

### Laurence Swift & The Search for Pandora's Box

### By

### L. A. J. Jennings

### Chapter One

### Introducing Laurence Swift

He was tired, oh so very tired. His forehead was moist with sweat, his blue tie was yanked awkwardly out of position, his baggy pale white shirt hung out of his belted grey trousers, and his usually smooth blonde hair was a mess after several vigorous tousles. The stench of gasoline that poured from the other participants of the early morning London traffic penetrated his nostrils and made his stomach curl into a little ball with disgust. He had been cycling for such a length of time it seemed like an entire Ice Age, which was ironic as it was one of the country's hottest summers on record. Today, for instance, it was 35 degrees and promising to rise.

As he flew past a double-decker juggernaut on his thin, fragile tyres, he cursed bitterly his alarm clock, registering a mental note to destroy it as soon as he returned home. At any rate he would check that there were batteries in it as soon as he got home from work. That was if he ever got to work in the first place.

As things stood, he was only half an hour late and was not far from his destination, 'The London Museum of Natural and Ancient History', where he worked as a tour guide. This was only temporary (as he constantly explained to anyone who showed the slightest bit of interest) while the sales of his books went through a dry patch (a dry patch that had now lasted some five years) and as he waited for a call from the University of Twickenham to offer him his old job back, for once he had been a part-time (and much loved, so he told everyone) lecturer in Classics. In actual fact, he had been a one-time lecturer. The lecture he gave on the Belvedere Torso dragged on for so long that a pregnant woman not only went into labour but had her baby delivered while he was still speaking.

He loved his job at the museum, but his job didn't love him. He was always getting into trouble with his employers due to his occasionally poor time-keeping and 'interesting' tour anecdotes; he had been in trouble more than once for expressing his own opinion on many of the museum's favourite exhibits; he told a tour of GCSE students that the pyramids were originally square but erosion had left them the way they were today. He also told them that Julius Caesar was actually called Julius Seizure because of his supposed epilepsy. In addition, he never passed up an opportunity to slate many scholars' views on the Ancient World, leading to warnings that were once occasional, then weekly, then everyday occurrences, so much so that his boss, Quentin Derry, had told him that if he was late again then he would be late again for the very last time. Yet he wasn't worried. Laurence Swift was never worried.

***

Laurence Swift was worried, very, very worried. His boss was upset. His boss was angry, annoyed and bemused. Overall, Quentin Derry wanted Laurence Swift out of his life and out of his museum as quickly as possible, preferably without any more damage to its rare antiquities and expensive exhibits. Quentin Derry was Head of Archaeology at the museum and was about to give Laurence his marching orders after the tour guide had carried out his final uninformative tour. Quentin had already told Laurence after he turned up half an hour late for the third time this week that he had wanted a 'word', which was unofficial code for 'you're fired' and this was no exception. Ever since Laurence had joined the museum it had been calamity after calamity; he had set fire to the caveman exhibit, encased himself in a block of ice in 'Frozen World' and fainted every time he walked into 'Dino Land', where he was faced on a daily basis by what was to everyone else a very realistic but obviously fake Pterodactyl. But every day Laurence was confronted by these models and every day he fainted. Even worse, Laurence had insulted Derry's wife by mistaking her for a model of Genghis Khan. Yet surely, surely, Laurence Swift wouldn't do anything wrong today. That was the only thought in the mind of Quentin Derry as he barked instructions at idle staff. As they scuttled away to do their duty, Quentin Derry knelt and prayed.

***

Laurence had a feeling that this was to be his last tour, so he had better make it a good one, he thought to himself. But as he got closer and closer to the end of his route, he realised that this job wasn't the right one for him. Perhaps it wouldn't be such a devastating loss. Life would go on and his torment would be at end. He had done his best, but no one laughed at what he thought were his hilarious jokes, no one listened to his interesting anecdotes and many of the younger tourists made fun of his appearance. There were no perks to this job; the pay wasn't good, there was a striking lack of attractive female co-workers, or any female co-workers for that matter, and it wasn't satisfying. Surely fate had more in store for him than disaster after disaster?

His thoughts turned to what he would do with his life now. He had always wanted to travel, to find hidden treasure, discover ancient civilisations and save distressed damsels from certain peril. In short, Laurence wanted to be Indiana Jones. There were however three major obstacles to his chosen path. Firstly, Indiana Jones wasn't real, and therefore Laurence couldn't be him. Secondly, Laurence wasn't brave or strong or scholarly; he was an inexperienced man with no faith in his own abilities. He didn't believe in himself or believe himself capable of great feats. Thirdly, and perhaps the most important and dangerous obstacle of them all, he had just entered the 'Extinct Animals' exhibit with his tour of twenty students, and immediate calamity was just one innocent question away.

'We have reached the end of our tour, ladies and gentleman, the 'Extinct Animals' section! Feel free to wander about for yourselves, return to previously visited exhibits and do please visit the gift shop. Are there any questions?' Laurence asked, as he swept his sun-soaked hair to one side and scratched at it impatiently.

'Yeah,' said a gangly, unwashed youth. 'Do you know anything about Aztec burial rituals or the Holy Grail?'

'No, sorry' Laurence answered swiftly. Why was this man asking him questions about those subjects when they were in the 'Extinct Animals' exhibit, he asked himself. Had they really been paying so little attention to what he had been saying? Laurence was reaching the end of his tether.

'Okay well what about the lost city of El Dorado, Atlantis and buried treasure?' A very short woman, hidden by a huddle of bored looking students, proceeded to ask.

'I'm afraid not but I'm sure if you asked Nigel...' an increasingly annoyed Laurence replied, his tether fraying with each passing second.

A man in an ill-fitting t-shirt and orange baseball cap that was facing the wrong way asked one final question, 'So you know nothing about Excalibur or the Incas or...'

'No!' roared Laurence furiously, 'I know nothing about Aztecs, Holy Grails, aliens, magical chalices, power stones, pyramids, lost cities or buried treasure! I know nothing about these things! I know nothing! We're in the 'Ancient Animals' exhibit you moron, why the hell would I need to know anything about Excalibur!' The man stood on his tiptoes, his hands thrust forward in exasperation, his face as red as the ripest strawberry. A panorama of his tour revealed twenty gobsmacked faces, unable to believe the tour guide's volcanic-like eruption of anger. However, one spotty 16 year-old girl had one last question for the about-to-be-fired tour guide. She spoke in a harsh Scottish accent,

'Excuse me, Mister. That there Woolly Mammoth skeleton,' she pointed to the magnificent animal behind Laurence, 'is that thing fragile or really rock-hard, you know, proper sturdy?'

Laurence relaxed his body, and turned to answer, 'That's a good question. Now when I first worked here I too, like you, thought that the slightest touch on one of these precious exhibits, that had remain untouched and perfectly preserved for millions of years, and is now suspended by only a few slight strings, would cause the whole thing to collapse and end up a heap of useless bones on the floor. Ha-ha, what a fool I was!' He chuckled, and as he chuckled, he outstretched one of his arms and held onto the ribcage of the woolly mammoth skeleton that was suspended mid-air behind him. Indeed he was a fool, for as he put his whole weight onto it the wires in the ceiling started to shriek under the pressure and in an instant the whole skeleton started to fall and collapse behind him, causing a cacophony of broken bones and pieces of ceiling. The proceeding tremors caused a similar Sabre-toothed tiger skeleton to fall also, then another skeleton, and another, the rubble upon rubble cascade resulting in a cloud of dust spreading about the room and a scream from the mouth of Quentin Derry that echoed about the room for what felt like eternity. The dust settled, revealing twenty faces that were even more gobsmacked and shocked than before. Laurence turned, looked at the heap of dust, bones and building infrastructure that had collected up on the floor behind him, and let out a deep breath. His eyes lit up, his limbs froze like blocks of ice and his hair leapt off his skin in terror. And then, he fainted.

### Chapter Two

### Desertion, Drinks and Dreams

Having packed his bags and left, Laurence returned to his mid-town flat, a small but cosy dwelling which he shared with his friend Richard. He had hoped to slumber amongst the comforting bubbles of a luxurious bath and hear some encouraging words from his flatmate, but as he pushed open the stern door, he observed that Richard was doing some packing of his own.

'What's going on?' He asked in a surprised manner. Cardboard boxes were strewn about the living room; some were full of Richard's belongings and some were in the process of being filled by Richard's girlfriend, Carla, who had never really taken to Laurence; partly because he had set fire to her favourite top by leaving the iron on it, and partly because he had accidentally hit her cat with his bicycle one morning when he was particularly late for work. Ever since then, Carla had been plotting her, and Richard's, escape from the walking cataclysm that was Laurence Swift. Now it seemed she had finally got her wish. Richard, wearing a checked shirt over a grey t-shirt, lifted his head from his suitcase and placed a hand on Laurence's shoulder, saying,

'I'm sorry, mate, but I've decided to move in with Carla.' His voice wore a mellow, resigned tone of guilt. He didn't make eye contact with Laurence, merely giving his shoulder a light and rather patronising pat before shuffling over to a shelf covered with picture frames. Carla entered from the kitchen carrying about a dozen 'How to Cook' books she had bought for Laurence, to whom she gave a snort of disdain and such a glare that would make you feel that you were looking at the Devil himself.

'Since when?' asked a perplexed Laurence. Carla gave Richard a push in the back as if to urge him on and he replied in a more stern voice by saying,

'It's been a long time coming, buddy. I'm sorry, but things are...you see I'm...' He glanced over to Carla, a shrew of a woman who fired an icy stare back at him. 'I'm going, that's just the way it is.' Richard cleared his throat, paced over to a box and shone a quick smile at Laurence's distraught face. The recently fired tour guide nodded in appreciation and went to find a quiet corner of the flat where he could reflect and reminisce. He slung his satchel bag over a kitchen chair. The bag was empty, empty, just like Laurence's flat would now be. Just like his life would now be.

In moving to London from his family home in the secluded village of Woodmancote, a veritable hive of the elderly, he had called Richard, a friend from university, and asked whether he would live with him. As Richard was of wealthy family, generous nature and unhindered by any responsibility or desire to work, he agreed. For a few months life was bliss; they stayed up all night together watching martial arts movies, failing to win pub quizzes and generally reliving their student days. All this came to an end the day Carla moved in. She was the kind of woman it was impossible to say no to, for the slightest sign of defiance from Richard was usually met with a temper tantrum from Carla. Try as he might to make him see sense, Richard only found Laurence's attempts to advise irritating and unwelcome. Over the past few weeks their relationship had been anything but friendly. Not that it mattered anyway, Richard was leaving and it seemed their friendship was over.

A few hours later, Richard's packing was completed and, as Carla waited impatiently in the loaded car outside, he went into the kitchen where Laurence was now sitting, looking rather forlorn. They shared some meaningless words about how they would keep in touch and how Laurence didn't blame Richard for moving out. Laurence pursed his lips together in a vain attempt to find some words that would compel Richard to stay. They didn't come and so he slumped back down into his chair in despair. Each part of his life was falling apart with every cruel hour that passed. The two of them briefly joined together for a farewell hug and then Richard left, dropping his keys on the kitchen table. The metal clanged harshly on the wooden surface, and Laurence was left to reflect on his day alone. The apartment was now cold and its soul seemed to be sucked away as soon as Richard closed the door. What was once a lively hive of friendship and activity was now an empty, barren, tomb of loneliness. A shadow of depression hung over Laurence. The forlorn former tour guide walked lethargically around the living room space, wiping the dust off the mantelpiece where Richard's DVD's had one lived. He went over to the CD player but it wasn't there. No, it had belonged to Richard, and he had taken it with him. Laurence thought sleep might bring a temporary end to his sorrows and, knowing the sofa was around the corner, the sofa that had so often been his refuge after a day at work, he ran round and collapsed onto it, or he would have done, had it belonged to him and not to Richard, who had taken it with him. So Laurence picked himself off the floor and nursed his now sore back. No solace was to be found here. Solace could be found at the local pub, however, and that was where Laurence headed.

***

Laurence Swift had just lost his job, been deserted by his best friend, had his flat emptied of its contents and was now left sitting on a stool at the bar of 'The Dragon', his local, staring intensely at the wooden panelled floor. It was cool but crowded inside the bar; a fan buzzed away in the corner of the room whilst the doors let the noise of the ever-constant London traffic inside. The bar itself smelt of alcohol and vomit. The wailing of sirens, the beeping of horns and the miscellaneous voices that filtered into the bar represented the buzz of life, yet Laurence felt as if his own was going nowhere.

Who then was Laurence Swift? He had been asking himself the very same question for the last hour as he wallowed in self-pity on his usual bar stall. He was a tall, slender man in his mid-twenties, with a strong jawline, prominent cheekbones and clear blue eyes. His hair was a thick, wavy mop the colour of straw that descended down to his shirt collar, but was brushed away to the left hand side of his face. He was a keen footballer, cyclist and a would-be adventurer. As a teenager he made great plans to follow in the footsteps of his brothers and pursue life in foreign lands. Sadly though, he possessed an infuriating inability to actually enact any of his grand plans due to an overbearing mother, who possessed such a worrying attitude that he was now himself, a worrier. Yet his character was good and true and, despite being clumsy, incompetent and possessing a bumbling nature, he was a man who had all the potential to be the hero he had always wanted to be. All he needed was the opportunity and the confidence to show it.

He tried to think, tried to get his head around why exactly his life had gone so dramatically downhill. No matter what he did, it always seemed to be the wrong thing and ended up upsetting someone. Was there something wrong with him? Or was the world just against him? He didn't know and he wouldn't be able to discover the answer or enjoy his pint if the man next to him didn't stop staring at him. His gaze had been focused entirely on Laurence ever since he had entered the bar, save for when he took a sip from his small glass of whisky. Laurence snatched a glance at the man who watched him; he was a great hulking mass, with bulging eyes that seemed the size of mince pies and his bald head reminded Laurence of an egg. Suddenly he was hungry. He thought that instead of staring at him, he ought to take a look at what he was wearing. The broad-shouldered beast of a man wore red and white pinstripe trousers that draped over some brown brogues. The trousers were held in place by a tangerine belt that kept the big man's balloon like stomach at bay. The outfit was completed by a burgundy jacket over the top of a pink shirt. Though his face bore a kind and gracious smile, there was something quite sinister about how his cunning eyebrows were arched in Laurence's direction. Though he certainly wouldn't walk away with any fashion awards anytime soon, the man would certainly win a staring contest. Laurence began to feel uneasy and his fingers tapped on the bar in time to the loud music that was banging away in the background. A quick survey of the room told him that the bar was sparsely populated; a few gentlemen dressed in business suits played cards in the corner by the toilets, an elderly couple, who spent so much time in the bar that they might as well pay rent in the opinion of Laurence, read the newspaper in unadulterated silence and there were three attractive but troublesome looking women by the jukebox; shady characters who would often talk to whoever was playing on the adjacent pool tables; in this instance, two hung-over students. The complement was completed by the staring man, who was still staring as Laurence returned his gaze to the floor beneath him. There would be no resolution to his problems if he remained in the bar to be stared at by a man who wouldn't look out of place in the circus. He downed what was left of his comforting drink and decided to leave, but just as he rose from his stool the strange man placed a hand on his shoulder and said,

'Can I buy you another drink, Mr Swift?' Laurence turned his face to the stranger, more startled that the man had spoken, and indeed could speak, rather than the fact that the stranger knew him.

'How do you know my name?' Laurence asked with a touch of anger, a temporary emotion brought on by his bad fortune throughout the day.

'Because it's written on your name tag,' the man answered, a broad smile stretching across his face. Laurence checked his shirt and found that above the left breast his museum name tag was still in place. He looked back to the man and his cheeks were stricken with embarrassment. 'Please sit down,' the man said pleasantly to put him at his ease. He had a strong American accent that was happy and bright. With some deliberation, Laurence reacquainted himself with his bar stool and ordered another beer.

'I've been reading some of your work, Mr Swift.' Laurence's big blue eyes sparkled with surprise bordering on disbelief. The 'work' that the man referred to were two books that Laurence had written during his time at university, time he should have spent revising for exams, that were focused on Greek mythology, particularly Pandora's Box, but they were did not sell well. In fact, they didn't sell at all. As a result of the failure of these books, Laurence was forced to take any job he could find, and it was the job of museum tour guide that he found. Surprised to find someone who had actually read his books, the former author and current nobody continued to listen to the as yet unnamed man,

'I liked them Mr Swift. They were very detailed, engaging, and humorous. I enjoyed them a great deal.' The man ordered himself a glass of whisky; edging his stool closer to Laurence's own seat and leaning close into his face. Laurence thought the man was going to kiss him and though he was grateful for the compliments the man had given him, he didn't really want to kiss him. The man whispered the words, 'Now, I'd like you to work for me.' The whisky arrived and his gaze rested on Laurence's perplexed face.

'Work for you? I don't know a thing about you. I don't even know your name, Mr..?

'Ah, please excuse me Mr Swift. Where are my manners? My name is Johnson, Randall Johnson. Perhaps you've heard of me?' He said warmly, offering his hand in friendship to Laurence. Randall Johnson, of course! As soon as Laurence heard the name he recognised the face; he had once seen it on the front cover of a magazine. This man, this staring stranger who wanted Laurence to work for him, was of Afro-Caribbean descent and was one of the richest men in the world. He was a major force in the crisp industry; as a young man, Randall had always found the flavours of crisps rather dated and dull and therefore decided to create his own unique brands that represented what he believed to be the tastes of the 21st century. Flavours included 'Fish and Chips', 'Chicken Chow Mein', 'Chicken Tikka Masala', 'Yorkshire pudding' and 'Lobster Thermador'. These flavours had all proved immensely popular and resulted in a staggering amount of money for him. Even before he built up his enormous crisp empire, Randall had been a wealthy man, thanks to his father's manipulation of the stock market. At Oxford he studied Classics and gained both First Class honours and, more importantly, an almost childlike obsession with the Ancient World. Having spent the next ten years of his life building his business, Randall spent his time and money pursuing many famous and long lost ancient relics. He had become more famous for his extravagant adventures and archaeological digs than for his crisp organisation. Randall funded any and all campaigns that headed to remote and unexplored stretches of rainforest, barren mountain ranges and deep craters beneath the sea in a vain effort to find some hidden treasure or lost world that would lead to his name being written into the history books. He had organised many searches for the lost cities of the Incas, Atlantis and Troy. Those antiquities he did find he then donated to museums around the world and those that needed donations he graciously helped. His fortune had led to fame and many considered him to be one of the kindest and most interesting men in the world.

