Tomb Raider: The Ten Thousand Immortals Read online

  The policeman turned to Lara.

  “Can I see your passport, miss?” he asked.

  “Let me help you,” said Ponytail, reaching into Lara’s pocket for her passport. She handed it to the policeman.

  “My name is Lara Croft,” said Lara. “You must help me.”

  “You need to calm down, Lara,” said Ponytail. “I’m sorry, officer.”

  Ponytail reached into her own pocket and pulled out a British passport, which she handed to the policeman. “I’m Lydia Croft. I’m Lara’s sister. She’s very nervous. I’m so sorry. We can take care of her.”

  Oh no! thought Lara. This is actually happening!

  The Policeman looked at both passports and handed them back to the woman posing as Lara’s sister.

  “I hope you feel better, miss,” he said to Lara.

  Crewcut’s hand tightened still further around Lara’s arm, and she was being propelled through the shopping centre once more. Ponytail was now on her other side. Lara could think of nothing except swiping back her passport, which she shoved back in her jacket pocket.

  Lara tried to think. If the police couldn’t help her, what could she do? She couldn’t fight, and she couldn’t run.

  Bide your time, Lara, she told herself.

  Windcheater was at the wheel of the car in the car park beneath the shopping centre.

  “What’s going on?” asked Lara.

  Crewcut, sitting next to her in the back of the car, said nothing.

  Ponytail turned from the passenger seat and looked at her.

  “And why the hell are you posing as my sister?” asked Lara.

  Chapter 11

  “What do you know about the Golden Fleece?” asked the preternaturally well-groomed, elderly man.

  He was sitting behind an imposing desk. It was clearly antique, and gleamed with a mirror finish buffed by dozens of hands over hundreds of years. The room, an office or study, was savagely austere in an unmistakably masculine way, and it looked as if it hadn’t changed, ever, probably not since the building had been erected in the seventeenth century.

  Lara was on the top floor of one of the majestic buildings on one of the most famous streets in the world. No attempt had been made to keep the destination from her. If she looked out of the window to her left, she could see onto the Champs-Élysées below. She didn’t look. She concentrated on the man’s face.

  “My father taught me never to speak to strangers,” said Lara.

  “Then let us become acquainted,” said the man, unsmiling.

  “Perhaps my sister should introduce us,” said Lara.

  “If you’d be more comfortable with a woman present...” said the man.

  “I’d be more comfortable anywhere but here,” said Lara.

  “And yet here you are. It is an honour. The chair you are sitting in came from the private rooms of the most influential man at the court of Tsar Nicolas II of Russia.”

  Lara thought for a moment.

  “Grigori Rasputin,” she said.

  “The very same,” said the man.

  “And this desk came from Manchester College in England. It is the library table that John Dee used during his time as warden at the college.”

  “I’m astonished these objects aren’t in museums,” said Lara. “Such rare things usually belong to public institutions.”

  “They belong to me,” said the man. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Ares. Now, you see, we are no longer strangers.”

  Lara tried not to show her surprise. She needed time to think, to process, to piece together what she knew. She decided to follow Ares’s lead. She glanced away from him, down at Rasputin’s chair.

  “This really belonged to Rasputin?” she asked, allowing the conversation to play out while she sifted back in her mind through what she had read.

  “Indeed it did,” said Ares.

  Ares, God of War, of destruction, of violence. What else did the Book say?

  “Are you one of those people who believes objects should be looked at and not used?” asked Ares. “Do they not become meaningless, inert, if they are not put to their proper use? Should they not live in the world?”

  Ares was cross-referenced in the section on immortality, but that was wrong. The Book was misleading.

  Lara stalled for time. She stroked the arm of the chair, as if pondering the question.

  “I think that objects should be shared and studied, and I think they should be conserved. This chair has a place in history. People would want to see it if they knew it existed. People will still want to see it in a hundred years or five hundred years.”

