Lara Croft and the Blade of Gwynnever Read online

  The back of the car was big and comfortable, and Lara raised the privacy screen so that the driver couldn’t see her get out of the abaya and sheila. She was wearing black leggings and a long-sleeved thermal shirt beneath, along with her weapons.

  Black patent ankle boots with heels were less practical than her usual footwear, but were a good compromise under the abaya. She was out of the dress clothes before the car had left the long palace drive.

  Lara looked up as the car was filled with light.

  “Where have I seen that car before?” she asked as a big European saloon swung past them. She banged on the privacy screen, and the limousine came to a stop. The car was followed by a Hummer. Carter turned to look out of the rear windscreen at the car as it drove up to the palace.

  “Daimler, I think,” he said. “Grey or blue.”

  Two more Hummers passed their parked limousine.

  “Denny Sampson,” said Lara. “That’s Denny’s car. It was parked up when we went to see him. What the hell is he up to?”

  She lowered the privacy screen.

  “Back to the palace,” Lara said. “Fast.”

  The driver looked at her, nonplussed.

  “Just do it,” said Carter.

  The driver turned the car easily in the wide driveway and drove back up to the palace.

  Lara and Carter got out and armed themselves. Zizek’s keepers were conspicuous by their absence from the front of the building, and the vast doors to the entrance lobby stood open, spilling light onto the drive.

  Lara and Carter walked in. The lobby was just as they’d left it, the food laid out and drinks still on the bars. But service staff were nowhere to be seen, and Zizek’s men and the Wolf-Heads were gone.

  It was eerily still and quiet, as if the crowds and the staff had just dematerialised.

  Then the distant sound of gunfire echoed from above them.

  Lara and Carter exchanged glances.

  A shot rang out, closer, louder.

  A stack of glasses on the bar table beside Carter exploded in a spray of fragments.

  Carter threw himself into a forward dive, rolled, and ducked behind the banister to the left of the staircase. A second shot rang out. A chunk of gilded plaster pinged from the wall, an inch from where his head had been.

  Lara had slipped behind the banister to the right of the stairs.

  She looked up. She could see the barrel of a pistol between the ornate rails of the balustrade.

  The more distant gunfire was coming from behind the closed doors of the ballroom beyond.

  Lara watched and waited. The barrel of the pistol swung in Carter’s direction again, seeking him out. No one seemed to be looking for her. She took aim, waited, breathed, and then fired.

  She heard a muffled cry over the sound of gunfire still raging in the ballroom.

  “Denny Sampson!” shouted Lara, standing at the bottom of the staircase, gun raised.

  Denny stood up behind the balustrade, beaming.

  “Lara Croft,” he said. “Good shot.”

  Denny waved at his henchmen to lower their arms, and Lara dropped her aim. She jogged up the staircase.

  “What the hell’s going on, Denny, you son of a bitch?”

  “Slight change of plan,” said Denny.

  Lara reached the top of the stairs, turned in one fluid movement, and put her gun to the back of a man’s head. He was crouching behind the balustrade, pistol raised and aimed at the lobby.

  “Put the gun down,” she said.

  The gunman put his weapon on the floor next to him, and Lara called over the balustrade.

  “It’s all clear, Carter. You can come up.”

  “I’m not sure I want to,” said Carter, appearing at the bottom of the stairs.

  Denny laughed.

  “Change of plan, how?” asked Lara, swinging her aim back on Denny.

  He put up his hands in a mock gesture of surrender.

  “Zizek’s been running this racket for far too long,” said Denny. “I thought it was time for someone new to step up.”

  “And that would be you?” asked Lara.

  “I might have an interest,” said Denny. “I’m tired of the travelling, and the adrenalin. It’s time I settled in one place, and I know this business.”

  “So this is a coup?” asked Lara.

  Denny waved at the doors to the ballroom.

  “That’s a coup, Croft,” said Denny. “That’s a man who knows what he wants and how to get it, and, along the way, he’s going to give me what I want, too.”