However, the flamboyant manner which Randall employed in his quest for antiquities had led to some rather disturbing rumours about him; some said that he had had a colossal golden statue of himself erected in his back garden. There were also those who believed Randall to be investigating the possibility of constructing an underwater metropolis which he would name 'Randallado'. In recompense for the vast sums of money he donated to museums, it was said, Randall reimbursed himself by taking whatever artefact he most liked. Furthermore, there were some who said that he was capable of going to extreme, even dangerous, lengths to get what he wanted; when a collection of 17th century paintings originally owned by the Duke of Buckingham had been stolen from the National Art Gallery, it was suggested that Randall had been in some way involved. Laurence took a nervous sip from his glass; he was mystified firstly as to the fact that someone who had been to Oxford had read and actually 'enjoyed' one of his books! Secondly, that that person, one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the world, wanted Laurence, who just two hours ago had been fired as a tour guide, to work for him. Take that, Quentin Derry, he thought to himself.

'Okay, I'm listening.' said Laurence, flabbergasted.

Randall began, 'Mr. Swift, if I may be frank...'

'You can be whoever you wish as long as you tell me what you want...'

'Please, let me finish. If I may be frank, I need your help.' Laurence felt hollow and a rush ran through him. He was nervous; was Randall about to ask Laurence for fashion advice? He continued before Laurence could contemplate the idea further,

'As you probably know, I love antiquities. As a young boy I spent half my childhood in a museum and the other half with my head buried in the works of Tacitus or Livy or Archimedes. When my mother put me to bed I would never be able to sleep, for I was still held in rapture because of the ancient myths she used to tread to me. Whether Hercules or Theseus or Helen, that whole world fascinated me. When I grew up to be a man, I found our own world to be a deeply unsatisfying place. Where were the marvellous man-made monuments that stretched to the heavens? Where were the admirable heroes one could tell their children about? Where were the great adventures that one could take to prove himself? I'll tell you where, Mr Swift. They were in the past, all in the past. I yearned to recapture that glorious past and so, as you know, devoted myself to finding it. And yes, I've had my fair share of success. Museums across the globe are now fit to bursting with artefacts that have been abandoned or forgotten about. Yet there are those objects that still elude me, including my great passion, my deep obsession...Pandora's Box. 'I have been searching for it for almost twenty years now and finally, FINALLY, I have found it!'' Randall's eyes flickered in delight at the mention of his favourite artefact. He stared off into the distance and thrust his hands aloft as if he were holding the box at this very moment. Laurence looked behind him at what Randall was staring at and, seeing nothing, returned his gaze to Randall, who was now sitting quite normally, his hands resting on his lap.

'Not the Pandora's Box of Greek myth?' Laurence asked in disbelief.

'Do you know of another Pandora's Box? While excavating a grotto in the Bay of Naples, some of my archaeological friends found a ledger. Within the ledger were strange symbols and drawings, showing Pandora's Box. Out fell a map of the Mediterranean, with a large X over a far out point off the coast of Skyros, an island that lies between Greece and Turkey. I knew that maintaining anonymity would be the key to success. You see, if word got out that someone as important and interesting as myself was looking for Pandora's Box, the whole world would go berserk with anticipation. And what if the book turned out to be a red herring? No, I had to maintain secrecy, and so I created a fictional company, 'la Ventura de su Vida', who were excavating the remains of a sunken submarine.

'Secretly, I assembled together a small research team made up of an elite team of...'

'Superheroes?!' Laurence exclaimed.

'No,' Randall corrected the now embarrassed Laurence. 'Archaeologists. They verified that the map and ledger that I had found were genuine, and so with some excitement we set off in the dead of night to locate the Box. When we reached the X-marked spot on the map, we searched for hours, and sure enough, there, lodged amongst some coral, lay Pandora's Box.' Randall slammed his glass onto the bar as Laurence stared at him in silence.

'We were only in a small speedboat however and we were not equipped to store such an important relic on board. We agreed to return the next evening, at the same time, with all the necessary equipment so that we might raise the world's greatest mythological treasure, now a reality! A sensible plan, right?'

'Right.'

'Wrong. When we returned the next evening the Box had vanished without a trace. It was no longer anywhere to be seen. Someone had got there before us! I had been so close to it and then, only a day later, it was gone. I thought all hope was lost. And yet, as I'm sure you've heard (Laurence hadn't), the 'Paris Museum of Ancient History' has announced that they are going to unveil a most exciting new exhibit...Pandora's Box!' Randall's face was overcome with anger and annoyance. In an instant, his face relaxed and returned to its former kind expression. He stretched a hand into his inner jacket pocket, and produced an envelope.

'Mr Swift, how would you like to come to Paris and join my team? As I've already said, I admire your writing immensely. I want you to document our attempts of finding the box so far, and our visit to the museum next week. We may have lost the box for now, but from where I'm from it's a case of finders keepers. I'm going to get that box back if it kills me! Please, Mr Swift, write for me!' Laurence frowned nervously. This was all very strange. Surely Randall could get anyone to write an account of his attempts to locate the box. He was flattered, of course, but he couldn't go to Paris at a moment's notice and leave everything behind him. It wasn't the kind of thing he did. Randall's mince pie eyes could sense that Laurence wasn't totally convinced; he was stroking his chin and biting his lips in trepidation, and so he attempted to sweeten the deal; 'Inside this envelope is ten thousand of your UK pounds and a first class ticket to Paris. You're booked on the first flight tomorrow from Heathrow.' Laurence guffawed and before he could even accept or refuse, the big American man gave a meaty laugh and patted Laurence on the shoulder with his enormous right hand, almost pushing him into the floor. Laurence winced and as Randall said goodbye and left, he stared down into the abyss of his bottle and reflected on what had just come to pass. It's funny how emotions and situations can skyrocket from one side of the spectrum to the other; from happiness to sadness, from anger to calm and vice versa. Twenty minutes ago, there looked like there was no hope for Laurence. It seemed as if he was consigned to a hopeless and doomed future as a failure. He was at rock bottom in his life and suddenly, from out of the shadows of 'The Dragon', Laurence had been offered his very own 'La Ventura de su Vida'. He would be paid for writing about his passion and he would have the chance to see Pandora's Box. With a broad smile and a hope in his heart that could fill even the most scornful with optimism, Laurence left 'The Dragon' and called a taxi.

Au revoir Britain, bonjour France!

### Chapter Three

### Gunfight in Paris

Laurence arrived in Paris almost 24 hours after his meeting with Randall Johnson, tired and weary, but full of childlike excitement about the prospect of viewing something he had loved since he was a young boy. He waited, giddy with anticipation, in the Air France waiting-room until he was greeted by a pale, balding whisper of a man no younger than sixty, whose job was to escort Laurence to Randall's summer house in Saint Denis 6 miles away from the centre of Paris. Laurence was led to a silver Rolls Royce that stood out like a sewing kit in a male student's flat amongst compact Renault Espace's and Suzuki Alto's. The old man gestured to Laurence to get into the car with a simple grunt, and Laurence, though slightly perturbed at the man's lack of courtesy, entered and sat silently and comfortably in the sleek leather seats of the long, charcoal coloured vehicle, which proceeded to jaunt along the Paris streets.

After an hour, an hour which passed by with no conversation and no sightseeing due to the stubbornness of the driver, the car halted outside a grand, handsome-looking building with impressive pillars and gates, surrounded by a beige and grey stone wall. The closely cropped grass was divided by a stone pathway that slalomed from the imposing front door to the street. The windows were barely visible, hidden as they were by a mass of wavy conifers. Laurence was impressed; before him stood a medieval chateau with a pale roof covered in ivy that crawled all over the building like a shadow on a moonlit night. Laurence entered through the huge wooden doors and into an inviting, overcrowded hallway. On the walls were landscapes of the English countryside, and copies, so Laurence assumed, of Greco-Roman paintings. The floor was covered with several selections of beautiful wild flowers potted around. The vast entranceway was completed by a spiral staircase in the corner and two doorways, either side of the hallway. Laurence elected to take the left doorway, taking him into a large, cold living room, filled with priceless vases and other ornaments. There was a 19th Century armchair before a grand piano, a few modern settees dotted about the room and on the wall were mounted heads of wild animals, all of which were either exotic or extinct. The carpet on the floor had an ornamental garland pattern on it. The tables that were next to the wall on the far side were adorned with chess sets and African wildlife statues, which were in good need of a dust and polish. There was more furniture in the room, doubtless these were antiques too, but they were covered with great cloths and Laurence was left to guess as to their exact form and finesse. On the wall behind him, magenta painted walls were pictures of ancient sites; the Pharos Lighthouse, obelisks, The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, a painting of Alexandria, and the Pyramids of Egypt and Mexico. He paced around the room, taking in the grandeur and wealth of his surroundings. He stood admiring a replica of the Alexander mosaic. Before he could fully appreciate the spectacle, he heard great thundering footsteps pounding down the stairs like a mountain avalanche, and he turned to see the beaming face of Randall Johnson in the doorway.

'Mr Swift! I'm so happy you could make it! Hello my friend!' Randall Johnson, wearing a shocking Hawaiian shirt with pink chino shorts, rushed over to Laurence like a small child on Christmas morning and gave him a big hug that lifted him off the ground. Laurence, overwhelmed by the large man's vice-like grip, somehow managed to squeeze out the words,

'Yes, I'm here! Thank you, Randall. After that grumpy butler of yours I needed a lift. So when's the unveiling? Let's go and see some sites!!!' The former tour guide beamed with delight, partly at the prospect of seeing Paris' many tourist attractions, but mainly because Randall had dropped him back on the ground.

'Well, hold your horses, Mr Swift!'

'I didn't bring any horses, just a few bags and my camera!' Laurence informed Randall, who gave him a bright smile while he rested his hand on his shoulder.

'Now just hold on, Mr Swift. There are some people I would like you to meet; the members of my team who attempted to find the box. Please come this way.' Randall left the room, bringing Laurence with him by seizing his arm. He pushed open some bright red doors that were opposite to the doorway Laurence had taken earlier, revealing another room. It was decorated in a similar fashion, with an eclectic mix of modern colours and furnishings, completed by archaic art and impressive artefacts. There was one key difference however; this room was populated by four people.

'Mr Swift,' Said Randall kindly, 'I'd like to introduce you to the members of the team.'

He swept his arm across the room, bringing Laurence's attention to its four occupants. The first person Laurence studied was a man who was standing in a relaxed manner, with one arm situated on the mantelpiece on the room's far side and the other arm bringing a cigarette to and from his mouth as he wished, and with his left leg tucked behind his right leg. His back was turned to Laurence initially but he turned round and offered his right hand forward in greeting. As the huge log fire burned and the flames parried off each other, Laurence observed a well-dressed man in his mid-thirties with long, jet black hair that was parted in the middle and ran to the collar of his bomber jacket, which was only a shade lighter than his hair. Beneath the hair lay a slightly concerned forehead, inquisitive eyebrows, and a few days' worth of stubble that covered roughly handsome cheeks, which were separated by unemotional green eyes, a thin nose and small lips. The nameless man, his hand still outstretched, wore a plain white t-shirt beneath his jacket and denim jeans that covered leather boots. In short, he looked sharp.

'The name's Wes, Wesley Gilliand to be precise,' said Wesley, in a strong, confident Sheffield accent. Laurence shook his hand firmly but looked on Wesley with curiosity.

'Wesley fought in the Gulf War. An injury forced him to pull out and ever since then he's found himself drawn into the world of private detection. I hired him to find someone who knew a lot about the box, someone with a flair for writing. After a long time, and several rejections, he found you!' Randall explained Wesley's role in the team as he lit a cigar. Laurence choked on the waft of smoke that came his way.

'Wesley, isn't that a bit of an unusual name for a private detective?' Laurence asked, supposedly to himself so as no one would hear.

'Sorry it offends you, blondie.' Wesley replied sharply as Laurence blushed at his new moniker. Randall tried to move the focus away from this little spat and took it in turns to introduce all of the team in turn. The first member was the greying and cranky Alan Washington, a translator who worked for the European Parliament and was a close friend of Randall. He wore a knitted tank top and was clutching a large notebook. The next man he was introduced to was Bruno Cavilliere, the Italian professor of Classics at the Turin Museum of Ancient History who was also a very competent and experienced scuba diver.

The one person Laurence wasn't completely disinterested by and was in fact, amazed by, was coincidentally the only woman in the room. She was one of the most beautiful people Laurence had been lucky enough to see in his life and he gazed upon her with incredible adoration. She was sat down on a cream coloured-settee, looking serene and perfect. Her long bronzed legs were crossed and Laurence's eyes traced them up to the hem of her grey skirt. Her white blouse complimented her pale skin. Her perfect chest spoke volumes to Laurence's beating heart. He thought his jaw was dropping as he studied the beauty's face; she had brown eyes like hazelnuts, freckles mapped about her face like stars on the night sky and long flowing hair that trickled down the sides of her face like a waterfall down a rock face. Laurence found her intoxicating and as she turned to look at him, her gaze held him transfixed, motionless, like a gormless statue.

'Hey Florence, what's the matter with you?' Wesley asked, noticing and mocking Laurence's temporary infatuation. Not that you would have to be a private detective to deduce from Laurence's face that he was overwhelmed by Ruby's beauty.

The upper class goddess rose from her sedentary position and held out her delicate hand to him, 'Lovely to meet you, Mr Swift. My name is Ruby, Ruby Holland. I'm a professor of archaeology at Oxford University. Randall is funding my research on the Terracotta army of Qin Shi Huang in return for my participation in his project.'

'L-l-lovely to greet you, Scooby.' Laurence blurted out fumbled pleasantries as he gently shook Ruby's hand. Bruno and Alan exchanged amused faces, Wesley rolled his eyes and started to eat an apple, and Ruby returned to her seat and stared at her shoes. Randall put out his cigar and lit a fresh one, positioning himself next to Ruby. Laurence regained his composure, and sat down in an armchair by the fireplace.

'So Mr Johnson, perhaps you can explain what we're doing here? What's the next step?' The angel spoke in a melodious voice that was music to Laurence's ears.

'Yes of course, my dear. Mr Swift, as I've already explained to you, Pandora's Box has been discovered and is due to be unveiled next week at the 'Paris Museum of Ancient History'. I still protest that we found that box first and that makes it rightfully ours. I don't know how, but somehow we've got to make our case to the powers that be and get our hands on it.'

'But why? You were going to give it to a museum anyway right? And in a museum is where it is! So what's the problem?' Wesley Gilliand asked the question.

'Certainly, Wesley, you are quite right. But the people should know who found it in the first place i.e. US!! Why should someone else get the credit for what I have achieved?' Randall replied, visibly irritated by Wesley's inquisition. The mood in the room had transformed from tranquillity to tension. Laurence surveyed the characters in the room. Alan Washington was sweating profusely, Wesley had lit himself a cigarette, and Ruby was being beautiful.

'I sent Bruno into the water to recover the object and deliver it to me. Once it was on shore, Miss Holland and Mr Washington could study its authenticity. But as you know, Mr Swift, the box wasn't there.'

'We searched the whole God-damn crater for it, but it wasn't there' moaned Alan, revealing a high-pitched Irish accent.

'Disappointed but not to be deterred, I enlisted the help of Mr Gilliand, who attempted to track down those who had stolen the Box from me!' continued Randall.

'I got a lead on some tourists who'd been diving around that area during the second day of Randall's excavation, the day the box went missing. I wanted to ask them whether they'd noticed anyone lurking around that area, whether they'd seen anything suspicious. They were staying in a modest Bed and Breakfast on the coast of Greece called 'Poseidon's Alcove'. I went to their hotel room and found them. They were dead. They looked like they were sleeping. There were no marks, no sign of intrusion, nothing. A very professional job done, no doubt, by experts.' Wesley stated pragmatically.

'Who did it?' asked Ruby.

'Or whom?' said Laurence, glancing over at Ruby to try and impress her with what he believed to be his excellent grammar.

'You mean who?' Ruby corrected him, graciously.

'Who? You? Not you?!' Laurence was even more confused than usual. Ruby looked shocked as Wesley slapped his forehead with his palm in frustration.

'Anyway, if we can return to the matter at hand, I want that box back. I don't know how, I just know that I want it.' Randall extinguished his cigar and perched on the edge of his sofa.

'But who on earth had discovered it?' Laurence asked.

Randall grunted. A wicked expression came over his face. 'Oh, I have my suspicions; Giorgio Carraciolo, for instance.'

'Who?' Laurence had heard the name, but couldn't remember why.

'Giorgio Carraciolo. The most famous nobody in the world! He used to be my friend, but now he is my rival. We went to University together, our fathers were friends and we used to holiday on Lake Como together. We shared everything, not to mention a mutual love of Classics and a competitive nature. We both come from wealthy backgrounds and give away some of our wealth to charity each year. But more than that, he and I are both collectors of rare antiquities and give what we find to museums. It is a sort of game we like to play. He has a whole wing of the Pergamum Museum in Berlin named after him in his honour. I suspect he heard about my project to find Pandora's Box and took it for himself, donating it to the museum here in Paris, where he also has a house, to earn yet more glory for himself. He's most famous throughout the world as a kind, good-willed philanthropist, living off a trust fund his billionaire father put together for him before his death. He lives a very, very wild lifestyle. A celebrity of sorts; he indulges in flash cars, expensive watches, gorgeous girlfriends. His name is never out of the newspapers! It's infuriating that I do the same amount of good work as him and yet it's he who gets all the glory!' Throughout his speech, Randall's voice had grown louder and louder and beads of sweat had begun to emerge on his brow. Then, in a flash, he was cheer personified with a smile a mile wide on his round face.

'I've read about him. He gives millions to charity each year. I hardly think he could steal the box from you! He's such a nice guy. He's a legend! I like the look of him.' Laurence commented enthusiastically.

'He's gorgeous...' Ruby muttered. The quiet comment caught Laurence's attention,

'We can't rule him out though! But I still don't understand why you've brought me here? And what do you expect us to do?' Laurence asked.

'Good point Goldilocks' Nodded Wesley in Laurence's direction. Laurence smiled at what he perceived as a compliment, oblivious to its true mocking connotations.

'Firstly I want to see the box with my own eyes next week. Don't tell me you don't want to. You've been writing about Pandora's Box for years. It's been a fascination for you since your childhood. I want you to document the events of the next few days i.e. my attempts to convince the authorities in Paris that I found it first. Moreover, you can interview the members of the team here and start work on the greatest story of our time, how I found Pandora's Box! Besides, it's not as if you've got anything else to do is it?'

Laurence considered things in his mind for a moment. Randall was right; he had no job, he could use the money, not to mention the holiday. There was also Ruby to consider and contemplate and admire from every angle. A few more days in her company and he could work his magic on her or borrow someone else's magic and use that instead. He agreed and shook Randall's hand.

'Excellent. Now over the next two days there are a series of events to mark the unveiling of the box next week. Tomorrow there is a special buffet lunch for members of the museum, benefactors, and some very important persons in the archaeological world. Tonight also there is a cocktail party and dinner at the museum for specially invited guests.' smiled Randall.

'Well, that sounds very pleasant. What should we do?' Laurence was clearly oblivious to the fact he was also invited.

Randall ignored the ignorant Laurence 'If you go up the stairs each of you will find in their room a suit or, in your case, Miss. Holland, a dress to wear tonight. We shall re-convene here in thirty minutes and leave to go to the museum together.'