  “That is the beauty of owning such an object,” said Ares. “To have the privilege of choosing who sees it, who uses it, to have power over its exposure in the world, to use it oneself. Don’t you see?”

  “On the other hand, it’s a dead man’s chair,” said Lara.

  “Not just any dead man,” said Ares.

  “A powerful man,” said Lara. “A man who shaped a dynasty. Nevertheless, a man who fell.”

  “You miss my point,” said Ares. “Rasputin was killed five times before he died. He was poisoned, shot twice through the torso, and subsequently shot twice more. Then, he was severely clubbed, and finally he drowned.”

  “Nevertheless, he died,” said Lara.

  Ares barked a sudden, deeply unpleasant laugh.

  “What do you know about the Golden Fleece?” he asked for the second time.

  “You collect antiques,” said Lara. “You’re clearly interested in history. If you want to know about the Golden Fleece, you have the means to find out that information. Buy a book.”

  “Your belligerence is neither necessary nor becoming,” said Ares. “What is your interest in the artifact?”

  “I’m an archaeologist,” said Lara. “It’s my job.”

  “As far as I could ascertain, you are not currently employed,” said Ares. “I believe you are what is commonly known as a ‘trust fund brat.’ Am I correct?”

  “I make my own way,” said Lara. “But I can be a brat, if you like.”

  “What is your interest in the Golden Fleece?” asked Ares.

  Lara was facing down a very serious man in a very serious room. She had stalled for time and she had played games. She was in danger, and she knew it. She could feel it. She had to stay calm and, somehow, she had to get out.

  A glance at the window had told her that it wasn’t an option. She was too high up. There was only one door into and out of the room, and she was sure there was someone beyond it. She had been escorted in by Crewcut and Ponytail, and Windcheater had to be around somewhere. She had no idea who else was in the building. She also had very little idea of the layout of the building. Worst of all, they’d taken her bag. She had her passport and a credit card in her pocket, but the Book was in her bag. She’d sewn it into the lining of the base. If she was lucky, they wouldn’t find it.

  Lara sighed heavily as if resigned to finally answering his questions.

  “I visited the foremost professor of antiquities,” she said. “He told me there was no such thing as the Golden Fleece.”

  “Ah yes,” said Ares. “Your visit to Oxford.”

  “How do you know about that?” asked Lara.

  “Because I have made it my business to know about you, Lara Croft,” said Ares. “I make it a point of principle to learn something about anyone who takes an interest in my business.”

  “And what is your business?” asked Lara.

  “In this particular instance,” said Ares, raising his arms to encompass the room and everything in it, “artifacts, of course. My business is history, myth, legend, and the objects that make them come alive.”

  “Then you know why I was interested in the Golden Fleece,” said Lara.

  “The entire wor
ld is interested in the Golden Fleece,” said Ares. “Your father would have been interested. Your professor in Oxford is interested, and the American boy, the one who looks like an athlete, perhaps he’s interested, too. A word of warning, Miss Croft. You should be careful in whom you choose to put your faith. Trust is so easily broken.”

  “Are you threatening me?” asked Lara. “Because I’m just a girl, just a student. You’re asking me questions, but it seems as if you have all the answers.”

  “No, Miss Croft. I have no reason to threaten you. You interest me, just as your father did before you. I followed his exploits all over the globe… I followed your adventures on Yamatai. It was all most fascinating.”

  “What do you know about Yamatai?” asked Lara. “What do you know about Sam?”

  “I know a very great deal, Miss Croft. Knowledge is power, and I am nothing if not a powerful man. But I am not an adventurer. Those people, people like you, are so often innocents, and innocents are invariably exploited in this cruel world. You must beware, Miss Croft.”

  Lara chose to be more sullen than aggressive. She was young and a girl; she could get away with a bit of petulance if she played it right.

  “Innocent?” said Lara. “I was naive. I was stupid and upset, because my friend is sick. And the legend of the Golden Fleece is such a wonderful story.”

