-drunk bottle of water, and climbed the steps back onto the deck. Her legs felt a little unstable, but that would soon pass. The sun would feel good on her skin, and the sea air would be wonderful to breathe, now that she could take a breath again.

Kennard was on deck, checking diving equipment.

“Hey, Lara,” he said. “You look better.”

“I feel better,” said Lara. “Thanks.”

“You should stay on the boat,” said Kennard. “There’s plenty of room.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Lara. She still didn’t want to commit herself, but she knew she couldn’t go back to the hotel. First, she wanted to find out about the crewman.

“The guy who was just in the cabin?” she asked. “Did I meet him in Oxford?”

“Greg?” asked Kennard. “He’s just got one of those faces. Hey, you must be exhausted. You didn’t get any sleep last night, and with all the drama this morning… Why don’t you take a nap, and then I’ll fix us some supper?”

“I’m OK,” said Lara.

Kennard stowed the wet suit he was folding and took a step towards Lara.

“You’re getting over an anxiety attack. It was probably brought on by fatigue. Sleep it off, Lara. You’ll feel better.”

Lara wanted to say it was just the sudden noise of the foghorn from the pleasure boat. That’s all it was. She wanted to tell him just how tough she was. She thought better of it.

“You’re probably right,” she said.

“There’s plenty to do on deck,” said Kennard. “I’ll make sure no one disturbs you for at least a couple of hours.”

“Thanks,” said Lara. She began to walk towards the steps below decks. As Kennard turned back to his chores, she kept walking. If he noticed, she’d just tell him that she wanted to get some fresh air before being cooped up again.

Lara strolled around and sat on the deck on the opposite side from Kennard, towards the prow. She was only yards from the man whom she was sure she had recognised. She couldn’t shake it out of her mind. She managed several long glances at him while appearing to be relaxing and looking out to sea. She had seen him before, and it was recently.

Five minutes later, Lara went below decks.

Back in the main cabin, she took out her phone and the Book. She knew that Kennard would keep his word, that she wouldn’t be disturbed. She couldn’t rest with so many questions in her mind anyway. If she had seen Greg in Oxford, maybe she’d have a photo of him on her phone.

Lara scrolled through her pictures. There were some good ones of Willow at Teddy Hall and of their tea at the Randolph, there were some of Merton College and of Babbington’s lectures. Greg was not among the students at the School of Archaeology. Strangely, there wasn’t a photo of Kennard either. He’d been camera shy, and every time she’d tried to take his picture, he’d put a hand up in front of his face.

Lara scrolled back further. There was the picture of the man on the train to Oxford: Blazer Bloke. It wasn’t Greg.

I know I’ve seen you,
thought Lara.
Where are you, Greg? You must be here
somewhere.

Lara scrolled forwards through the pictures she’d taken in Paris. Greg was not among the faces in the pictures she’d taken in the city.

“Oh, Lara, you fool,” she said, tossing her phone onto the seat beside her, and picking up the Book.

She opened the Book at the back and slid her fingers into the pocket formed by the flyleaf of the cover. It fit snuggly around the Book so that anything slipped into it could not fall out or be lost. It also meant that anything put there was hidden. Lara teased out the two photographs that she had retrieved from the pavement in Paris, the two photographs that had fallen out of Ares’s henchman’s torn jacket.

“How could you have forgotten?” Lara asked herself. She looked at the two small, square photographs. She turned them over. On the reverse of one of the photographs was handwritten, “Jason and the Golden Fleece - the Louvre.” Lara studied the photograph. It was of an antiquity, a Greek vase or krater from about the third century BCE, by Lara’s estimation. The decoration showed Jason bringing the Fleece to King Pelias. Lara looked more closely at the fleece hanging from Jason’s hand. It was golden, but it was also complete, with a pair of rams horns clearly depicted.

Menelaou’s story,
she thought.
The boy who climbed up the mountain to the head of the spring brought one fleece, one young ram’s
fleece.

The second photograph was not labeled. It was of a small statuette of a ram. It was smooth and squat and stylised, and it looked heavy. It reminded Lara of something Henry Moore might have sculpted. It was incredibly beautiful and, again, looked like an antiquity. The photograph was black-and-white, so it wasn’t clear what the object was made of.