At this announcement the room emptied and the guests drudged their way up the twisting staircase to don their formal attire.

***

Laurence observed the chandelier that greeted him at the stop of the stairs was covered by cobwebs and doused in dust. He headed down a dreary and dimly candlelit corridor with rooms either side. The air was heavy and the atmosphere was eerie, expectant and melancholic. He couldn't help but notice the contrast; downstairs was impeccably furnished and decorated, upstairs was depressing and downtrodden. He started down another narrow corridor and saw a wooden door with his name on it. Inside he found an empty, cold room in need of some attention. The room retained some basic fixings however, although even these; a bed with no duvet, a sorry-looking sink that was home to a family of spider, a window that overlooked a garden with a swimming pool complete with no water but plenty of leaves, a garden full of weeds and dead plants and an unfinished wall at the end of a patio area. It was very strange. Perhaps Randall had just moved in, or it was a temporary holiday home, or he had no interest in DIY. As he turned from the window he saw a zipped-up bag hanging from a peg on the back of the wooden door which he proceeded to collect and unzip. The now lowered zip revealed a tailored, Armani suit, one like he had always desired. Laurence donned his suit and never felt so smart in his life. The suit was a perfect fit. He thought he was in a dream; here he was in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, with a gorgeous woman to spend time with and a multi-millionaire paying him to write. It all seemed too good to be true. He shaved and washed his face and tidied his hair.

The sun set silently behind some hills in the distance as Laurence made his way down the stairway to the hall, where he saw Wesley, dressed identically to Laurence, and Ruby talking. Standing tall and handsome in his suit, he showed a face of no expression in order to hide his desire to fall at Ruby's feet and produce gushing overtures of compliments and love tokens for her. Truly, she was an awe-inspiring sight; she was wearing a figure hugging maroon wrap-dress, ten-inch high heel shoes whilst her effervescent hair had been tied into a sophisticated bun. It was as if it had been put together by a master craftsman. Her legs stood tall like two pillars on the Acropolis. Randall came gushing down the stairs like a torrent of water down a mountain stream in a cream-coloured suit with an indigo shirt that was so bright Laurence had to shield his eyes upon glancing at it for the first time.

Laurence, Wesley and Ruby headed outside into the quiet, empty road and waited for the driver to bring the limousine round while Randall elected to wait inside for Alan and Bruno. They stood in the middle of the road, exchanging supposedly secretive but painstakingly obvious looks at one another. Laurence took the opportunity to try and talk to Ruby,

'So Ruby, do you like Paris?' But Ruby did not hear him. He tried again, a little louder this time, 'Do you like Paris...do you, Miss Holland?'

Finally, he had caught her attention, 'No, I've never been to Holland.' She replied. Laurence let out a nervous laugh and looked at her helplessly. Wesley smiled to himself.

Suddenly, Alan came bursting out of the house shouting something towards the three of them. BANG!!! The whole mansion erupted before their eyes, crashing, banging and rising into the sky like fireworks and falling around them. Fire burst from the torched stone walls, smoke descended all around them, the air became stuffy and fire fizzed on the grass about them. Another explosion thundered about the place, the roof and upper levels of the mansion plummeted to the ground. The colossal cascade of stone and metal that tumbled upon the lower floors added to the fire, which started to form a monumental pyre on the site of the living room. Black abyss beckoned. Ash billowed all about them. Alan was projected into the air as the steps were ripped apart like tissue paper. The mansion had transformed into a brazen bonfire, crackling and roasting with an overwhelming, intoxicating heat. Ruby fainted in terror. Wesley grabbed and lifted Ruby over his shoulder and lay her down behind a bench on the opposite side of the road. Laurence followed, crouching. The awful cacophony of destruction reached a thunderous crescendo as the bricks crumbled upon each other like dominoes; it was as if the whole house had been passed through a giant incinerator. They moved behind a parked car. As Wesley and Laurence positioned their backs against it, coughing and spluttering as they did so, the former peered above the car's engine and down the street whilst the latter looked on in worry at Ruby. She looked so peaceful and beautiful, like a fallen angel, all at ease whilst panic and chaos reigned about her. Wesley tapped Laurence on the shoulder, who turned and joined Wesley in gazing down the street. Several figures decked in black clothing and holding large rifles were approaching them in an inverted triangle formation. Suddenly, from the other direction, a white van came tearing down the road and stopped just before the entrance to the mansion. From it, several more figures filed out with fire extinguishers and guns, and they set about trying to tame the chargrilled mess that was once Randall's mansion. Wesley turned to Laurence,

'Blondie, take this,' and he handed him a small handgun which he had taken from a holster inside his jacket. Laurence had never held or used a gun before, not a real one anyway.

'How does it work?' Laurence asked Wesley, but as he did so he accidentally pulled the trigger as a big crash coming from the mansion startled him. The pop of the gun startled him and he jumped, banging his head against the car's wing mirror, knocking himself out. The noise alerted the armed men and the situation seemed hopeless; Ruby had fainted, Alan, Bruno, and Randall were dead. Wesley groaned and picked up the gun. He looked out over the bonnet and fired the gun three times; three of the approaching figures dropped instantaneously. He advanced from behind the car into the middle of the road and fired another shot at another figure's leg. With a loud shout the shot man collapsed to the ground where he proceeded to writhe around in agony. A step on the tarmac behind him caught Wesley's ear and without looking he curved his right arm around his body and fired his gun three more times. He turned to where he had just fired, and saw a man collapsed on the floor.

Just then, it was all over. He felt a sudden jerk at his right temple. His eyes glazed over as he realised there was a gun pointing at his head. 'Bastard.' Wesley said quietly. He dropped his own gun and raised his arms. The gun prodded him forward. As he was escorted down the road past the burning wreckage, he contemplated attacking the man, but before he could do so he was smacked in the back of the neck with the butt of the rifle, rendering him unconscious. Laurence, Wesley and Ruby were dumped into the back of the van. The flames no longer flickered as the van drove off. There was a breathless hush where once there used to be a mansion.

### Chapter Four

###   
The Italian's Job

Virgil once wrote that of all the ills there are, rumour is the swiftest, gathering strength wherever she goes, a huge and horrible monster. The rumour that was currently spreading itself through the streets of Paris and out into the tabloid newspapers of every major country in the world was similarly quick to develop in its size and meaning, and no less monstrous and huge in its proportions. It was complex, shocking, always elaborated upon and getting more fantastical with each passing day. The rumour was initially dismissed as idle prattle, but was passed on by those who heard it anyway to the next group of gossipers, who then upgraded it to minor gossip before it was taken seriously and classed as 'definitely possibly maybe true' and those who believed it often added to it. The rumour concerned Paris' newest resident, who had recently acquired a summer house high up in the scenic Parisian hillside. His move had got the whole of Paris playing Chinese whispers; people said the gates of the house were made of solid gold and were protected by an invisible laser system. It was said that the walls of the garden, which ran, supposedly, to over thirty-five acres, were adorned with gargoyles of bronze and statues of marble depicting famous fascist dictators that the occupant of this most mulled over palace admired. It was protected, so the rumour continued, by bloodthirsty Dobermans and Rottweilers and there was also apparently an army the size of a small country at the owner's beck and call. The gardens were populated by glamorous women; one from every country in the world who did nothing but sunbathe, swim and sing. Furthermore, it was believed that beneath the house lay a secret nuclear bunker and a tunnel that opened out somewhere in Munich.

Then there were the rumours concerning the man himself. Some said he was so muscular and toned that he was a medical experiment constructed by the Soviet Union during the Cold War. Some said he was more of a machine than a man. Others believed that he was the descendant of some ancient line of kings and was in fact, a demi-God. Many just said he was very good-looking and that he was far too exuberant in public. No one really knew who he was or what he did; he was an enigma, a riddle, a mystery, and the truth was that even Giorgio Carraciolo himself did not truly know who he was pretending to be.

Giorgio Carraciolo did indeed now own a very majestic and luxurious mansion that was located in the Parisian hillside, but it was not protected by lasers or vicious guard dogs, nor populated by exotic beauties. In truth, though he had been married five times and had numerous flings with women, every detail of which was documented extensively in glossy magazines and newspapers, he lived a life of solitude with only his dog, Al, and his butler, Tim, for company. And Giorgio was certainly no robot; he was passionate and outspoken, giving his opinion to any who listened, and those who did not, on every topic under the sun, from unilateral nuclear disarmament to who should be voted off Strictly Come Dancing. He had a reputation for being an angry and violent individual, and even at thirty-five he had created for himself the persona of a power hungry, mad recluse who was famous for being famous. His father was a very good and very successful barrister, and Giorgio had not only inherited his very healthy bank account but also his supreme intelligence and cunning as well. Though his mansion did not lie above a nuclear bunker, it was filled with many ingenious and sophisticated gadgets that were as ludicrous as they were inventive. He had proved himself a very shrewd businessman in real estate and property, adding to his already not inconsiderable wealth. This had proved to be a double-edged sword, as not only did it result in financial rewards, but on occasion brought about his short fuse and ruthlessness for which he had become so famous, or rather, infamous.

Aside from his fondness for gadgets, his tantrums, his wealth and his tabloid exploits with seemingly every woman under the sun, Giorgio's real passion however concerned the antiquities of the Ancient world. It was this fascination with the Ancient world that had led Randall to believe Giorgio had stolen Pandora's Box from within his grasp. In Giorgio's hometown of Sorrento, the people had erected a small statue in his honour that he himself had designed and paid for; the statue was an exact replica of the Laokoon group, but the face of the Trojan priest had been replaced by Giorgio's own, and instead of wrestling with vicious serpents, Giorgio was shown to be grappling with large piles of money. But Giorgio had a modest side as well, and he had found many wonderful artefacts at his own personal expense, which he then proceeded to donate to smaller museums so that those people who weren't lucky enough to live in a major city were able to view them. He had also invested in a number of museums, set up a number of art galleries, all of which were free to visit, and donated money to help modernise the site of Pompeii. He also made sure he visited Rome at least twice a year; once, to view all the city's miraculous architecture, and secondly to run the marathon. In his mansion he had amassed such a spectacular array of artefacts and relics that even the late Randall Johnson would have blushed.

Presently however, Giorgio was sitting on the elongated L-shaped porch of his mansion looking at the wonderful metropolis of Paris that could be viewed in between the clusters of trees that surrounded the walls of his mansion that formed yet another barrier to the modern world. Giorgio preferred to live in and amongst the past. Even as he stared into the distance he was using an eighteenth century apple peeler that was said to have belonged to Marie Antoinette, while he reclined on a chaise longue that would not have looked out of place at an Athenian symposium. His dog, Al, who was very much enjoying chewing on a tennis ball, looked up towards his master for a moment, angling his head in curiosity at the cutting sound of metal on apple, and returned to his ball. As Giorgio took a sip of his Gin and tonic, allowing a few cooling chunks of ice to flow down his throat with the liquid, he felt a change in the air and turned to view the doorway where his butler, Tim, was standing in dignified silence. Looking the epitome of calm and self-assurance, Tim gestured for Giorgio to come inside, the latter accepting the former's prompt with a nod. He folded his newspaper, let out a short whistle for Al to follow him, which he did, and entered the glorious inner sanctum that was his mansion.

'Thank you for reminding me, Tim.' Said Giorgio. Tim was a former Olympic gold-winning martial artist who had retired at the relatively young age of twenty-nine to care for his ailing mother. Having read the story in the paper, Giorgio, who was a huge fan of Tim's, pledged to finance her medical fees, and Tim in turn dedicated his life to work for Giorgio as his butler and bodyguard. Their relationship was far from one of employer and employee; the two were like brothers.

Giorgio's mansion was much more sophisticated in its decoration and state-of-the-art in its furnishings than Randall's had been. In place of the creaking floorboards and cobweb-covered chandeliers were pristine wooden panels and sophisticated lighting systems operated by touch sensitive panels that were placed on sleek black walls. The art and architecture of the Ancient world however still pervaded throughout the house; paintings influenced by Homeric epic and Greek myths hung down from the ceiling in nearly every room, while the amount of Roman weapons that lay in his drawing room were so numerous that one might think he was a gladiator preparing for battle in the arena rather than an obsessive antique collector.

As aforementioned, Giorgio had spent much of his fortune on gadgets around his house. As he entered his living room he headed to the bookcase that was at the end of the room. Taking leather bound book out of the case, the whole book case rotated 180 degrees, revealing a metal door, which Giorgio took, closely followed by Tim and Al. Behind the door a staircase spiralled its way up to a private chamber. This was Giorgio's private study; in fact it was so private that even he barely ever used it. The wall on the far side was punctuated by a window that allowed the room to be flooded with light. Beneath it was a writing desk, the top of which was barely visible, covered as it was by books and scatterings of paper. The room also featured a fireplace that was protected by two medieval suits of armour that were positioned with a hand each resting on the mantelpiece. By the adjacent wall was situated an old grandfather clock. Giorgio twisted the big hand counter clockwise to the seven. This was greeted by a noisy click and suddenly the fireplace split into two, shifting horizontally to reveal a lift.

The journey in the lift was a quick one that ended with a sudden crash, but it brought Giorgio, Tim and Al to a large open dining room. The wall to Giorgio's right was bare save for a single portrait of Giorgio himself, looking refined in a dinner-jacket and bowtie. The opposing wall was decorated similarly. Between the two walls was an exceedingly long dining table, at which two places were set, one at either end. Tim shifted the chair back that was before him and Giorgio, and the latter eased himself into it, unfolding his napkin and laying it onto his lap. He peered down towards the end of the table where his guest was sitting. Dressed in all new clothes, with his hair slicked back and the makings of an unexpected beard forming, Laurence Swift was tucking into some dinner with great enjoyment.

'Good afternoon, Mr Swift. Are you enjoying your steak?' Giorgio asked politely. As polite as he was, Laurence thought to himself, there was a mysterious and sinister air to his host with the most delicious steak he had ever had in his life. Laurence studied him as well as he could from so far down the table. Giorgio looked like your stereotypical Italian; long, thick strands of hair black as tar that curled below the ear. His skin glowed with a brown hue, a golden chain hanging about his neck and he wore such stylish clothes that Laurence was not surprised that so many women were in love with him. Giorgio also had a Don Quixote esque moustache that he twirled about constantly with his thumb and forefinger. And yet despite his attractive features and generosity, Laurence couldn't completely relax in his surroundings. Perhaps it was the fact that he was recovering from the major shock of seeing Randall's mansion go up in smoke, or that Randall himself, the man who had given him a most miraculous opportunity, was now dead. Or maybe it was because Randall had cast a sinister net about Giorgio's character. Moreover, Wesley and Ruby were missing. Ultimately however, the feeling of uneasiness and confusion was undoubtedly due to the shackles that bound his ankles to the legs of his wooden chair. What did Giorgio want with him?

'It needs more salt!' Laurence raised his fork to his mouth, oblivious to the fact he was dripping gravy down his shirt.

'Tim, please bring our guest more salt and another shirt.' Giorgio ordered, and Tim nodded in acknowledgement of the request. 'You are perhaps wondering what you are doing here, and who I am.'

'I know who you are. You're Giorgio Carraciolo!' said Laurence proudly with certainty. Hearing no immediate confirmation, doubt flooded his mind, 'You are Giorgio Carraciolo right?' Giorgio blushed at the mention of his name and nodded. Laurence continued, 'And though I may know who you are, I think, what you want with me is a complete mystery. But I tell you, if you touch one hair on Ruby's head, you rat, I'll...I'll...' He surged from out of his seat, forgetting his legs were tied to the chair and he fell into his plate of food, tipping over his glass of wine and covering himself in gravy and Merlot. Giorgio pushed a button positioned under the table and in an instant several men in black garb, the same strangers who had arrived at Randall's house just minutes after demise, appeared with Tim. They stood Laurence up, untied his feet and changed his shirt for him, all the while aiming their guns at him.

Giorgio let out a brief frown before waving his hands in dismissal at Laurence's actions. He paused momentarily, and then began to walk over to where Laurence was currently being cleaned up and brushed down. 'Allow me to explain myself, Mr Swift. As you may already know, Randall Johnson and I were once great friends. We were inseparable for a time at college. When we graduated we went our separate ways, but we both kept in touch with each other and discussed our respective enterprises. After a while my stock began to rise; not only the stock I had bought in various companies across the globe, but the interest of the tabloid press in my social life. They built me up to be a kind of playboy philanthropist and I got swept away with all the attention. As the paparazzi persisted with their pursuit of me, my friendship with Randall dwindled. After five marriages and numerous other misadventures, he and I were about as acquainted as strangers on the street. And then when I heard of Tim's situation and, being the kind and generous person I am, helped him and employed him into my service, my relationship with Randall was at an all-time low. Soon I was always with Tim and Randall couldn't stand it. He grew jealous and withdrew himself from all possible interaction with me. I tried reaching out to him, but it was no use; he was as stubborn as a mule, and even worse conversationalist. He was convinced that I was fonder of Tim than I was him. As the years passé the only contact I had with Randall was when we feuded bitterly over antiques and archaeological finds. We two titans of the business and museum industry were soon reduced to nothing more than two petty schoolchildren squabbling over who owned what. A most bitter war of words developed between us. Every day we threw barbs and insults back and forth at each other in the press and then, about a year ago, it all went completely silent. I worried about him constantly. My concern became so great I even asked my girlfriend to spy on him for me and find out what he was up to.

'Then news broke about Pandora's Box. I remembered how we used to read about it back at school and felt the need to call him. Obviously, I knew he would not speak to me; it was far too late for us. I spoke to him under an assumed identity, but when I did, I was terrified. He sounded like a man possessed; it had consumed his every thought, it was all he spoke about. He told me that he was going to find whoever had taken the box from him and do whatever it took, whatever it took, to get it back. He believed it was his. He was talking about offering a most incomprehensible sum of money, about the same amount I spent on having this place done up, to buy the box back over whoever had it but alas, it was too late. When it was announced that the box was to be unveiled here in Paris, I feared that Randall might try and steal the box from the museum itself! Artefacts, as you know, belong in museums; I couldn't let Randall throw away his reputation, his money, his life on the box. My attempts at persuading him to let go and give up his claim to the box were in vain. So, I decided that if Randall could not be convinced to stop this madness, I would have to stop him myself.

'Taking extreme precautions, I sent my men, the charming armed guards who have just changed your shirt, to take Randall in, bring him to me and make him see sense.'

'How would taking him to view some aftershave stop him from wanting the box?' Laurence asked, confusion etched across his face.

Giorgio stopped to down a glass of wine that Tim had just five seconds previously brought to him, 'Of course as you know, I was too late and now Randall Johnson, our mutual friend, is dead.' He placed a hand on Laurence's shoulder and sighed deeply. He turned on his feet and headed back to his seat. It had been an impressive performance, Laurence thought to himself as his finished the last of his roast potatoes, and not for the first time in his life Laurence didn't have a clue what was going on..

'What about the explosion?' Laurence snapped.