  “You wanted to cure your friend?” asked Ares. “How divine. Divine and foolhardy. You thought you could find the Golden Fleece and use it to save your friend.” He barked out another laugh. “An artifact that makes men immortal kings!” He barked again.

  “It’s not funny,” said Lara, keeping up the petulant act.

  Ares stopped laughing as suddenly as he had begun.

  “Then why did you decide to come to Paris?” he asked.

  “Because there is no Golden Fleece,” said Lara. She had to think fast. When she had to think, when she had to concoct stories, the truth always came more easily than lies. Some form of the truth at least.

  “I came for the antiquities… for the jewelers,” said Lara.

  “Explain yourself,” said Ares.

  “The myth of the Golden Fleece originated in Colchis, where gold was mined using sheepskins laid in streams. The gold collected in the wool and was combed out. You can call me superstitious if you like, but I thought if I could find something made from Colchis gold… I thought it might be a lucky charm for my friend.”

  “Is that all?” asked Ares.

  “That’s it,” said Lara. “You can check my return ticket if you don’t believe me. I’m in Paris for a couple of days, and then I need to go back to see my friend.”

  Ares pressed a discreet button on a console on his desk, and the large double doors to his office opened. Crewcut entered, and the two men exchanged a few words in French. Ares addressed him as Hydarnes, and Lara also heard the name Darius.

  So Crewcut’s name is Hydarnes, thought Lara. That makes Windcheater Darius.

  Then, she heard the words “dix mille Immortels.”

  The Ten Thousand Immortals, thought Lara. She remembered bookmarking the wiki entry and the home page for the Ten Thousand Immortals. What was that note in the Book?

  Crewcut turned to Lara, and she noticed that he was wearing an earpiece. He hadn’t been wearing it in public.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  Lara looked at Ares. Who was this man? She didn’t stop looking at him as she rose slowly from the chair. She was in no hurry to leave the room. She did not know what was coming, but she knew that she had to find some way to get out of that building. Ares was a dangerous man. She didn’t like him, and she didn’t trust him.

  Finally, she turned and followed Hydarnes out of the room.

  Alone in his office, Ares sat at his desk and threw a switch on his console.

  “Yes, Ares,” said a voice.

  “If Miss Croft tries to escape, let her go,” said Ares, “but don’t make it easy. I want to see what she’s capable of. She might still prove useful.”

  “As you wish, Ares.”

  Chapter 12

  Ponytail was waiting outside the door and went ahead of Lara down the stairs. At the bottom of the second flight, Lara spoke.

  “Lydia, whatever your name is. I really need a bathroom.”

  Ponytail turned and looked over her shoulder at Crewcut.

  “Yes, Ares,” said Crewcut, making Lara wait. He was speaking into his cuff, which Lara assumed housed a mic attached to his earpiece.

  “Come on,” said Lara, appealing to Ponytail again. “I need my bag, and I need a bathroom. It’s embarrassing.” They had descended another floor.

  “As you wish, Ares,” said Crewcut.

  “There are two of us, and she’s just a kid,” said Lydia.

  “Fine,” said Crewcut. “Did you check the bag?”

  “Nothing but a change of clothes,” said Ponytail.

  Lara didn’t sigh with relief.

  “Whatever,” said Crewcut.

  They had stopped on the first floor. Lara had her back to a wall, and Crewcut was standing very close to her, blocking her in. Ponytail took the flight of stairs down to the ground floor and then back with Lara’s bag. She escorted Lara along a short corridor into a large anteroom that appeared to serve as some sort of reception room or waiting area. There was a door to the left that Ponytail gestured towards.

  Lara took her bag and entered the room. She locked herself in the bathroom and looked around. The bathroom was large with a tall, narrow window onto a balcony.

  Noise, she needed noise.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this… Of all the clichés!

  Lara started making retching noises as she opened the window. She flushed the toilet and ran water in the sink. Then, she made more retching noises as she slid out of the window onto the tiny balcony. The window was so narrow that she almost got herself wedged, and the balcony wasn’t much more than a shelf.