  The gunshots subsided from inside the ballroom.

  “Watch and learn, Croft, and come along for the ride. It’ll be fun.”

  With that Denny Sampson signalled for his men to stand. They formed up at the row of double doors to the ballroom, and, on his signal, they entered.

  Blood was spattered on the gilding and smeared on the mirrors. The pink velvet and brocade were dappled with gore, and the polished floor was slick with it. Bodies were slumped against walls, behind cabinets, and in alcoves, and there were shards of crystal everywhere.

  Lara glanced at the remains of one of the crystal lamps. It looked like a tree hit by lightning, split and shredded by the experience, as if it had died and shed its foliage. It was almost more beautiful than it had been when it was whole.

  “Mr. Vata,” said Denny Sampson, holding out a broad hand to shake.

  “Denny Sampson,” said Vata, grasping it, half a smile just reaching his mouth, his eyes remaining cold. “So Zizek was wrong. Strand doesn’t have the artefact. I needn’t have killed him or his men.” He glanced at his phalanx of armed Wolf-Heads and nodded for them to be at their ease.

  Denny Sampson signalled for his men to do the same.

  “No,” said Denny, beaming, “he was right. Strand does have the artefact. I have Strand. One buyer, one seller.”

  “And you,” said Vata.

  “I’m a reasonable man,” said Denny Sampson. “You’ve dealt with me before.”

  Vata looked Lara up and down. He made one of his minute gestures.

  “The woman,” he said. “I recognise her. Who is she?”

  Denny turned, and Lara stepped forwards.

  “You looked more beautiful in the abaya,” said Vata.

  “Croft looks beautiful in anything,” said Denny.

  “The famous Lara Croft?” asked Vata. “I’m honoured. Had you not given a false name, I would have treated you very differently. Perhaps you can verify my purchase?”

  “I’d certainly like to see it,” said Lara.

  “Sampson?” asked Vata.

  “I’ve written down the details,” said Denny, offering a folded piece of paper. Vata minutely gestured once more, and Dibra took the note from Denny’s hand as the Wolf-Heads exited the ballroom with Vata safely at their centre.

  “So you plan to sell to Vata?” asked Lara. “The ever-reliable Denny Sampson.”

  They were standing in the lobby of the palace. Denny’s men were making short work of the buffet, and Denny had a large glass of whiskey in one big hand.

  “Relax, Lara. Have a drink. Have an hors d’oeuvre.”

  “You set me up, Denny. Did you expect me to get dragged into that firefight? Did you think I’d get gunned down along with Zizek’s goons?”

  Denny laughed.

  “This was nothing, Croft. A means to an end. I’m not selling to Vata. I’m buying time.”

  “For what?” asked Lara. “A decent meal?” She gestured at the cluttered remains of the buffet Denny’s gunmen had left behind them in the lobby.

  “Hey,” protested Denny, “it’s free.”

  Lara shook her head and turned to Bell.

  “Come on, Carter. We’re leaving.”

  Lara strode across the lobby towa
rds the exit, the doors still standing wide open. Carter was hard on her heels.

  “Oh, come on, Croft, be a sport,” called Denny. “Let me make it up to you.”

  Lara ignored Denny and kept walking, through the vast doors of the palace and out onto the drive. Vata and his entourage were long gone. The Hummers and Denny’s Daimler were parked up facing the palace. There were no other vehicles in sight. The driver of Lara’s limousine had clearly panicked and left. She didn’t blame him, although she regretted the loss of the clothes she’d left on the backseat.

  “What now?” asked Bell.

  “We walk,” said Lara.

  “And the artefact?”

  “Denny said it himself,” said Lara. “He’s playing for time. I’ve been dealing with Denny Sampson for years, Carter. All we have to do is work out where he’s got Strand holed up.”

  Less than ten minutes later, they heard the roar of engines as the Hummers approached and then passed them. They hadn’t even reached the end of the palace drive.