'What about the explosion?' Giorgio snapped back, clearly annoyed by Laurence's accusatory tone. He pursed his lips together.

'I asked you first!' Laurence protested.

'I have no idea. I certainly played no part in that. After all, I wanted to help Randall, not kill him. My guess is that Randall left the gas on and, as he lit one of his numerous cigars, accidentally blew himself up. It was an unfortunate accident but an accident nonetheless.'

Laurence finished his steak and folded his arms across his chest, admiring his newly-acquired grey shirt as he did so. He had found himself embroiled in one messy situation. He had come to Paris under false pretences to view Pandora's Box. He had been told by Randall that Giorgio was a crazy man who wanted to steal the box. Giorgio had told him the same about Randall. Randall was now dead and Laurence was now all alone again, with no clue what to do with himself. Randall suspected Giorgio was the one who had stolen Pandora's Box from him in the first place and donated it to the 'Paris Museum of Ancient History'. But Giorgio had just claimed that he wanted to stop Randall from potentially stealing the box himself. Both men had made strong cases, the only problem was that Randall was no longer around to defend himself against Giorgio's claims, claims which were certainly feasible, but if true, cast a mysterious light over Laurence's former employer. Pushing his plate to one side, he rested his hands on the table and began to speak,

'Well, that was a lovely steak and I enjoyed your story, if indeed it was a story. But one thing still annoys me, and that is the location of Wesley Gilliand and Ruby Swift! I mean, Ruby Holland.'

Giorgio's calm expression turned into a suspicious and jealous scowl. 'Mr Swift, I have a favour to ask of you. You have heard what I have had to say. You know that I, like Randall, adore the Ancient World. Well, I want you to work for me.'

Laurence's heart sank from his chest down to his stomach. A strange sense of déjà vu struck him and as it did he rolled his eyes and slumped in his chair. He had already had one billionaire philanthropist offer him employment, what did this one want? Was this one going to lie to him as well and, as soon as presenting him with the greatest opportunity of his life, vanish into smoke filled air? He thought of home. He recalled the familiarity and comfort of his job. The enjoyment he garnered from his daily commute. The beautiful flat he called his home. The great friend with his charming partner who so enriched his life and then he snapped out of his daydream. He had never had these things. If he returned to London, he would find himself with no job, no flat and no adventure. Here he was faced with yet another brand new chance at life, and he wasn't going to turn down the opportunity of messing it up in a new and exciting way. He asked to hear more of Giorgio's 'favour'.

'Seeing that the mansion was in the midst of destruction, I gathered you and your friends and brought you here as my guests, as you can see. Now, while you were happy to acquiesce to my demands and join me here for lunch, Mr Gilliand was adamant that he should be freed, as if he were in some sort of captivity. Earlier this morning, when I went to Mr Gilliand's cell, I mean room, I was told he had somehow escaped and injured two of my guards. I am worried for my reputation. What if he goes from here to the tabloids or to my friends around the world? He would tell them how I killed Randall and stole Pandora's Box from him and then locked him up! Think of the scandal! Do you think...?'

'Rarely, but I'm trying.' Laurence interrupted.

'Please let me finish,' Giorgio's voice was irritated. 'Do you think you could track him down for me and bring him back here, so I can explain the situation to him before he starts painting me out to be a monster, rather than a man of honour.' If Giorgio's opinion of himself was through the roof, then his request was out of this world. How could Laurence be expected to find a private detective in one of the biggest cities in the world?

'Look, I just want to go home and forget this horrible trip ever happened.' Laurence answered calmly. An awkward silence invaded the room. Giorgio looked astounded, and leant back into his chair. He was a wealthy and powerful man and he was used to getting what he wanted. He had negotiated deals with some of the most arrogant and belligerent men in the business world, but now he was being refused by the unemployed Laurence Swift.

'So be it. I guess I will therefore have to return to more pressing issues.' Giorgio smiled smugly as he pressed the top of the pepper shaker. Suddenly, the large painting of Giorgio on the wall shot up and revealed a glass chamber. In this chamber, with her hands and ankles bound to a metal pole, was the delectable but detained Ruby Holland! Her mouth was producing what looked like words of desperation and protestation but the glass kept them from Laurence's ears. He turned angrily towards Giorgio.

'You mad fiend! Untie that angel or I'll...' Laurence rose out of his chair, but remembering that his ankles were still tied to the legs of the chair earlier mistake he slowly sat down again.

'As you can see, Mr Swift, Miss. Holland is a little...tied up at the moment.' And Giorgio laughed a self-congratulatory laugh at his own pun. 'If you do not convince Wesley Gilliand to return here then I will have to deal with Miss Holland in a manner you will not like.' Laurence was furious and also extremely full. He wasn't up to the challenge of storming the place and rescuing Ruby. He thought it best to agree to go along with the plan, and then contact the police at the earliest opportunity. He smiled at Giorgio and agreed to his demands.

'Oh, and please do not bother to contact the police. One whirl of their annoying sirens and I will remove Miss.Holland from her chamber, and also from her life.' Laurence gulped. Ruby's life was in his hands and he didn't have a clue what to do.

'I suggest you begin your search at the buffet lunch that is due to begin in an hour at the museum.' Giorgio declared, producing a ticket from his breast pocket. 'Please, Tim, give Mr Swift his weapon.' He gestured to Tim, who paced down the room and presented Laurence with a rectangular silver box. Laurence lifted the lid and pulled out a small black handgun which he immediately pointed towards Giorgio.

'Let Ruby from that chamber or I'll tear you limb from limb with my bare hands. And this gun might come in handy too!' Laurence roared. Al barked and he dropped his gun on the floor. Tim rolled his eyes and bent down to pick up the gun, undoing Laurence's chains at the same time. Giorgio smiled, walked toward him, and said,

'Tim, please give Mr Swift the other box containing the ammunition.' Laurence looked down at the ground in embarrassment. With reluctance he accepted the fact that all his efforts or plans to rescue Ruby were in vain and he would simply have to go along with Giorgio's

'favour'. With a last look towards the damsel in distress in the chamber, he shook Giorgio's hand and, with a heavy heart, headed toward the exit.

### Chapter Five

### Tour de Laurence

Laurence was wearing a black jacket, a grey shirt, darker trousers and brown brogues, all courtesy of Giorgio Carraciolo, and was rushing through great crowds of pedestrians in the direction of the Paris Museum of Ancient History. Giorgio's reasoning had been sound; Wesley was, after all, invited to the lunch as one of Randall's guests, and the chances were more than likely that he would be there this afternoon, perhaps to find someone who could help him, perhaps out of some loyalty to Randall, or just maybe out of some curiosity to actually see the box for once and for all. As he turned a corner and saw the museum in the distance, Laurence felt a sudden jitter of nerves run through his body. He settled himself and proceeded with the aid of street signs on to the museum.

The pace of his steps quickened and before long he had started running. It suddenly struck him that once again he was rushing through traffic in extreme heat to get to a museum and, though the location was different, the result was the same, for when he reached the steps of the dome shaped building with its front glass façade, he was a quarter of an hour late. With trepidation in his heart and the adrenaline of the journey rushing through his body, he bustled his way through a great throng of photographers and journalists to the top of the steps. He was expecting an easy entrance, but as he observed the two bald and sturdy looking doormen, he was reminded of his days as a fresh-faced student queuing to get into nightclubs. The two men stopped Laurence by reaching out their hands, creasing their ill-fitting tuxedoes as they did so, and asked him for identification and his invitation. Laurence checked his pockets and eventually found the ticket that Giorgio had given him. He stood there waiting for what felt like an eternity as the two men looked at his invitation, all the while knowing that he had a gun inside his jacket and a licence to find Wesley. As he shot glances from left to right at each doorman like an eagle-eyed spectator at Wimbledon, he realised that he was about to rub shoulders with the crème de la crème of society. Suddenly he was more concerned about his hair than finding Wesley. The guards finally returned his invitation and allowed him to enter.

What was revealed to him was a vast space that featured two staircases that bent in a curve on either side of the room that offered an opportune viewing area, the front of which was covered in roses and ivy and resembled a garden canopy, over the whole floor below. Laurence decided that would be a good place to start to look for Wesley. Over the loud voices he could make out the sound of a jazz band playing some classic song that he couldn't remember the words to. A sharply dressed waiter offered him a glass of champagne, which he took, and then proceeded to make his way about the room. This proved tremendously difficult, for the stuffy room was swarming with ant-like hordes of glammed up sycophants all complimenting the staff and proprietors in the hope of obtaining another complimentary glass of champagne. Laurence never much cared for the stuff; it always made him very ill. After twisting and turning his way past dancing couples and evading security guards, he found himself stood by a long buffet table that was the host to many strange dishes such as sausages stuffed with egg, roast chicken kebabs smothered with tomato puree and pate baked potatoes, which he assumed was just an average dinner for socialites. He decided to turn his rather large nose aside from this fantastical banquet and, seeing a path to the right hand staircase open up before him as a mass of people parted ways like the Red Sea, paced towards it, finishing his glass of champagne as he did so.

The upstairs of the room was similarly decorated in a most glamorous way. The back wall was just one long mirror and every five feet or so there was a small table with a pyramid of assorted treats and desserts with which the guests of the museum were encouraged to gorge themselves on. Here too Laurence found himself pivoting round oblivious couples, tiptoeing about stressed out waiters and ducking under the gesticulating arms of an extremely happy Frenchman, and as he went through this human obstacle course, he thought about Ruby. He thought her beautiful and charming, kind and clever, but though he was certain that any man would be lucky to be hers, there was something about her that Laurence didn't like. Maybe it was because she was currently protected by a potential madman and a small army inside a mansion that was more like a fortress than a home. No, it was something more than that. He barely knew her. He knew what she looked like and what she did, but he didn't know who she really was. He had been captivated by her beauty, but he realised that he wasn't really in love with her and she almost certainly wouldn't have been in love with him. It was of little consequence; what mattered was finding Wesley and bringing him back to Giorgio.

But just as he was about to start his search, he locked eyes on a most baffling and horrendous vision that left him immoveable, transfixed and motionless such were its uniquely ugly features. In the centre of room, beneath the second of three chandeliers that hung down from the painted ceiling, was a tremendous ice sculpture that transfixed Laurence where he stood. He stared at the statue with utter wonderment; what imagination, what mind, what tortured soul, could create such a grotesque image? And what fool decided to put such an image of ugliness in a room of beauty. Noticing how Laurence was so dumbstruck by the sculpture, Michele Vivant, who was the owner of the museum, spoke thusly,

'It is magnificent, is it not?' The voice resounded with pride.

'It's certainly eye catching. I just cannot comprehend...'

Vivant cut him off, placing a hand on his back. 'I know, I know. But ours is not to question why, my friend. Ours is to stand back, to admire, and to be moved.'

'In this case, be moved to tears.' Laurence said before a brief chuckle.

'Yes, in the sight of great beauty one cannot help but shed tears like a spring of delight.' Vivant agreed.

'Not only in the sight of great beauty, but in the sight of great ugliness too.' Said Laurence; still staring at the ice statue, still aghast at its grotesqueness.

'Indeed. But luckily we do not need to consider ugliness when looking at this particular statue.'

'You're right; the word ugly does not do justice to this crime against art, against my eyes, against ice!' Laurence beamed. Vivant, removing his hand from Laurence's back and putting it on his own hip, looked rather bemused and, taking a step back, asked Laurence,

'A crime against art, sir? What do you mean?' His voice had become shrill with shock.

'Well...it's hideous.' Laurence said honestly. Michele Vivant did not appreciate his candour and, flabbergasted, asked Laurence to elaborate.

'Look, I'm no Vincent Da Vinci, but even I can tell that this is absolute trash. Whoever made this must have possessed a rather vivid and deranged imagination. Look at the face, such drained and large features. Is it a zombie? A human gargoyle! Perhaps it's supposed to demonstrate what we would all look like if we didn't eat, have any sunshine or exercise.'

Vivant was becoming increasing agitated, 'You do realise that it is supposed to be an exact likeness of the fabulous owner of this museum, the great and much respected Michele Vivant?'

Laurence did not take his eyes off the statue for a split second, 'Oh yes, I see it now! My boss at the London Museum of Natural and Ancient History didn't much care for him. Between you and me I've heard the man is a complete buffoon. Apparently, 'he's ugly as the day is long, as bald as a freshly plucked turkey and as short as one of the seven dwarves.' A pretentious fop! I could go on but I fear if I stare at this statue for much longer I might be turned to stone! It's so appalling; look at those arms, as scrawny as a chicken! My name's Laurence Swift by the way, you are...' He turned to his companion, yet no one was there. He turned again, looked down and saw a very short man who was red with anger, with eyes about to bulge from their sockets and several veins throbbing with real vigour on his shaking forehead. Laurence felt he had seen the face before and looked back at the statue.

'My name is Michele Vivant, an ugly, bald gargoyle!! How dare you, sir!' Laurence gulped, paused and looked down at him.

'Well, I was just playing devil's advocate!' He tried to reason but Vivant stamped down on the ground like a petulant child whose mother had just shouted at them in the supermarket.

'You uncultured cretin! I have never been so insulted in my life!'

'Well I wouldn't go that far. I mean, this sculpture is quite insulting, too! Blame the sculptor.'

'My wife, Francesca, sculpted this!'

'You have a wife?' Laurence was so perplexed. Who would marry this hideous ode to horror? Vivant had a very slight frame a short reach but a perfect position for attack and he poked Laurence in the stomach, which winded him. A crowd had started to assemble around them.

'You could have the courtesy to stand up and talk to me face to face, rather than face to stomach you ludicrous popinjay!' Laurence furiously commanded. Vivant was quick at the repartee,

'I am standing!' He exploded in a high-pitched exclamation. Realising the awkwardness of the situation and the silence of the once bustling room, Vivant dusted down his suit and gestured for the guests to return to the party, offering them all another glass of complimentary champagne, which brought coos of delight from the women and shouts of celebration from the men. Then he looked up at Laurence and said, 'I will never forget your name, Laurence Swift, now get out of my museum. Guards!!!' I wish I could forget your face, Laurence thought to himself, and as Vivant scurried away to repair his damaged ego, a great tank of a man grabbed Laurence by the collar and dragged him back down the stairs and to the door. At the back of the huddled circle that surrounded the disruption, Wesley Gilliand smiled to himself before seamlessly merging himself into a group of onlookers.

***

Having been asked to leave the museum, something that was becoming a weirdly regular occurrence, Laurence trudged past desperate photographers and gossip-hungry journalists. But though he was depressed at yet another display of total incompetence, he was not to be deterred from his mission to find Wesley. All that was needed, he decided, was to find another way into the museum. He strode purposefully around the corner of the museum and down a side street, observing the main drainpipes and ladders that were latched onto the east side of the museum. As he prepared to shimmy his way up some guttering in the hope of finding an open window, he heard a thunderous clatter further down the alley. Curiously and cautiously, Laurence edged toward the origin of the sound and found an open doorway. He poked his head inside and immediately heard hushed voices. This seemed to be the only chance now open to him if he wanted to find Wesley and so he entered. What he found was a sea of cardboard boxes and wooden crates stacked as high as a giraffe's eye surrounding him on all sides. Bubble wrap and packaging lay strewn about the floor in all directions; as he stood on some, he thought it was a gun and threw himself down onto the floor. Crawling on the floor, he made his way about the maze of crates and toward the voice that kept on shouting 'Avanti!' in a nervous tone.

'Germans!' Laurence muttered to himself suspiciously. Laurence's fine clothes were now caked in dust and woodcarvings and his poor knees were now beginning to feel like lead as he continued to traverse the makeshift path that the crates made. Still the voice kept barking that same word over and over again, but it was now accompanied by the rattle of metal on metal, heavy, exhausted grunts, the sound of a garage door opening and then, right on cue, the familiar beep of a car reversing. Eventually, Laurence was able to lift himself into a kneeling position with his back resting against some crates. Slowly, he peered around the edge of the crate; two men wearing gloves and possessing guns in shoulder holsters were stood with crowbars, though only one of them was actually using his. That man was pouring forth all his strength into busting the lid of a box open and, when it finally relented, lifting the contents out. Laurence could only see the back of it, but it looked like some sort of small urn, that was doubtless very valuable. Suddenly the two men were joined by another two who clambered out of the lorry Laurence had heard reversing into the room, with the same accoutrements, and after sharing brief greetings with each other, they began to inspect some of the other boxes and lift them into the back of the large lorry that had just arrived. The two newcomers rushed past the spot where Laurence was hiding and so he ducked back down and crawled out of sight. He looked at the box that lay opposite him; in the top right corner there was a small sticker bearing a date, the stamp of 'The Paris Museum of Ancient History' and a description of what was inside, in this instance, a collection of wine glasses recovered from the site of Nero's Golden House in Rome. As Laurence looked at more of these boxes he saw they all contained artefacts for show, and he concluded that this must be the museum's storage room. It suddenly all made sense to him; the men who had shown up were planning to steal the artefacts of the museum while there was a loud party going on in the same building. With this realisation he became aware of a terrible stench in the room and it wasn't the smell of freshly lit tobacco; it was the evil smell of skulduggery! But what was he going to do about it?

All of a sudden there was a crash and his thinking was shattered, as too was the replica Prima Porta statue of Augustus that one of the thieves had just dropped onto the floor.

'Careful, you numpty!' Urged one of the voices, a heavy Cockney accent that reminded Laurence of London. 'Some of this stuff's ancient you know.'

'All of this stuff is ancient, you idiot! Relax, my friend, everything is going according to schedule. Where is Harrison?' This second voice, which Laurence identified as being the same one that had earlier been shouting 'Avanti', was a deliciously smooth Italian accent, but as sweet sounding as it was, it also carried a sinister note.

'He's getting the box with Carmelo. Let's finish up here and get the truck loaded.' The box? Laurence's ears pricked with alarm. Were these men planning to steal Pandora's Box? He peered again around the corner. The two men could not have been more different in appearance; the Italian man, who Laurence presumed to be in charge as he was the one shouting orders and asking questions, appeared to be in his mid-forties and had long wisps of silver hair that barely stretched across his head. He was as thin as the pinstripes on his indigo suit and his skin was as brown as a walnut. The other man was stocky, with thick legs that resembled barrels and arms the width of pudding bowls. Laurence's study of these two strangers was interrupted by the emergence of the other two men who were struggling with a huge crate. They slammed it down onto the floor before the Italian and the cockney.

'Here it is,' Called the bigger of the two, a very muscular and handsome man, with penetrating, malicious eyes. His voice was similar to the Italian man who had spoken before. He was greeted with congratulations and hearty handshakes from his comrades. His name was Carmelo, and by the camaraderie he shared with the Italian man, Laurence guessed they were either related or best friends. They certainly looked very similar. The large, blandly-coloured crate was heaved with Herculean effort into the back of the truck and Carmelo pulled the back door of the truck down. So the box was being stolen for a second time, this time from the 'Paris Museum of Ancient History', and the only person who could stop it was Laurence! What was he to do? He had to stop this, but how? He was just one man, and there were four crowbar-wielding criminals, two of whom were titans, stood not four feet away from him.