  Lara reached in and flushed the toilet once more, making more retching noises.

  Then, she climbed over the low railings of the balcony. As she lowered her body so that she was hanging from the balustrade, she heard tapping on the bathroom door.

  “Now or never, Lara,” she said, and dropped.

  The window was on the side of the building, on a quiet cross street marked Rue Balzac, with mopeds parked below. The drop was sudden and frightening, but there were no obstacles between Lara and the pavement. She landed, keeping her knees soft, and fell forward, hard, onto her outstretched hands. She looked from left to right, but she had not been seen. She got to her feet, gingerly, testing her knees and dusting off her hands. Her ankle was sore, but she didn’t think she’d done any real damage. She straightened her jacket, took one long breath, and walked away from the Champs-Élysées.

  Ponytail knocked on the bathroom door. The retching had stopped, and the toilet hadn’t been flushed for a minute, but the water was still running.

  “What’s taking so long?” asked Crewcut, coming up behind her.

  “She was vomiting,” said Ponytail.

  Crewcut listened at the door.

  “Not anymore,” he said. He tried the handle, but the door was locked. “Shit.”

  Crewcut shouldered the door open.

  “Shit!” he said again as he saw the open window. “Get after her.”

  Ponytail sidled through the window and vaulted the balustrade in a handspring, landing on her feet, knees bent, on the pavement below. She looked left and right, but saw nothing. Lara had gone.

  “No sighting of subject,” she said. “Proceeding onto the Champs-Élysées.”

  Back in the building, Crewcut had taken the stairs to ground level, speaking all the way.

  “Ares wants Croft followed,” he said. “Lydia, stay where you are. Darius, start the car. If she’s on foot
on the Champs-Élysées, stay with her. I’ll have coordinates in ten seconds.”

  Hydarnes entered a room on the right of the imposing entrance hall on the ground floor of the building.

  “Give me the tracker coordinates, now,” he said to a young tech sitting at a computer. “And punch up a display.”

  “Of course, Hydarnes,” said the woman, keying in a code and then getting up from her seat.

  Hydarnes sat. He relayed the coordinates, and looked at the screen.

  “Good work getting a tracker in Croft’s bag. No one thought we’d need it.”

  “Thank you, Hydarnes,” said the tech.

  “Lydia, do you see her? She’s heading along Rue Balzac towards Rue Lord Byron.”

  “Negative, Hydarnes,” said Lydia, but she jogged up the street towards the intersection, checking as she went. She saw no one.

  “Darius, drive northwest on the Champs-Élysées and join Rue Lord Byron at the intersection with Houssaye. Get in front of Croft.”

  The blip on Hydarnes’s screen moved, and he turned to the tech.

  “Where is she?” he asked.

  “She’s not taking the streets,” said the tech. “She’s in one of the buildings. There.” She leaned in and hit a key. “I don’t know.”

  “Best guess?” asked Hydarnes.

  “Cinéma Le Balzac,” said the tech.

  “She’s inside, Lydia,” said Hydarnes. “Cinéma Le Balzac.”

  Lara was surprised to be greeted in the lobby of the cinema by a dapper man in late middle age.

  “Pardon, monsieur,” she began. She held up her hands to show the grazes she’d suffered when she landed, falling from the balcony.

  “Dear mademoiselle,” he said. He placed a solicitous hand on Lara’s back and steered her towards the ladies’ bathroom.

  Not again, thought Lara. She was grateful nonetheless. In the bathroom, she took off her jacket and swapped it for a sweater from her rucksack. She also bundled up her hair and pulled a baseball cap over it. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but if they were looking for her, it might confuse them long enough for her to get away. She gave her hands a cursory wash. They stung, but other things were more important. She couldn’t believe her luck when she saw that the ladies’ loo had its own fire exit. She closed it behind her as she left.