  Denny was driving himself. The driver’s window lowered silently, and he called Lara’s name as he dropped the speed of the car to match her walking pace.

  “Let me drive you back,” said Denny. “It’s the least I can do.”

  “I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”

  “Sure you would,” said Denny. “Look at it this way: I got the artefact out of the sale for you, and at the same time, I got Zizek’s business for me. All without putting either one of us in the firing line.”

  “You put me in that auction room tonight,” said Lara.

  “So, I had a little fun along the way,” said Denny. “Come on, Croft. Get in the damn car.”

  “What about Vata?”

  “Vata likes pretty things, but he likes weapons more. He collects what everyone else wants, and tomorrow I’ll be able to offer him something new, or, better still, something dangerous. I’m connected...more now than ever.”

  Lara stood still, and Denny stopped the car.

  “Come on, Carter. It looks like Denny’s moonlighting as our taxi service tonight,” she said, opening the rear car door.

  Carter got in the backseat of the car, followed by Lara. She slammed the door closed behind her.

  “You’re a manipulative son of a bitch, Denny Sampson,” she said.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” said Denny, grinning.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN:

  STRAND

  The Toros Mountains

  “This isn’t the route back into Kurkarob,” said Lara fifteen minutes into the journey.

  “The Toros are so beautiful, and so rich,” said Denny. “Don’t worry, Croft, it’ll just be us. My men have homes to go to, and, you know me, I like to travel light. A man like me doesn’t need an entourage.”

  “The Toros?” asked Lara.

  “I’ve got a little villa in the foothills, about an hour from here. You’ll love it.”

  “And Strand?” asked Bell.

  “There’s nowhere for him to go, and the villa’s comfortable. He’ll be waiting for us.”

  “What about Vata?” asked Lara. “What was in the note?”

  “A time and a place, Croft. Don’t you worry about Vata.”

  “Tell me about the sword,” said Lara.

  “You haven’t seen it?” asked Denny.

  “Tell me why Vata wants it.”

  “Why does a rich man ever want anything? Because there is only one of it, and because other men want it,” said Denny.

  “What other men?” asked Lara, on her guard.

  “Other people,” said Denny. “You’re very literal, Croft. You want it. Plenty of other people in that room wanted it. Vata believes that I saved him money, and that’s why he’s dealing with me. He doesn’t have to pay Zizek’s commission, and he doesn’t have to outbid anyone.”

  Lara said nothing.

  “You deal with me because you can’t help liking me, Lara Croft.”

  When they arrived at the villa, the drive was empty, except for Denny’s car. The place was well lit, but they were the only lights that Lara had seen for more than half an hour. The house was very isolated.

  That didn’t concern her. It took more than that to concern her. There was only one heavy in the place, and he seemed more than a little relaxed. Lara could take him easily enough, if she had to.

  Strand was nowhere to be seen.

  “Make yourselves at home,” said Denny, almost as soon as they walked through the door, which led straight into a large, comfortable sitting room. “Sandler will find you something to eat, and a room. Or perhaps you’d prefer two?”

  “We’re not staying,” said Lara.

  “Well, gee, Sandler’s not driving you back to Kurkarob tonight. It’s late, so be my guests, Croft. Relax.”

  “Where’s Strand?” asked Lara.

  “Bed,” said the scruffy man in his thirties or early forties who was lounging on a huge leather chesterfield and hadn’t bothered to get up yet. Lara assumed the man must be Sandler.

  “And the artefact?”

  Denny glanced up from where he was pouring himself a whiskey at a console table loaded with decanters. The table stood against an interior stone wall, rough-hewn and clearly very old. There was a cavernous fireplace on the end wall of the room.

  “Safe,” he said, but she could hear a tension cutting his normally jocular tone.

  “Denny,” she said, a hint of warning.

  “Sit down, Croft. Here, have a drink,” he said, walking towards her with a half-full glass.

  Bell took the glass out of his hand and sat on one end of the chesterfield.