Suddenly, Laurence heard the unmistakeable click-clack walk of a woman in high heels and turned to see a beautiful, tall, and elegant woman in a long, maroon dress that flowed all the way down to her ankles. The colour of her dress complimented her magnificent silk-black hair that was held together by a silver butterfly hairclip and ivory skin. Judging by her fine dress, she had just emerged from the party downstairs, alarmed by the noises the unsubtle raiders of the lost archives of ancient history had been creating.

'What the hell's going on in here? Who are you?' The woman exclaimed in a ferocious tone that wasn't in keeping with her delicate, English rose appearance. She was clasping a glass of wine in her right hand whilst her left arm was held aloft in exasperation. Carmelo nudged his 'brother', his name Federico, who produced a gun from the back of his belt.

'Excuse me, pretty lady, for interrupting your party, but this is of no importance to you. Take some advice from me; enjoy your party, forget you ever saw us and don't, whatever you do, scream for help, or Federico here will shoot.' At this, Federico pointed the gun at the unwelcome woman who was about to protest until Carmelo shook his head at her and drew his finger across his throat in the gesture universally acknowledged around the world to mean death. The other two men got into the driver and passenger seats of the truck. Laurence continued to gaze up at the woman, who stood as a powerful figure above him, but who was in fact powerless as some of the museum's most wondrous artefacts, including Pandora's Box, were about to be stolen. Just as Federico and Carmelo, who walked backwards to maintain sight of the mysterious woman, went off in the direction of the passenger side doorway to join their compatriots, Laurence span round the boxes in a moment of madness and pointed his gun towards the two Italians.

'Stop right there!' Laurence commanded in such a surprising tone of authority that even he halted in his tracks. The two startled goons were similarly stunned; Carmelo dropped his crowbar in alarm whilst Federico relaxed his grip on the gun. It fell to the floor with a crack. They looked perplexed at this strange man who had appeared from a box and was holding them at gunpoint. Laurence stared at them, unsure of what he was doing or indeed what he was going to do next. Sweat emerged on his brow as he pondered his next move, if there was to be a next move. Carmelo and Federico stared back at Laurence, unsure whether they were facing an experienced combatant in the fight against a crime or a negligent novice. Trembling as he paced slowly forward to where the woman was standing, he attempted to assert his authority on the situation with these words,

'So! The beagle has caught the very thing that he was intending to catch and now the things that he has caught are now caught by the catcher!' Laurence paused trying to think if he had just made an icy cool remark worthy of an Arnold Schwarzenegger action film, or a complete fool of himself. He feared the latter and he was right. He maintained his strong position with a keen desire not to come across as a foolish fop but, sensing that that was exactly who they were dealing with, Carmelo and Federico began to edge backwards as the engine of the truck started up. Laurence re-aimed the gun and the duo steadied themselves. The hero turned to the amazingly stunning woman and, though momentarily taken aback by her beauty, told her to call for security.

'Who are you?' She asked, giving Laurence a look that hinted of admiration, surprise and concern all at the same time.

'I'm Laurence Swift.' As the two exchanged pleasantries, Carmelo and Federico made to leave but Laurence cocked the gun in their direction.

'Hold it right there!' It wasn't Laurence who spoke, but the Nymph-like woman, and he was stunned at how the woman's sweet, resonating voice had suddenly transformed into a booming, terrifying voice, like an angry schoolteacher telling off two errant boys for being disruptive in class. The lorry took no notice of her order however, and as it struggled into first gear and roared out of the garage, Laurence realised that he needed to act and fast. He laid eyes on a fine yellow bicycle that looked like it belonged on display in the museum propped up against the wall on the nearside of the room. With the truck getting ever further away, Laurence decided he would have to follow suit and asked the woman to take the gun.

'What are you doing now?' She asked, staggered at how things were developing.

He turned to face her and said, 'I'm going after that truck.' With that, Laurence hopped on the bicycle and cycled away at a furious pace, leaving the well-dressed lady to phone for security, but not without maintaining the gun's aggressive stance toward Carmelo and Federico.

***

The creaky yellow bicycle whistled through the busy early afternoon traffic of Paris, the smell of diesel and the screech of tyres on tarmac reminding Laurence of his daily commute to work every day in London. He took his arms away from the handlebars momentarily, for cycling was something he was actually considered to be good at, and launched his jacket to some pedestrians. He always found it easier to cycle with as fewer clothes on as possible and tried to figure out where he was going. The bike wobbled nervously as it passed over some cobbles, but Laurence swiftly regained control. It felt good to be back on the saddle again and as he accelerated his way through the gears he felt completely at ease behind the handlebars. He lifted his head and spied the truck turning off the next main road. He followed as best he could, but it was not easy in the intense traffic and immense heat of the day. On the other hand, being on a bike, he was able to traverse and negotiate the sluggish traffic more easily than the thieves in the truck, and he zoomed onto the pavement and cut across a busy intersection. Both he and the truck pulled up at a set of traffic lights and as they waited for the lights to change, Laurence thought of his plan. He realised that there was no hope of stopping the truck on a bicycle. His only chance of recovering the Box was to try and keep up with the robbers for as long as possible in order to figure out where they were going, who they were and what they were planning to do with the Box. The lights changed and the truck surged into life, establishing an early lead over Laurence's rusty bicycle, and as he tried to find ten to two with his pedals he got covered in a thick cloud of exhaust fumes. By the time he was on his way, the truck had reached the half-way point in the next road where it was met by a pedestrian crossing, but oncoming traffic from the right prevented Laurence from following further. Left the truck went and left again and Laurence realised that no matter how hard he pedalled he would not catch up with it at this rate. It was time to find a short cut.

There was a plaza that separated four roads to enable pedestrians to cross, meet and marvel at the splendid architecture on display; each road had a pedestrian crossing at its end, and the plaza itself was dominated by tourist shops and market stalls selling traditional French cuisine and stereotypical fancy dress. The patisseries and charcuteries were populated by overzealous tourists taking ludicrous amounts of photographs and pulling all manner of poses in front of bemused locals. Laurence shifted his bike off the road and onto the pavement, pedalling in the direction of the plaza. The bike stumbled and stuttered unapologetically down the steps and onto the plaza itself, the mass of tourists parting ways as the bicycle came hurtling towards them.

'Quelquechose! Je suis les champignons, mon lapin!' Laurence called out to them, indicating his complete lack of French knowledge, as he nursed his injuries from his journey to the centre of the plaza. The flash of several cameras in Laurence's direction momentarily diverted his attention from the road ahead of him and he inadvertently took the wrong turning out of the plaza, finding himself all alone down a side alley. Further ahead he could hear in raucous roaring and shouts of delight. There was cheering and whistling, chanting and whooping, and he pondered what the reason could be. Was there a football stadium around the corner? Maybe a politician was holding a rally? As he rounded the corner and came out of the side alley the answer became apparent. The Tour de France. Of course, it was the final leg of the Tour, and all participants were furiously sprinting up the famous Champs-Elysees, the most beautiful avenue in the world. Laurence called out to some spectators who were assembled on the pavement in front of him and within an instant he was on the road itself, the final straight of the Tour de France. A quick glance behind him saw the dozens of multi-coloured jacket-wearing cyclists that he used to watch on television every summer with his father, and now the assortment of worn-out and exasperated cyclists were powering up the road behind him as he pushed on; the bemused spectators kept on cheering despite the introduction of this new challenger.

Before he knew what was happening, Laurence had burst through the finishing line and through the line of journalists, reporters and spectators and out onto the road behind them. He had 'won' the race, but lost the truck. He turned back to see thousands of cameras blinking with a series of tremendous flashes after him. The sound of sirens echoed in the distance. No doubt he was in trouble, but not as much trouble as those thieves would be when he caught up with them. As the bike exited one road and came into a narrow parade, Laurence saw the truck far in the distance and it was coming straight towards him. The sight brought renewed vigour to his aching limbs. He needed to gain speed and distance, and avoid being killed. The juggernaut was hurtling ever closer toward him but out of the corner of his eye, Laurence spied salvation. At the side of the road was a builders' minivan, with a long trailer behind it. The trailer was overflowing with planks of wood that protruded forth from the top and bottom, forming a makeshift ramp. As Laurence swerved to avoid an oncoming taxi that was disobeying the laws of the road, he found himself cycling up the ramp. Up he went, and with a whoosh he quickly soared into the air, flying over the thieves van, and, just as rapidly, crashed to the pavement below. He had travelled some distance, sailing over one or two cars, but his landing was poor, and he greeted a skip full of mattresses with a soft crash. He clambered out of the skip and fell to the ground, the adrenaline of the high octane pursuit still coursing through his body.

Exhausted and defeated, he got to his feet, gathered up the bike and looked up and down the road. Silence. There was no one around and neither was the truck. He had lost it. He had failed. Aghast at this defeat, he dusted off his trousers. Distraught, deflated and dehydrated, he looked up to the sun and headed in the direction of the 'Paris Museum of Ancient History'.

### Chapter Six

### Trains in Vain

The garage from which the robbers had stolen nearly half the stored belongings of the Paris Museum of Ancient History was now surrounded by policemen and seemingly endless reels of black and yellow tape. Journalists were trying hard to talk to anyone in the vicinity of the museum about what exactly had happened; as far as most people knew there had been a burglary of some sorts. They didn't realise that one of the world's most renowned mythological artefacts had been stolen; its capacities unknown, its captors unknown and its whereabouts unknown. As Laurence came towards the museum and saw the spectacle of spectators and Police inspectors he couldn't help but feel guilty at the thought of the mess he had created. If only he had been stronger when he had first seen the robbers, instead of cowering behind a crate! If only he looked more formidable, and had scared the thieves into submission! If only he hadn't insulted Michele Vivant and been thrown out of the museum in the first place. When Laurence turned down the alley, bicycle in tow and spirit resoundingly downtrodden, he was immediately turned away by a very dismissive French police officer and Laurence was too tired and too empty to put up a fight. What was he to do now?

He slumped down against a wall and let the bike crash down to the ground, just as his spirit was similarly plummeting. The clatter alerted a bright young woman whom Laurence had met with earlier in the day, the woman who Laurence had left in charge as he scampered after the truck in vain. She saw him, and immediately found herself drawn to him both physically and emotionally; she felt sorry for this man, this courageous and confusing stranger, and after a moment's pause in which she questioned herself on what she was about to do, she crouched down beside him. Laurence tilted his head upwards and gazed at her beautiful face and admired every detail; she looked sincere, concerned and so effortlessly lovely. Her ivory skin was crystal clear and her facial features were so perfectly in proportion with each other that it was as if she had been sculpted by a master craftsman. Slim, investigative eyebrows sat above forget-me-not blue eyes. Her cheeks looked soft and supple, and when she smiled, as she did when she realised that Laurence was becoming mesmerised by her, delightful dimples. Her lips were subtle and the colour of strawberries. As aforementioned, she was wearing a maroon dress that showed off her voluptuous figure and her hair was exquisitely held together by a magnificent butterfly hairpiece. Laurence could barely speak in the face of such miraculous beauty, but he offered these words

'I'm so sorry Madame for abandoning you back there and leaving you in that awful situation. I just wanted to catch the robbers you see. But to make matters worse, I didn't even do that. It's my fault they got away, I'm sorry. I failed.'

'Don't beat yourself up about it, as you might say. Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Brigitte, Brigitte Girard, and I am a big fan of yours.' Brigitte sat down beside him. She spoke in fluent English with a French accent.

'A fan? Of mine?' Laurence scratched his head in disbelief that anyone could be a fan of his. He turned his head toward hers.

'You are Laurence Swift, are you not? Author of "Archaeology: The Past's Buried Treasure" and "An Idiot's Guide to Greek Mythology"'. I simply adore them!' Laurence was dumbstruck and Brigitte was star-struck. That was two fans of his work that Laurence had met in a week! He couldn't believe his luck! Here he was, faced with a woman who was as beautiful as she was intelligent and for some reason she had read (and enjoyed!) his books.

'Well, thank you very much, Madame Girard.' He said, exceedingly chuffed at her words.

'Mademoiselle. I'm not married.' She corrected him, though she felt rude doing so.

'I thought you said your surname was Girard? Thank you very much then, Madame Oiselle.' Laurence asked, once again showing how well he was acquainted with the basics of French vocabulary. Brigitte fluttered her eyelashes and shook her head in embarrassment. Laurence continued, 'I'm sorry if I startled you earlier but someone had to stop those criminals. Well, not stop, but try and stop! Speaking of which, where are those men...' Laurence turned his head to survey the crime scene and saw Carmelo and Federico being escorted into a police van. They were grumbling and grimacing about their misfortune and flashed furious glances in Laurence's direction.

'Mr Swift those two men have been arrested and taken for questioning by the authorities here in Paris. It seems they are working for someone in order to steal the museum's artefacts for their own selfish gain.' Laurence ignored most of what she was saying; not deliberately of course, but because he was so entranced by the sound of her voice. She was like a Siren, luring Laurence on to the rocks, but she did not appear at all dangerous or cruel.

'I'm sorry to say, Mademoiselle Girard that this was no simple robbery or heist. One of the items taken may have power beyond your wildest dreams.' Laurence tried to make himself sound intelligent and important.

'You are talking of course about Pandora's Box, which was due to be unveiled today.' She retorted incredibly quickly in her delightful accent. 'You see, Mr Swift, I was placed in charge of the party today. It was my responsibility to make sure everything went according to plan. I failed, not you.' A shroud of sadness descended upon her once happy face and Laurence felt sorry for her.

'Now look, we can't just sit here and wallow in self-pity. I've done enough wallowing to last a lifetime. We need a plan of action! We've got to find out where the truck was heading and who is behind this. But, I don't know how!' Laurence sounded confident and assured, but his heart was full of terror and self-doubt. Brigitte could see that he was trying to put on a brave face in a bad situation and she admired him for it.

'After calling the police, I questioned the two men. Although they would not tell me who they were working for, they did, after some time, eventually reveal to me where that truck was headed.'

'And where is that?' Laurence was excited now. Hope was rising in his heart.

'They are taking the truck onto a ferry to Greece that leaves from Nice tonight. That was all they would tell me.' Laurence was bemused. Well, he always was when in a conversation with a beautiful woman, but in this instance he was bemused as to why they were taking the box to Greece. Were they taking it on holiday? Unlikely!

'If we hurry, we can catch a train to Nice this afternoon.'

'How nice!' Laurence quipped, attempting to make Brigitte laugh, but to no avail, for Brigitte was not an idiot, (unlike Laurence, who was an idiot) and knew that Nice and nice were pronounced differently. She merely smiled her winning smile and rose to her feet. Laurence joined her and checked his watch; it was now two o'clock in the afternoon, the sun was bathing the cosmopolitan buildings in glowing amber light. If he hastened he could get a train to Nice and catch the ferry in time. It was a risk, but it was a risk worth taking, and it was a risk worth taking alone. He couldn't endanger this angel's life any more than he already had. It was sad to say farewell to this French beauty so quickly after having met her but he was too focused on the Box. What if it fell into the wrong hands? He must return it to the museum, in the name of archaeology, of mythology, of justice! With regret he turned to Brigitte and held her hands in his affectionately.

'Mademoiselle Girard, I'm going to have to leave you. It's a long story, but I have to get my hands on that Box and return it here. Maybe one day when, if, I return we can meet up and get to know each other better. But right now I have to continue the search for Pandora's Box.' As cheesy as it sounded, Brigitte blushed and felt a flutter in her heart. Had she fallen for Laurence at first sight? She wouldn't have been the first! (Actually, she would have been.) But she knew she couldn't let him go off on his own.

'Don't be silly, Mr Swift. We can search for it together.' She said cheerfully.

'Now, no, don't cry, there'll be...what do you mean 'we'?' He exclaimed.

'I'm coming with you. Look, I was in charge of this afternoon's party and when was the Box stolen?

'During this afternoon's party...' Laurence admitted, reluctantly. It wasn't that he didn't want to spend time with Brigitte, quite the opposite. It was just that he was worried enough about his own chances of survival, and he didn't want her to get hurt.

'Exactly, so it's my responsibility to get it back. And, please forgive me if this sounds rude, but I'd fear for your safety and that of other people if I let you go to Nice on your own. Let me come with you, if for no other reason than to help you with your French, which, if I'm honest, could do with a little polishing. And so could your shoes, come to think of it.' She looked him up and down and he did the same. He realised now what a mess he must look, having crawled on floors, cycled hard and fast through crowded streets, crashed into skips and onto floors, been doused in petrol fumes and flew through the air. His trousers were ripped in no fewer than three places and his once stylish grey shirt was now the colour of coal. Nevertheless, he was about to refuse her once more but, just as he felt the words forming, she gave him one powerful look as if to say 'You better not refuse!' and Laurence knew he had no choice but to accept. He realised that having a beautiful, intelligent, resourceful, French-speaking woman might not be a disadvantage. She reached out her right hand toward him and Laurence met it. They shook in agreement with broad smiles and the two of them headed off from the museum and in the direction of the Gare du Nord.

***

Whilst Brigitte returned to her mid-town apartment to collect a few belongings for the next few days, Laurence went to a nearby café called 'A Load of Crepe' and duly ordered a huge plate that was stacked with crepes coated in chocolate sauce. Laurence licked his lips in anticipation of the taste. As he assembled his knife and fork, a dark figure sat down across from him. Laurence bit into the delicious pancakes and looked up in surprise to see a familiar face; it was Giorgio Carraciolo. He looked quite unrecognisable from the debonair playboy Laurence had had lunch with earlier in the day. He wore a Paris Saint Germain Football Club baseball cap, dark sunglasses that covered up most of his face and a plain white t-shirt and jeans. The unmistakeable moustache was still to be seen however, and the pristine white teeth smiled brightly at Laurence, so brightly in fact that he thought he was staring directly into the sun.

'Mr Swift, how goes our investigation? Where is Mr Gilliand?' Giorgio questioned quite calmly, though Laurence really suspected that inside he was a volcano of impatience waiting to erupt. In his eagerness to stop the captors of the Box, he had quite forgotten about his original mission of finding Wesley and in doing so, saving Ruby. He took a deep breath and proceeded to tell Giorgio all that had transpired during the day since they had parted company; his run in with Michele Vivant, his interruption of the theft of Pandora's Box, the pursuit and eventual loss of the robbers and his plan to follow the Box to Greece. He told Giorgio all, except of course his encounter with the charming Brigitte. He did not much fancy his chances of wooing her if Giorgio, so famed for his womanising, had the chance of meeting her. As he contemplated what Laurence had told him, the exhausted former tour guide continued to munch into his food. It was truly the finest meal he remembered having and it truly lived up to the advertisement outside that billed this restaurant as having 'the finest pancakes in Europe'. After a while, Giorgio spoke to Laurence with encouraging words,

'Laurence, you have done well. You may not have actually found Wesley, like I asked you, but you have stumbled upon something of far greater importance.'

'You're right, these crepes are the best things I've ever tasted, you're welcome to try some if you like.'

'No you idiot! You have discovered that Pandora's Box is under threat! You must carry on in your search for it!' Giorgio rose from his seat and took his phone from his pocket. 'I will book you some first class tickets on the train there and on the ferry itself. But hasten, Laurence, and be careful!'

This turnaround was quite remarkable and seemed to clear Giorgio of any suspicion of taking the Box himself. Maybe, Laurence thought, that was exactly what he wanted, but he wasn't going to complain. 'What about Ruby? I won't pursue Pandora's Box if you don't release her immediately.' Laurence sounded fierce, but it was hard to take him seriously with chocolate sauce dripping onto his shirt.

'I will release her of course, I promise on my life.' And Laurence believed him. There was a truth in his eyes that was beyond all doubt. He offered his hand to Giorgio and the two of them shared a hearty shake. Laurence checked his watch and in a moment the dashing man was quite literally dashing out of the exit of the café, leaving Giorgio to pay the bill.

***

Ten minutes after his surprise encounter with Giorgio, Laurence met with Brigitte at the entrance of the Gare du Nord. While he had been filling his stomach, Brigitte had been filling her suitcase and changing her clothes, something Laurence badly needed to do. She looked even lovelier than before in denim shorts, a red vest top and a pale white shirt. She had a very peaceful air about her, Laurence thought, and she was constantly wearing a pleasant smile. They got on the ten to five train to Nice, a non-stop juggernaut that cut its way through France like a knife through butter. Having located a pair of seats together, they settled down and looked out to the awe-inspiring French countryside. The long journey allowed Laurence to become better acquainted with his exceptionally lovely companion and he asked her to tell him all about herself.

Brigitte Girard, though she spoke perfect English, was the daughter of a French criminal lawyer and Belgian accountant, who was educated at the Cheltenham Ladies' College, one of the finest and most expensive private schools in England. She had excelled in sport, science, mathematics, languages, technology, drama - everything! She was a prefect, a team captain, head girl and the apple of many a young man's eye. Despite all these enviable qualities however, Brigitte was more interested in books than boys, and she was particularly interested in history. Seeing a bright future for her, Brigitte's parents decided that she was going to be a politician. Brigitte decided otherwise. She pursued an acting career, turning down the chance to study Politics, Philosophy and Economics at universities ranging from Princeton, Oxford and Yale to study at RADA.

'I bet your parents didn't like that!' Laurence said, interrupting Brigitte's lengthy monologue.

'No, they didn't. They said it was nonsense. I never got to audition for RADA. They said it was a useless profession and I would be wasting my life. They told me that I was going to the Sorbonne to do French Literature. They had already set up a job for me at the European Parliament.' Sadness filled her eyes. 'I refused them. They cast me out. I haven't spoken to them for years. And so I decided to turn to my second love, classics. Through classics I found the perfect combination of drama and literature and finally I graduated from Cambridge with a PHD in Classics. I owe it all to you.' She looked meaningfully into Laurence's blue eyes, which now doubled in size in wonder.

'Me?' The word shot out of his mouth in a squawk.

'Well, maybe not all. But the day after I left home I saw your beaming face on the front cover of your book, 'An Idiot's Guide to Greek Mythology', and I fell in love.' Both of them looked away in embarrassment. 'With classics, I mean. I fell in love with classics! And so I decided to study it. So thank you, Laurence.'

'No, thank you!' He replied, although he didn't really know why. 'Thanks for buying the book! I'm glad someone did, other than my mum and I.' She giggled at this and Laurence's knees wiggled at its delightful musicality. 'And how is the job?' Brigitte let forth a long sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world with it. She loved classics but hated her job at the museum. She was tired of being surrounded by remnants of other people's adventures. She wanted one of her own and she saw the opportunity to have one with Laurence. Their earlier meeting had garnered more excitement than the previous seven months in the job combined. There was something about the man that she found supremely attractive; was it his nervousness whenever he spoke to her that she found endearing? Perhaps it was his chiselled jaw-line that made him look, or so she thought, like a Greek statue. Or more than all these physical attributes and characteristics put together, was it his act of attempted heroism in the museum that had catapulted him into her heart. She had never been lucky in love, but perhaps it was time her luck changed. Now, it was her turn to ask Laurence all about himself and explain just how he came to be in the museum's storage room.

He didn't hold back; he told Brigitte everything from what his favourite colour was to the first song he had learnt to play on the guitar. The way he painted it, his life had been something of a failure, a series of unfortunate misunderstandings and mishaps. He, like Brigitte, had enjoyed a private school education courtesy of his wealthy grandparents but he had not followed his brothers into a structured and organised career plan. Whereas they had attained top degrees from the best British universities, he was a university drop out, one of those statistics the Government liked to hide away. He wanted to travel; Prague, Copenhagen, Helsinki, Bucharest, Stockholm!! These were just a few of the cities in Europe that he hoped to visit. Unfortunately though, he could not find a job to pay for all these planned escapades. Instead he turned his hand to what he knew already and wrote his books. The books were failures and to make ends meet Laurence took a job at the Natural History Museum, rising from cleaner to head cleaner and finally to tour guide. To many this story was a story of failure, but to Brigitte the story was one of a nice man treated cruelly by the hands of fate. Though Laurence feared it would put her off him, even though he severely doubted a woman like her, a woman with a PHD, unparalleled looks and innumerable talents, could be interested in him anyway, it had quite the opposite effect; she only found herself falling for him even faster.

'You know, I'm not without acting talent, Brigitte.' He smiled, pleased with himself.

'Really?' Brigitte responded, taking a swig of her water.

'Yes, I was the star of our school's Shakespeare season. People still ask to see my Bottom.' Brigitte spat the water out. 'Are you alright?' He asked her. She said she was and then her eyes lit up in remembrance.

'Oh Laurence, I have something for you!' She stood up and shifted past Laurence to get her bag out of the overhead compartment. The bag was brought down gracefully and in a moment she had produced a folded set of jeans, a white t-shirt, a sky blue shirt and a zip-up burgundy hoody. Laurence looked more perplexed than ever.

'I thought you could do with some new clothes, yours look a little...used.' He looked down at his once designer clothes that looked as if they had been dragged through a desert in the past few days. He took the clothes with gratitude but asked,

'Where did you get these? An ex-boyfriend?' Laurence's heart sank.

'No, no, these are my brother's clothes, but he's out of town at the moment so I'm sure he won't mind.' Laurence's heart rose. He left to find a place where he could change into his more casual attire and when he returned Brigitte was fast asleep, like a fallen angel.

Hours later, their train arrived in Nice. Brigitte awoke to find Laurence's head slumped on her shoulder. She didn't jerk it off in horror. She liked how it felt there. He then opened his eyes and was immediately fumbling about for an excuse as to why he was resting on her. He rushed off the train and onto the platform, followed gingerly by a smiling Brigitte. A ten-minute bustling walk brought them to the ferry port. Laurence surveyed a row of parked white trucks nearly identical to the one he pursued through the streets of Paris earlier in the day. There was no feeling left in his legs; he was exhausted by the constant travelling. In the early hours of the morning, the cold grey clouds began to make way for the bright gleaming rays of the sun, and Laurence and Brigitte made their way onto the ferry.

### Chapter Seven

### Blood Vessel

After paying a frankly extortionate price for two cabins and two tickets on the ferry using the money Giorgio and Randall had given him, Laurence headed for his new lodgings with nothing but his watch and his wallet in his pockets, but a renewed sense of excitement in his heart, which was in large part due to his charming new companion. He had fallen for her faster than an Italian football player falls dramatically to the turf in the opposition penalty box, but he didn't dare think for one moment that the feeling could be mutual. According to an attendant, the ferry was going to dip around the island of Sardinia and through the slender gap between Malta and Tunisia in an 'l' shape before arriving in Athens having rounded the Peloponnesian peninsular. Brigitte had managed to secure the room next to his and they both agreed to meet again in the morning and in the meantime get some much-needed rest. Yes they had both fallen asleep on the train, but it hadn't been the most pleasurable slumber. It would also give Laurence a chance to check his hair; something he had itching to do almost every minute since he had changed his clothes.

It didn't take them very long to find their cabins and as Laurence entered his room and bade a temporary farewell to the alluring Brigitte, a searing pain attacked the left side of his head and he staggered over to the bed, which he found upon landing on it that it was lumpy and about as comfortable as meeting your mother in law for the first time. He massaged his temples to try and ease the pain but his mind was overrun with the onslaught of pressure the last few days had brought and, inevitably, the next few days would bring. There was a huge mountain to climb yet, a final sprint to the finish and he needed to figure out some sort of plan. He knew that a dastardly duo was on board this ship with him and they had possession of a mysterious prize that seemingly everyone wanted to get their hands on. A vague dream entered his imagination as he fell asleep; a gigantic white figure, shrouded on all sides by clouds of mist, was laughing, cackling, at him. The figure split into two and seemed to roll towards him before expanding into a twisting, contorted, barbed shape like a branch of a tree. He awoke from the strange vision with a cold sweat but without the headache. He struggled wearily into the bathroom and threw cold water onto his face. The mirror did not show a very attractive image when he looked into it. Opting for a change of view, Laurence stared out of the cabin's porthole. The ferry slowly traversed through the choppy waters and Laurence felt quite sick. His thoughts were heavy as the events of the past two days ran through his head. Three days ago he had been just another hapless museum tour guide. Now he was on a ferry chasing some men to Athens to restore a priceless artefact into the hands of a museum. He was no hero, but he couldn't help thinking about the villains of the piece. What did they want with Pandora's Box? Who were they working for? What would they use it for in Athens? Each question that he considered in his mind brought back the pangs of his headache and he decided that a walk around the ship might do him some good. Maybe even the bar would be open, he pondered optimistically. His luck had to change at some point.

The bar was closed. The shutters had been pulled down but the chairs were still set out. From the looks of it however, it was barely used anyway and not a place he would regret missing out on. Nevertheless, Laurence took the opportunity to sit at the bar and clasped his head in his hands. Sat on his stool Laurence was about to contemplate the same unanswerable questions he had already asked himself about a thousand times already but, at that moment, the atmosphere in the dirty-looking bar changed completely. No longer was there a feeling of emptiness and isolation. Now it felt like an overcrowded bistro on the Champs Elysees. The air was stuffy and unpleasant. It smelt of cheap aftershave. Laurence turned to see Harrison and Philip stood before him. They were decked all in black; leather jackets, black boots, black trousers, they looked like nightclub bouncers or delivery men, and they were here to deliver trouble for Laurence. He immediately made to leave the bar but was immediately pushed back onto his bar stool by Philip, a stocky brute of a man who made Phil Mitchell look like Brad Pitt. They swivelled the stool round and made Laurence face the bar once again. Harrison had an iron-tight grip on the back of Laurence's head; it felt as if his stodgy fingers were penetrating his very skull. His head was getting no rest tonight. With his right hand Harrison produced a small but deadly knife from his trouser pocket. The knife's handle was constructed of a rabbit's foot and the blade was of gleaming silver. It circled around the skin protecting Laurence's kidneys.

Philip took off his driving gloves and slapped Laurence in the face with them, giving him a stinging sensation he had not felt since asking Helena Whitman for a dance at the sixth form ball, only this time there was no cheesy pop music to soothe his misery, just the intermittent sound of heavy breathing and Philip's less than dulcet tones as he began to recount a story;

'On my tenth birthday my father took me out to the zoo whilst my mother, unbeknownst to me of course, prepared a surprise party for me back at the house.' Philip's breath stank of tobacco and cheap whisky. 'My father presented me with this knife; the very knife Harrison is now digging into your back, and told me that I should always treasure it. He told me to always be ready, for life is always ready to throw an unexpected and unwelcome circumstance into your path when everything seems dandy. Anyway I returned home and walked into the darkened living room; suddenly the lights came on and my family and friends were all shouting 'surprise' towards me! It was the happiest moment of my life. So startled was I that I dropped my knife, which fell into my puppy.'

Laurence joked, 'What was his name, Unlucky?'

Philip ignored him and carried on, 'From that day on I have always hated surprises and I have always tried to be prepared for life's unexpected circumstances.' Laurence appreciated the story, but Philip was not done yet, 'But today, at the museum, you gave me quite a surprise. Mr Swift, I will now...'

'How do you know my name?' Laurence interrupted instantly.

'Ah well, because our boss...' Harrison began to answer.

'Shut it you moron. Our boss has told us to make up for his mistake yesterday. Today, Mr Swift you will die.' Harrison elegantly pulled the knife back as Philip put his gloves back on with great importance and pomposity. Laurence's non-event of a life flashed before his eyes. Had he truly lived? No, not at all. The world would continue to spin without him and no one would give him a second thought. Perhaps Richard might destroy one of Carla's precious tops in his memory, or Quentin Derry might create an exhibit of all his disasters so people could appreciate what an entertaining character he was. That was the Laurence Swift that people would remember, if they bothered to remember him at all. But in the past few days he had finally become someone; he no longer longed for adventure. He was now on his very own epic quest, and yet now it was over. Or was it? He remembered old faces and events and began to feel angry. He remembered Trevor Pink shoving his head down a cubicle toilet back at school. He remembered schoolgirls calling him a 'girl' on a museum tour. He remembered Helena Whitman's slap. He couldn't let his life end just as it had become interesting.

Suddenly, an authoritative Sheffield accent sounded in the background,

'Leave him alone chubby.' All three faces by the bar turned, each man displaying his own distinct emotion; Harrison was surprised, Laurence was grateful and Philip looked positively furious.

'Wesley!' Laurence called out, full of glee. Yes, Wesley Gilliand was standing with his hands on his hips at the entrance to the bar. His hair was a charred and gritty mess of debris and dirt. His face was grubby and unshaved, his suit featured holes where fire had burned away the material, and ash decorated his once white shirt in patches and yet he looked determined; his eyebrows formed a 'V' of anger and his lips were pressed together in preparation for battle. After a moment of silence, Harrison released Laurence's shoulder and turned as if to throw his knife at Wesley, which he did, but not before Wesley, in a split second of Panther-like athleticism, had leapt to the far wall, where he took a dart from the nearby dart board and launched it at Harrison. It glided through the air like a swallow and landed in his neck, just above the jugular gland. Philip turned to punch Laurence.

'Duck!' Wesley called out to Laurence.

'Where?' Responded Laurence and he bent down to view the ground. Philip's cold fist sailed through the space where Laurence once stood and hit Harrison straight in his face, knocking him to the ground and pushing the dart further into his neck. Wesley pounced on the confusion this created and jabbed Philip in the face once, twice, three times. A lady walked to the entrance of the bar to see what the commotion was about but, seeing the scene that lay before her, turned around and left as quickly as she had arrived. Wesley then lifted the miscreant into the air in a move that seemed effortless and sent him crashing over the bar, through the shutters and into the row of assorted liquors behind it.

'I think he got your point,' Laurence chortled, gesturing to Harrison who lay motionless on the floor. Wesley grabbed him, grunting something as he did so and they ran off, leaving the bar and the bodies behind. They ran at a quick pace up some stairs and past the fruit machines and casino on the third level of the ship and headed down a corridor towards Laurence's room. Confused passengers looked their way and dismissed them as drunken vagrants. They entered and Wesley threw himself down on the bed. Laurence shut and locked the cabin door and observed his saviour. He looked and was exhausted. Laurence briefly left the room and re-entered with two glasses of tap water, one of which he handed to Wesley.

'Thank you for saving me back there.' Laurence thanked Wesley.

'I'm sure you would have done the same for me.' Wesley responded, pouring water down his parched throat.

'Well...I certainly would have tried. But where have you been? How did you get here? How did you find me?' Laurence bombarded him with questions.

'What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?' Wesley returned.

'No, it's just tap water.' Laurence replied. Normally, such a remark would have had Wesley looking for the nearest brick wall against which he could bang his head, but so glad was he to have found Laurence and so exhausted, he merely laughed and removed his jacket.

'Alright, Blondie, let me catch my breath.' He paused and gestured for another glass of water, which Laurence duly provided. 'I'll start right at the beginning.' Laurence settled himself into the chair in the corner of his room, folded his left leg on his right knee and listened.

'All my life I've been a soldier. Fighting's what I do. I fought in Iraq with the British Army. That was until a land mine decided I should do something else instead.' Wesley bent down and lifted up the bottom of his left trouser leg. Laurence looked for a second and then immediately turned away. 'But I didn't want to quit. I wanted to carry on fighting. So my superiors designed a new role for me that meant I could stay in the fray and carry on the battle for another day. They made me a spy.' That last word was said so coldly and with such bitterness that Laurence could tell Wesley did not care for the role. 'I hated it at first, all that creeping around and staying quiet, listening and not acting but I was bloody good at it. And the better I got at it, the more enjoyed it. I started to love it. But my position became compromised when my identity became known to the enemy.' Laurence wanted to know more.

'Don't ask me how it happened, just listen. I had been Britain's chief spy officer over there, but I was forced to return to London and my position was given to someone else. I was pretty...gutted. So I decided to set up my own private detection agency, when my old boss, the head of MI5, a man who we shall just have to call "H" for now, got in contact with me. He was keen to enlist my services for another mission, one which would be ideal for my specific set of qualities. I couldn't refuse the chance to serve my country again and be involved in the spy game once more. So I leapt at the chance, which was bloody difficult, what with my leg and everything.' Laurence nodded, though he didn't really understand the point.

'My mission was one of surveillance and supervision. The British government had become increasingly concerned by the activities of one Randall Johnson. You see, what Randall may not have told you was that he was working with us. We have a very special arrangement; we knew he was a bit of a nut for artefacts and had his own private collections around the globe. So, we paid him a lot of money every year to carry out whatever excavations and adventures on the basis that seventy per cent of what he found would be given to our museum in London. In return, we agreed that he could have unprecedented access to our exhibits and an exhibit named after him in due course. This is far from an uncommon practice as I'm sure you're aware.' Laurence wasn't aware. 'For many years, this seemed like a match made in heaven. We gave him lots of money and in return he gave us lots of artefacts. But then, two years ago, after receiving a huge donation from us, he disappeared. We could find no trace of him. That's when 'H' rang me and asked me to track him down, which I did. I found him in a bar in Toronto, obsessing over some journals and some scrolls that were all about Pandora's Box. He said that he'd been researching for it all this time and soon, when he found it, we'd get a return for our investment.'

'The rest, you already know. I was told to stay with him and help him in whatever way I could, no matter what it was that he wanted, so long as the Box found its way into our museum. As you know events did not transpire as we hoped. Randall's dead and now the box is on board this boat. I've been told to retrieve it and take it back to Britain.' Wesley finished his speech and took a deep breath before glugging what remained of his water. Laurence reflected. How on earth had he managed to become involved in such a complicated affair? Despite Wesley's lengthy relation of events, he still had questions that remained unanswered.