  “It’s been a long day, Denny. Just give Lara what she wants,” he said, sipping from the glass.

  “Thanks, Carter,” said Lara. “I want to see the sword, and I want to speak to Strand. And I want to do both tonight.”

  “Fair enough,” said Denny.

  They were eating and talking in the big kitchen when Strand appeared, wandering in, still half-asleep and dishevelled. He was a tall, slender young man, but he was also pale and wide-eyed and anxious-looking. It was the same man from the photograph.

  Strand stopped in his tracks when he saw Lara, and then his mouth fell open when he saw Carter Bell. He made a move as if to turn and run, but thought better of it. There was nowhere for him to go.

  “Ah, Strand,” said Denny. “Join us.”

  “Mr. Bell,” said Strand.

  “Strand,” said Carter.

  “You can’t take it back,” said Strand, petulant. “It’s mine now. They would have just locked it away. They were shutting us down.”

  “Do I look like the police?” asked Carter.

  “Who’s she?” asked Strand, pointing at Lara.

  “She?” said Denny, in disgust. “Lara Croft is not just some she. Have some damn respect.”

  “Lara Croft?” said Strand. “The Lara Croft?”

  “The very same,” said Denny. “So mind your manners.”

  “So you did take the sword?” asked Lara.

  “What’s it to you?” asked Strand.

  “Manners,” said Denny. “Why don’t you just answer the question?”

  “She’s not the police,” said Strand.

  “Then it shouldn’t matter what you tell her,” said Denny. “If I’m going to sell this thing for you, you need people like Bell and Miss Croft to authenticate it for me.”

  “I was selling it through Mr. Zizek,” said Strand, still petulant and still standing.

  “And look how well that turned out,” said Denny. He laughed, a belly laugh, and thumped the table. When he’d composed himself, he looked around at Bell’s and Lara’s unsmiling faces.

  “Oh, come on,” he said. “That was funny.”

  “Sit down, Strand,” said Lar
a. “Tell me where you got the sword.”

  “And tell us what else you took from the site,” said Bell.

  Strand stood for a few more moments, under Lara’s glare, and, finally, he pulled out a chair and sat.

  Jamie Strand, a young graduate, had been part of the team at the Candle Lane dig. When things had got hairy—and Strand himself had clearly been spooked by the atmosphere at the dig—he had made a fast exit.

  And he’d taken some items with him with a view to getting some compensation for himself.

  Strand seemed a contradiction to Lara: he knew enough about the business to realize that Kurkarob offered him the best market for such high-value loot, and he was evidently smart and well educated.

  But he was also naive. He had thought he could just walk into Kurkarob’s den of thieves and come out intact, with his pockets full of cash.

  “I’m not getting paid, am I?” asked Strand, when he had finally satisfied Lara and Bell. “This has all been for nothing.”

  “You wanted to be an archaeologist,” said Lara. “What happened to your ambition?”

  “Student debts,” spat Strand, “and government directives, and low-grade jobs with crap pay, and underfunding...”

  “So you thought stealing was a good plan?”

  “You do it,” said Strand.

  Denny Sampson laughed again, long and hard, his face reddening and his eyes watering. He dabbed at his face with a napkin, breathed hard, and brought himself under control.

  “I do the jokes around here,” he said. “But that was the funniest thing I think I’ve ever heard. Lara Croft, a thief!” He burst into a renewed fit of laughter.

  “I leave that to the Denny Sampsons of the world,” said Lara.

  A mobile phone rang with the theme song to the Halloween movie. Denny coughed and pulled himself together.

  “That’s me,” he said and rose from the table.

  “Weird ringtone,” said Carter.

  “Weird to get mobile reception out here,” replied Lara.

  “You’re weird,” said Strand. He was sulking.

  Sandler sighed and began to clear the kitchen table.

  “I can’t stand babysitting,” he announced. “Especially babysitting babies.”

  “You’re going to steal the sword from me,” said Strand.