'Won't the French government have something to say about this? It was to be displayed at their museum after all? Where I grew up we had a saying; finder's keepers.'

'Well where I'm from it's a case of money talks, mate. We put a lot of money into finding the box and to be honest I think we deserve it. As for the French, I can assure you that we'll pay them a considerable amount of compensation so that they can give us the box without too much complaint.'

'So what's next?'

'It was my job to make sure we saw a return for our investment, in other words to deliver the box to London and that's what I'm going to do.'

'How?' Laurence asked partly out of genuine curiosity and partly out of his lack of any of his own ideas as to how to proceed, and as a result his tone was becoming increasingly agitated.

'By ascertaining and, if necessary, which I fear it will be, apprehending whoever stole the box from the museum yesterday.' Wesley answered.

'So, why did you hire me anyway?'

'I was to help Randall in his pursuit of Pandora's Box in any way I could. He knew that I was an investigator with a knack for identifying people, so he asked me to find someone who knew plenty about the box, and had considerable writing talent, to aid in our investigation to rediscovering the box when it was stolen from us.' Laurence beamed at what he took to be a compliment, but Wesley wasn't quite finished with his explanation. 'However I realised that if we hired an expert in archaeology or mythology they'd most likely get in the way. You know what these scholarly types are like; they think it their prerogative to tell everyone what they think about everything, which of course is correct and completely free from criticism.' Wesley's normally angry face had taken on a more cynical look that matched his sardonic tone, while Laurence looked as dumbfounded as ever by the use of the word 'prerogative' and just kept on smiling and nodding at everything Wesley said. 'So I decided to find the exact opposite; somebody who knew very little about the box and who wouldn't attract too much attention and get in the way of our efforts of finding the box. A complete nobody in other words and that nobody was you.' Laurence pushed his lips out in quiet contemplation of all that he had just heard. He was sad at once again having been lied to and for the realisation that what he had earlier feared was true; he was a nobody. He gritted his teeth and looked at Wesley, who stared at him with piercing eyes, full of discontent.

'Any other questions or am I free to get some sleep?' He was not annoyed by Laurence's interrogation and believed that he had a right to the truth.

'How did you escape from Giorgio's?'

'Giorgio let me go.' Wesley said quite plainly.

'He did? He told me you had escaped and that I was to track you down? Does nobody tell the truth anymore?' Laurence rose from his seat and stared out of the window again to hide his hurt face.

'Giorgio wants the box as well. Why else do you think he got his girlfriend to spy on Randall?'

'His girlfriend? Not...'

'I'm afraid so.' Wesley said, gravely.

'Bruno Cavilliere! And I thought Giorgio was supposed to be a compulsive womaniser? Well I never!'

'Not Bruno you plank! Ruby Holland!' Wesley exclaimed in total frustration.

'Ruby Holland?!' So that's why he sounded and looked so sincere when he promised to release her, Laurence thought to himself in disbelief. So he had lied to Laurence as well! He had told Laurence he had got his girlfriend to spy on Randall for him; all the pieces of this messy puzzle were suddenly coming together.

'Randall never knew that Ruby was Giorgio's girlfriend, spying on him, reporting back everything that was going on. You heard yourself how everything was always a competition between them, how they always fought for prizes at school and in later life, squabbling over whose collection of artefacts was larger and more impressive. Ruby must have told him we were heading to the museum to cause a scene; that's why his men suddenly arrived on the scene that day. I don't believe Giorgio had anything to do with blowing up the house.'

'Anyway, I fought myself out of Giorgio's and headed to the museum. There I saw a blonde man insulting a child and I knew I had found you. Later that same day, I was strolling through Paris trying to find a pay phone when I saw you on your bicycle scaring tourists. I've been on your tail ever since, but I'm afraid Giorgio's men have been on mine.'

'What do you mean by that?'

'His men have been following me ever since I left his because he knows I'm going after the box and I'm going to lead him straight to it. That's what he hopes anyway.'

There came an insistent knock at the door. Laurence and Wesley exchanged surprised glances. Was it Harrison? Or Philip? Or one of Giorgio's men? Laurence wanted to see who it was and headed in trepidation towards the door, but Wesley insisted he do nothing and pushed him back into his chair. Whoever it was, he thought, it was definitely going to be trouble.

'This is definitely going to be trouble, mate. You got a piece?' Wesley asked of Laurence.

'Of cake?' Laurence replied in bewilderment. Now was not the time for eating. Wesley slapped his own forehead in annoyance, something he thought would be a common occurrence around Laurence.

'I meant a gun!' Wesley corrected Laurence who proceeded to slap his own forehead as well, for he had carelessly discarded the one given to him by Giorgio when he threw off his blazer in pursuit of the museum robbers. Wesley did not need to be told the answer to his question and he readied himself by the door while Laurence slowly opened it. It was Brigitte Girard, looking refreshed and prepared in the same outfit she had been wearing earlier in the day.

'A woman? I told you it would be trouble.' Wesley turned from the door without so much as a glance of acknowledgement towards Brigitte, who clutched her handbag tightly in fear of him, for he did not exactly look very welcoming in his tatty attire.

'Ah, Brigitte, come on in, don't be frightened.' He flashed a glance at Brigitte and, rising from his chair, took her arm, which caused her to blush. 'Brigitte, this is my friend, Wesley Gilliand.' He used the word 'friend' tentatively for he was still not sure whether Wesley really liked him or not. 'He's my associate in this sordid and unfortunate affair.' Wesley gave Brigitte, who still looked a little nervous, a welcome that amounted to nothing more than a brief nod that was as warm as Scotland before asking Laurence,

'Where does she fit into all this?' By the way he was acting round her it was clear that he was suspicious of her and so it came to pass that in the following ten minutes Laurence recounted all events post his separation from Wesley to Wesley and all the events prior to meeting Brigitte to Brigitte, so that everyone now knew who was who and what was going on. Now that they were all up to date, the trio turned their attention to what they would do now. Brigitte was first to speak,

'The box is inside that truck, on board this boat. Let's contact the police and turn this truck around.'

'Nice idea love, but it's a bit more complicated than that. This is a government matter. I have a mission; to find out who took the box and what they intend to do with it.' This started a prolonged argument between the two; Brigitte eloquently argued that the box belonged to the 'Paris Museum of Ancient History' and that contacting the police was the best course of action. Wesley, on the other hand, was vociferous in his belief that they should take the box to its intended location, wherever that might be, and in doing so find out who was behind it all. Back and forth they went like two Herculean tennis players baying for a vital point and Laurence's eyes switched between the two as if he were actually at Wimbledon. Brigitte asked Wesley in astonishment,

'So you want to take the box straight into the lion's den?' Brigitte asked in astonishment.

'It's the only way to find out who did this. I'm sure your museum and the French police would also like to know. If there's any sign of danger, I can always call for back-up.'

'No,' Brigitte fired back, quite ferociously. 'We need to contact the police immediately.'

'Actually,' Laurence interrupted. He had not spoken for a long time and the sound of his voice produced a noisy silence to the room. 'I can't see how calling the police will help. Sting's a very busy man and, though I always think better to music, I'm not sure they'll really be of any use to us. I agree with Wesley. Let's find out who's behind all this.' Brigitte clearly did not agree; she huffed and puffed with frustration but eventually agreed. It was very apparent that Brigitte and Wesley would not be good friends.

With their next course of action decided, they agreed to reconvene an hour later outside Laurence's room, once everyone had prepared themselves adequately. Brigitte returned to room and brushed her luxurious hair to calm herself down after losing the battle of wills with Wesley, who showered, shaved and bought some new clothes from the shop on board the ship. Laurence meanwhile decided to sleep, or try to sleep, for he still had much on his mind. It seemed that almost everyone he had met lately had lied to him in one way or another, except for Brigitte of course; who Laurence wished could be lying next to him right now! Despite the deception of the past few days however, he knew that the truth would soon reveal itself; whatever was to come, would come. He would just have to face it with the belief that everything would be okay. One thing felt certain however; his adventure was nearly at an end.

### Chapter Eight

### Oar and Shock

Having reconvened as agreed outside Laurence's room, the trio headed to find some breakfast in a silence so awkward that it was almost painful. Brigitte longed to protest about the course they were following whereas Laurence longed to profess how he felt for her while Wesley just wanted some coffee to keep him going. They breakfasted quickly and efficiently, only the occasional slurp of coffee or crunch of toast breaking the complete quiet. After eating their fill, they made their way to the cargo bay of the ferry by way of some cold and poorly-lit stairs that continued to descend for so long it seemed as if they were on a journey to the centre of the earth. They eventually came to an imposing door, with a handle like a helm of a ship. Wesley struggled with all his might, which was not inconsiderable, but he couldn't get it open. Laurence opted to lend a hand or, as it transpire, both his hands and, after a mighty heave, the bolts of the door eventually turned and opened, revealing a black abyss of nothingness. Wesley groped the extreme inside left of the darkness and flicked on a switch, which showed a scene that wasn't a great deal more attractive than before. Below them lay row upon row of white vans which looked identical to each other. It seemed to Laurence that finding the truck would be as easy as finding an honest politician.

'How are we supposed to find the right truck?' He asked desperately.

'Didn't you make a note of the registration plate?' Wesley asked, staggered.

'Umm...yes. But when I say yes...I mean no.' He grinned innocently at Wesley, whose face had turned a deep shade of red as he bit his bottom lip in an attempt, no doubt, to stop less than kind words coming out.

'I, on the other hand, did.' Brigitte said, triumphantly taking a piece of paper out of her bag and placing it in Laurence's grateful hands. He blazed a smile of deep affection at her. Wesley ruined the moment by snatching the paper out of Laurence's hand. Then, he read the number out loud and ordered Laurence to head off in one direction, Brigitte in another and he himself through the middle.

'We have about half an hour until the ship docks into Athens. We can slip away with the other vehicles when they depart. Let's split up and move out.' Wesley announced, and Brigitte and Laurence acquiesced. They hurried off at a pace down into the vans below and scattered to look for the truck, but they were not alone.

Twenty minutes had elapsed when Laurence once again found himself in the company of the delightful Brigitte. They shared a smile and he asked whether she had had any luck finding the truck,

'None, how about you?' She said. It was evident from how she spoke that she was extremely tired.

'Same, but then I did forget the numbers of the number plate pretty much immediately after we set off.' He shrugged his shoulders and she gave him a reassuring pat on the arm.

'I'm sorry if I've been in a bad mood today. It's just that...Well, I've been in a bad mood today. Wesley spoke to me like I was nothing.'

'I know what it's like to feel like nothing. But Wesley's a good man. And trust me, you're not nothing.' He returned her pat, rather nervously, before leaving his hand on her arm. Was this the moment? Should he make his move? Did he dare? He looked into her eyes and they looked deeply into his and told him that he should make his move, that he should dare. Her demure cheeks flooded with tell-tale signs that she was happy. Laurence's heart was beating at about two hundred miles an hour, but he leant towards her ever so slowly. She went up onto her tiptoes and arched her swan like neck toward his.

'Well, well, well; if it isn't our old friend, Laurence Swift.' Brigitte spun around and backed into Laurence's body, resting the back of her head on his chest, almost able to hear his still pulsating heart. The pair's eyes, so full of love a moment ago, were now occupied with a mixture of fear and horror. Five feet away, a badly bruised Harrison and a heavily bandaged Philip paced towards them.

'Yeah, if it isn't Laurence Swift' Philip chimed in, his hand resting on the spot where Wesley's dart had fallen earlier in the day.

'But it is!' Laurence replied, exuberantly.

'What are you doing next to our truck?' Harrison shouted. Laurence and Brigitte turned in perfect synchronicity towards the truck to their left. So they had been next to the right truck, Harrison's Ford Transit, the whole time! The fools!

'I don't know what you're talking about. I don't see any trucks!' Laurence shouted back, trying to sound cool and innocent simultaneously but just, as ever, sounding stupid. Harrison and Lesley showed each other confused faces and then returned their gaze to the fearing couple.

'Sorry to interrupt your smooch, but we've got a delivery to make.' Then Harrison clapped eyes on Brigitte's handbag and licked his lips like a famished dog waiting for his dinner. 'Hand over that bag, miss.' He held forth his sweaty palm. Laurence didn't want to do anything; not out of cowardice, but because he feared the slightest misstep could put Brigitte's life in jeopardy. She knelt down and slung her bag off her arm, placing it delicately on the floor in front of her. As Harrison approached and took up the bag with childlike glee, Brigitte pulled out her umbrella and turning it round so she held the material in her hand, she pulled out the elongated handle and smacked him in the face with it like a baseball player stepping up to the home plate. If Brigitte had been a baseball player, the strike she delivered to Harrison's face would have undoubtedly been a home run. Philip turned and sprinted off, but Laurence was on him in a shot.

'I've had just about enough of you, you fiend!' And as he chased after him he caught himself in the rope that lay on the floor next to a lifeboat and fell to the floor. Philip heard the crash of man on floor and turned to see Laurence's ankles tied up by the coils of the rope. He paced toward him and the knife with the handle made of a rabbit's foot was again pointed at Laurence's direction, but this time at his throat.

'I'm going to enjoy this, you ponce.' He pulled the knife back once more, but a similar fate as last time befell him. Laurence groped the floor around him for anything that could be used as a weapon and he found the oar to one of the lifeboats. He rolled to his right side as Philip stabbed the floor and, swiftly getting to his feet with the oar in his hands, cracked the spoon of the oar over Philip's head, sending him flat into the floor and knocking him out cold. Brigitte rushed around the corner and Laurence gripped the oar in his hands as if he were about to march into battle with it.

'Laurence are you alright?' She called out to him sincerely.

'I'm alright. Philip on the other hand...' He looked down at where Philip was resting.

'What happened?'

'Oh nothing really. Just an oarful accident.' He laughed a very happy laugh, threw the oar to the ground, or, more accurately, on Philip's head, took Brigitte's arms in his hands, swung her round toward him, and kissed her passionately. She was initially surprised, but then she sunk into his grasp and kissed him back.

'Oi, you two!' Laurence immediately dropped Brigitte onto the floor at the sound of Wesley's voice. 'What happened here?'

'Oh, just an oarful...'He started, but Laurence wasn't able to finish delivering his pun a second time.

'Come on, the truck is this way.' He hurried onto the truck, where Harrison still lay nursing his face, which Wesley promptly kicked hard. Laurence helped Brigitte off the floor and they looked at each other. They then ran off, without saying a word to one another, to where Wesley was searching through Harrison's pockets. 'Aha!' Wesley turned and dangled a set of keys in front of him. Laurence gave a pleasantly surprised smile. Things were actually going according to plan. The front of the truck had three seats, and Wesley took that of the driver, with Laurence in the middle and Brigitte on the end by the glove-compartment, which she proceeded to search for clues. Inside they found a road map of Greece, a sheet of directions and a set of instructions. With great intrigue Brigitte took the blue sheet of paper that was marked 'Instructions', in her hands and read it aloud,

'Proceed with extreme caution to Site A as indicated on map. Do not stop for anyone or anything, even the police.'

***

With Brigitte directing them and Laurence keeping quiet, the journey was un-chaotic and straightforward. Eventually however, she grew tired and Laurence was surprised to find her head resting on his shoulder. An accident? No, it couldn't be! He hoped not anyway. The journey was long and Wesley was insistent that there were no stops. When Laurence's stomach began to rumble louder than the engine however, he allowed a brief pit-stop where appetite and thirst were quenched. An hour afterwards, an hour in which Laurence had taken over the directions, and more than one wrong turn had been taken, they finally found themselves upon a dusty track that headed into an area of dense woodland. Wesley woke Brigitte up as moments later it became apparent that they were rapidly approaching the proclaimed 'Site A'. About half a mile ahead of them there stood what resembled the entrance to a prison. High metallic gates were accompanied by impenetrable walls of corrugated iron that was covered by barbed wire. Two armed guard stood in front of this imposing greeting. Wesley slowed the truck down for the trio realised that a plan was in order.

'If we go in to this "Site A" like this we'll be killed instantly. We don't look anything like Harrison or Philip. We need a disguise!'

'I agree with Laurence.' Added Brigitte, and Wesley nodded. He quickly conjured up a plan; as they approached 'Site A' Wesley would run ahead of the truck to the two security guards who patrolled the entranceway. He would then knock them out and undress them, so that Laurence and Brigitte could sneak into the compound in disguise whilst Wesley drove them in and then, as called for back-up. The plan was put into action within minutes of its formation. Wesley ran up to the entrance gate and put on an exasperated manner, placing his arm around the perplexed taller security guard who was exceedingly sweaty in the warm Greek sun. He turned to the nonchalant guard and asked,

'What is it card players say when they want another card in blackjack?' panted Wesley still in the role of the worn out runner.

'Err, hit me?' The guard stuttered the words out in truncated English.

'If you say so!' Without further ado, Wesley punched him in the face and a split second later the other guard was kicked against the wall, rendering him unconscious. He gestured for Laurence and Brigitte to join him and they promptly drove the truck toward him. Wesley stripped the guards and handed the uniforms to the pair of star-crossed classicists.

'Are you going to radio for help now?' inquired Brigitte.

'Only once we know what or who we're dealing with. That way, I'll know what I need to ask for. Let's get in there.' The gate opened and Brigitte gave a tut of disapproval before driving the truck into the compound. They were greeted with what equated to a grand and complex building site, appropriate for a place with a name such as 'Site A'. Large-scale pillars and columns were strewn about the place or in the process of being erected. Hundreds of men and women in high-visibility jackets and hard-hats were digging away into the ground or putting up large scaffolding. Around the outside of this area armed guards walked with bored expressions. Behind this there were metal sheets and wooden planks of varying shapes and sizes that were being forced together to create a stadia-like structure. To their left were rows of tiny tents and shacks that must have housed all these workers. There was even a group of bare-chested men laying out row upon row of fold-up chairs before a stage that was bare save for a tall wooden pole in the middle. Delivery vans with materials and digging equipment were parked everywhere; the sound in the air was a mixture of shouting, drilling, banging and even singing, as a group of women warbled away in a long procession through all the commotion. As Laurence observed all of this, a man in a banana coloured jumpsuit waved his hands toward the truck and pointed to a large tent on the far side of the site. Following the instructions, Brigitte drove the truck to its designated spot and asked,

'So what do we do now, exactly?'

In a very decisive manner, Laurence said, 'I'm going into that building.' He looked out towards a large pyramid shaped building that was made of black marble. It was a huge and hugely impressive construction that he assumed was the headquarters of the whole operation and the location of person in charge.

'Good idea, Laurence.' Wesley agreed and rummaged about in his blazer.

'Brigitte, stay here.' Laurence said.

'I'd feel much safer with you' she replied, fluttering her eyelashes pleadingly at hit.

'It's far too dangerous. If something happened to you I'd never forgive myself.' He argued in vain.

'That's sweet.' She leant over and pecked him gently on the cheek. Wesley interrupted,

'Alright love, this is what's happening; I'm staying here with the box. If someone comes looking for it I've got the best chance of protecting it. You should go and look after Laurence; I think he'll need it.' Laurence felt a flush of embarrassment. Wesley produced a slim jet black phone and instructed him to call if he encountered any trouble.

'Mine's the only number on there. Good luck.' He smiled confidently and Laurence felt better for it. He took Brigitte's hand and they headed toward the magnificent building.

***

Laurence and Brigitte hurried with their heads down along the rocky pathways past countless builders, diggers and black-suited men holding guns to a fire escape that was kept ajar by a brick and, take a sweeping lock around them, entered. They found themselves in the back entrance of the building, for inside it was not very grand; a corridor with four doors on either side presented itself to them: the floor was varnished, the wooden doors were numbered one to eight, and at the end of the corridor loomed another huge doorway. Sprinting toward it, Laurence and Brigitte opened the door and were presented with a wide reception area. At the end of this area, which was completely empty, was another door, which they trembled their way towards. The silence made them uncomfortable, and it was even more unsettling to consider how eerily quiet the place was which was made even more apparent by the building's vastness. The door was marked with the words 'Large Conference Room'. Brigitte took over Laurence's hand, he smiled at her; inside he was happy, but his face was wrought with indecision. Tentatively, he placed his hand on the doorknob and began to turn it clockwise.

Suddenly the sound of a door slamming from down the corridor echoed all around the building; footsteps soon followed it, accompanied by a perky whistling tune that was full of cheer. Brigitte seized Laurence's arm tightly and took him up the adjacent flight of stairs. This brought them to a balcony that overlooked the entirety of the large conference room. They immediately fell into a crouching position when they heard voices below them and the whistling tune coming ever closer behind them. The whistling foot-steps reached the doorway, opened it, and entered. Laurence and Brigitte poked their heads over the barrier to view what was happening. The room itself was empty, save for a long, shiny, charcoal black table with four leather swivel chairs positioned on either side of it. At the head of the table was a chair larger than all the others made of leather. It looked like a throne. Behind it was an ornamental fireplace that blazed away relentlessly, filling the air with the smell of burning wood. A man in an odd-looking cream suit with an equally unattractive cream bowler hat was resting his left elbow on the fireplace, looking out of the window at all the work being conducted at 'Site A', a site that seemed to serve no purpose. The other chairs were occupied by six men in expensive business suits; each one looking refined, each suit pristine and spotless, and a striking red-haired woman, with crimson coloured lips and ghostly pale skin. Her face was the epitome of ferocity and her body expressed masculine boldness. She was dressed all in red, complete with blood red high heels. The whistling footsteps became silent, almost apologetic footsteps and filled the fourth seat on the left-hand side of the table. There came a familiar voice from the fireplace that Laurence couldn't place.

'Nice of you to join us at last, Gomes.' There was a tone of complete blandness in this comment, like the man was unsurprised that Gomes was late.

'I'm sorry, I was...' Before he could finish the voice came again,

'Enough. Enough time has been wasted already. I have called you all here because I have good news, lady and gentlemen. Pandora's Box is now in our possession; I was informed only minutes ago that our quarry has reached its destination. It will now be unloaded and studied before...before tonight.' This news was said with gleeful conviction by the host, who possessed a long wooden cane which he used to walk over and take his seat at the head of the table. Laurence still couldn't make out his face of the man as it was covered by a large hat. 'Everything has gone according to plan and I'm sure tonight's ceremony will be a similar success.' He folded his hands together on the flat of the table top. There was a long silence which was eventually broken by a question from a man with a magnificent beard that fell to his stomach and covered the entire front of his suit.

'What about your loose end, the man known as 'Mr Swift'? Where is he?' This man had obviously received a fine education for he enunciated every syllable with crystal clear clarity.

'You raise an interesting point, Robert. It's true that Mr Swift's disappearance has been somewhat of a nuisance, but I trust that he will be little more than that; a man of his limited capabilities will be no trouble to us. Besides we now have the box.' Laurence became angry; not because of the comment that belittled his feelings in front of a woman whose opinion he valued greatly, but because he had delivered the box straight to them! But what exactly were they going to do with it? As if he had read Laurence's mind, a proud and noble looking man asked his host,

'So what is it exactly that you propose to do?'

'This evening at midnight, I will perform a religious ceremony, asking the Gods above us to bless us and allow us to use Pandora's Box in their name. We have been given an almighty gift and we can now have the chance to make history. The papyrus scroll that accompanies the box reads in translation, "Whoever prays to almighty Zeus, the box of Pandora shall be in their use." Gentlemen, my lady, Pandora's Box is now mine, I mean, ours, to use. The world has become sick, overcome by greed and obsessed with money. The corrupt reign over the good and oppress those of us who dare to challenge them. Well this night I mean not only to challenge them, but to destroy them and the unpleasant world they live in. Tonight we shall change the course of justice and fate. Tonight we will turn the world on its head. Tonight we will send the countries of the world back to the Dark Ages and rebuild it in our own image. When I open the box I will usher in a new order, the order of....' The man threw off his hat dramatically and stood up in his chair. This brought applause by the scarlet haired woman, a mixture of fearful and interested faces from around the table, but a shocked gasp from Laurence. The face...the voice...the hideous lack of fashion sense...

'Randall Johnson!' He and Laurence said simultaneously, one a triumphant self-congratulatory roar and the other a breathless whisper of disbelief.

Randall Johnson was alive!

Laurence knelt down behind the metal bar and Brigitte turned to him.

'What's wrong?' She asked.

'That man at the head of the table is Randall Johnson! The man who I thought was dead.' Laurence couldn't take his eyes off him.

'The man who hired you?' She was worried as she looked at Laurence, who nodded to answer her question Laurence. She returned her attentions to the scene below her, where Randall had begun to walk around the table.

'You have all given me significant sums of money in order to ensure your family's protection and to seal a position at the head of the future world's new governing body. I thank you, each and every one of you, for your support. You shall all be richly rewarded tomorrow. Unless there is any further business to discuss we shall adjourn, and I shall see you all at tonight's ceremony.' He glanced up the table, not expecting anyone to speak. The subdued businessmen and the smug-looking woman rose in silence from their seats, except for Gomes, who straightened out his suit, coughed to clear his throat, and spoke aloud in a quivering voice that betrayed his fear of Randall.

'Actually, if it's alright with you, I'll withdraw my interest and take my money back.' Nothing was said in reply to this; Randall just stared blankly at him. Gomes, growing in confidence, continued by saying, 'This is all ludicrous. It's a worthless piece of pottery that means nothing and should be gawked at by tourists in a museum somewhere, not used to pamper your fantasies of power and delusions of importance. What's your problem anyway? You told us you had something that could benefit mankind, not annihilate it. I want nothing to do with this anymore, thank you. I think you're all quite mad.' Silence reigned in the room. Stunned faces turned from Randall to Gomes in quick succession. Although Gomes had said exactly what they all had been thinking, except for the vermilion woman. But none of them dared oppose Randall. He was mad!

'Come over to me here, Gomes.' Gomes calmly went over to where Randall was and the American placed his arm round him, taking him over to the window. 'My problem, as you call it, is the world. It's not fair! The rich have it all their own way and we, you and me, Gomes, are oppressed by those who are of no importance. Take Giorgio Carraciolo for instance. He inherited a large sum of money, wasted it on luxurious items of no consequence that do not aid our world, and yet he is celebrated for it. As for me, I have worked hard, devoted years of my life to benefitting society and yet no one cares. My own 'death' only made page 7 of the Paris Gazette because some blasted tourist interrupted the Tour de France and apparently that's more important than the death of a great museum benefactor.' Laurence let out a snort of laughter and pumped his fist into the air. The scarlet-haired woman raised her eyebrows. 'But not anymore. By this time tomorrow the whole world will know my name and, what's more, they shall love it.' Gomes shuddered as Randall took his huge paw of a hand off his shoulder. He turned to leave, leaving Gomes staring at the scene below, but swivelled round to say one last thing to the poor Gomes. 'Oh, one more thing, Gomes; don't ask stupid questions!' He grabbed Gomes with one hand on the back of his neck and the other by the belt of his trousers and with his huge strength lifted him up as if he weighed nothing more than a feather and hurled him with an evil look upon his face through the glass windows and onto the ground below. A few startled workers surrounded Gomes' body and looked up to where he had fallen, but a scowl from Randall sent them back to work. Randall dusted his hands and gave one look at the other in the room, who promptly returned to their rooms without a word of complaint.

'Madman' Laurence muttered. He could not believe Randall was behind everything all along, and not only playing everyone for a fool, but winning.

'What should we do?' Brigitte asked quickly. She slipped some stray strands of hair behind her ear. Their knees were both beginning to ache from having been crouched down for so long.

'Brigitte, I'm sorry for getting you involved all of this.' Laurence shook his head at his foolishness.

'Don't be silly. I chose to come along.' She smiled at him and gave him an assuring pat on his back.

'Go back to Wesley and tell him to call for help. I need to talk to Randall and try and stop him.' She let go of his arm without any protest at his plan and left silently as a mouse down the steps. In his mind Laurence put all the pieces of the puzzle together at last. Randall's death was just an elaborate alibi to allow him to steal Pandora's Box in order to satisfy his own jealousy and make himself feel important. Giorgio's call was right; Randall had turned power-mad and he had to be stopped. Worst of all however was the fact Laurence had delivered the box to Randall on a silver platter. But now was not the time to bemoan what he had done. Now was the time for action and Laurence resolved to strain every sinew, push his every limit and fight well into the night to stop Randall!

As soon as he got up from his crouched position, Laurence was sent crashing back down to the floor again by a heavy blow. He was out-cold and promptly picked up by four large men, kitted out in desert camouflage, who dragged him downstairs; the red-haired woman looked up at the balcony, a wicked smile drawn across her foul face.

### Chapter Nine

### The Harlot in Scarlet

The lamp above Laurence's head seemed to burn with the heat of a thousand suns. This produced a sharp, stinging sensation in his left temple. He struggled to open his eyes and keep them open, for the light was thrust right up against his face and it felt as if it was burning a hole in his head. To exacerbate things, the blow he had received had left him dazed and confused and his senses were dulled. He looked down to see that his body was strapped by belts to the chair; one on either ankle, one on either wrist, and a long belt curved tightly about his abdomen, which groaned with hurt and hunger. The cruel light was suddenly swung backwards from out of his face and it revealed the rest of the room to him. Directly ahead, hanging from the ceiling, was the unkind light. On either side of him were bare walls the colour of sand while before him, sitting on a leather stool with her legs folded and a callous smile, was the striking woman. A moment later, she was literally striking Laurence across the face in a bid to wake him up and to inflict some pain. The blow allowed him to gather his senses together; the smell of perfume was thick in the air, so too the sense of imminent danger. He looked again at the woman. She was decked in a scarlet dress that ran to her knees. In her left hand she held a small metallic object.

'Where am I?' Laurence asked in determined fashion, though it hurt to speak. His lips were swelling up from where she had hit him.

'You're exactly where I promised you would be; the unveiling of Pandora's Box.' The smarmy statement came from behind Laurence and belonged to Randall Johnson. Laurence tried to turn his head but the chair would not allow him. He entered Laurence's view with a confident walk and positioned himself next to the woman, placing his hand on her bony right shoulder. The devil would not have looked out of place next to this diabolical pairing. Wearing a long, loose and finely woven cloth, accompanied by sandals, he looked the very image of a priest. Randall shook his head at Laurence,

'My dear Mr Swift, what has become of you? Listening in on other people's conversations? Do you not remember what happened to the curious cat? You used to have such manners...' He gave a little chuckle and clucked his tongue in disapproval.

'Yeah, and you used to be dead!' Laurence spat the words out, barely hiding his contempt. Randall's smug smile morphed into a ghastly grimace.

'Forgive me, then. You're probably wondering what's going on? Who am I kidding; you always are, aren't you?' And Randall launched into a rant in which he attributed the world's problems to celebrities and the very, very wealthy. His words were maleficent and all the while he spoke, the woman stared up at him with complete reverence, as if she were listening to a divine or celestial being. Randall then turned to Laurence, pointed his finger at him, and bellowed, 'I can become a hero by reversing the order of the world. Then those who, like me, are overshadowed by spoilt brats and their rich parents will rule this world. With the power of Pandora's Box I can unleash a plague of ills and evils that will allow this world to start from scratch. I can wipe out those who deserve nothing, and then a new order can begin...the order of...' Before he could finish, Laurence laughed. He couldn't help it and he knew it was a mistake the moment he did so, but his situation was so ridiculous and Randall's speech so melodramatic that it just came out. His captor's eyes had turned a dastardly shade of green. 'I don't see anything funny about my dream, Mr Swift!' He sounded indignant.

'All this because of your jealousy of others? When it comes down to it you're nothing but a cowardly, envious schoolchild!' Randall rushed up to Laurence incredibly quickly and smacked him hard between the eyes.

'I am not a school child! I am the most powerful man in the world! I possess the power of a God and very soon I shall be praised as one!' A whining sound started to emerge from his lips which developed into a thunderous cackle that sent a chill down Laurence's spine.

'But you must realise that, even if it were Pandora's Box, all that would be left inside would be hope?' Laurence thought for a moment he had beaten Randall but, after a short pause in which he stared up at the ceiling, the megalomaniac began to shout as if possessed by the devil himself.

'Exactly, and hope is the worst peril of all; the belief that things will get better, the vain thought that everyone has a chance and all can succeed. It is all a lie. By giving people hope you destroy them and make them bitter and twisted.'

'Talking of destruction, why the need to blow yourself up?' Laurence jerked his head to the side inquisitively.

'When you are alive, facing financial difficulties and a renowned lover of antiquities, and Pandora's Box is stolen, you will be the subject of intense speculation! Nobody suspects a dead man; it was the perfect alibi. The British government wanted a return of their investment; well here it is! At tonight's sacrifice, on the platform below us, I will open the Box, and then a new order can begin; the order of...'

Laurence cut in swiftly, 'What sacrifice?'

'Will you please stop interrupting me in the middle of my speech? I am conducting a human sacrifice, to purify the box and to appease the Gods. I have you to thank actually, Mr Swift, for you have provided the perfect sacrifice in that charming young girlfriend of yours. As beautiful as Pandora herself, don't you think? I'm sure the Gods will be delighted with her.' He smiled devilishly at Laurence, who raised his head, lifted his chin high into the air and said,

'You black-hearted scoundrel, I won't let you!' He tried to surge out of his seat and though the pressure he exerted on them made them buckle a little, Randall struck him with the back of his sinewy right hand.

'Don't embarrass yourself, Mr Swift. Do you really think you could defeat me? You're nobody, nothing. Until that idiot Gilliand recommended you I'd never even heard of you, and it doesn't seem that anyone else ever will either.' Randall patted the woman on the shoulder and she rose from her seat, brandishing...a scalpel! Randall gave her a nod and strutted over to Laurence, placing a clammy palm on his cheek. 'Goodbye, Mr Swift. I shall leave you with my close acquaintance, Bernadette Kropp. I'm sure she'll entertain you.' Randall let out a short grunt of satisfaction and headed out of the door, leaving Laurence alone with the harridan.

Bernadette closed in so closely on Laurence's face that their noses were almost touching. Laurence began to sweat in fear; her eyes seemed black and when she smiled at him she displayed teeth as yellow as custard and as crooked as a stick. She backed away from him, turning on her elevated heels and said,

'Mr Swift, I am not a monster.' She had a powerful accent that came straight out of Eastern Europe.

'Oh but the resemblance is uncanny!' Laurence replied, which brought a black look from Bernadette and a hard slap. How many times was he going to be hit in the face today, he wondered to himself. No matter how many times it happened he would never be used to the stinging sensation it brought.

'Mr Johnson has instructed me to...kill you. But he didn't say in what way or how quickly. So I'm going to take my time with you and I'm going to enjoy myself, Mr Swift.' Bernadette twisted the scalpel round her fingers, showing great artistry in control. She held it now like a pen, and placed it just below Laurence's left earlobe. Was it too late for him to reason with her? Yes, she looked like a maniac. She was holding a scalpel, like a maniac. Laurence couldn't reason with his six-year-old nephew to give him his wallet back, let alone this scalpel-wielding harpy. She held the scalpel aloft and it glinted as it caught the light of the lamp. Suddenly, Laurence's thigh began to tingle. Was it possible that he was so nervous his legs were beginning to shake? No, actually; the mobile phone Wesley had given him was vibrating. Bernadette was alarmed,

'What is that?' She pulled the phone out of his pocket and stared at it as if she had never seen a phone before. She held it upside down and looked at it from every angle and the phone kept on vibrating. She turned her puzzled face towards Laurence, 'How do I stop this vibrating?' She placed her deep fingernails into Laurence's cheek, her inevitably red painted nails pressed into his sore cheeks. She drew them down and this left a nasty trio of scars.

'Push the red button,' For once in his life, Laurence was treating someone else like an idiot. Bernadette did as she was bid, and then immediately regretted it, for a sudden burst of smoke came out of the earpiece and clouded the room. Bernadette coughed uncontrollably and Laurence did too. The door behind Laurence was smashed down and in rushed Wesley, his face cut in two places, no doubt from an altercation somewhere else in the building, and he began to untie Laurence. Bernadette, who had fallen to the floor as the gas erupted into her face, got up and thrust the scalpel into Wesley's arm. He roared in pain but Laurence, with his left leg now free, kicked the scalpel out of her hand and then kicked her in the face, causing her to fall down again. She groped around on the floor for the weapon, for the cloud of smoke was now so intense it was hard to make anything out at all. Wesley regained his composure and continued to untie Laurence, who noticed Bernadette was coming back for more. 'Watch out!' He shouted, and Wesley turned around with a pivot as elegant as any ballet dancer. It was not quick enough for Bernadette swiped the blade across his stomach, ripping his shirt open and giving him a not insignificant cut across the belly. He didn't allow the wound to deter him for long; he pushed her arm away as she lunged for him again, before punching her in her foul face. She fell to the floor for a third and final time. Wesley had knocked her out. It was ironic Laurence thought, as Wesley undid the other straps of the chair and he clambered out of it, that for a woman with an obsession with the colour red, the red button of his phone had been her undoing. Laurence and Wesley thanked each other and slapped each other's arms.

'What happened to my phone?' Laurence asked.

'Oh that? Just a little gift from the government; pressing the red button sets off a smoke alarm.' Wesley said. Laurence smiled and was suitably impressed, dragging Bernadette into the chair and strapping her in.

'I don't believe it.' Laurence said.

'I know, impressive eh?'

'I didn't realise there were geniuses in the government!'

Wesley laughed, and, gesturing towards the now manacled Bernadette, said, 'Well, she won't be going anywhere soon.'

'But we are Wes; we've got to get to the sacrifice, they've got Brigitte!' Before Wesley could agree, Laurence had sprinted past him and down the corridor in search of an exit that would lead him to the end of his journey, and maybe to the end of life itself.

### Chapter Ten

### What a Site

Laurence and Wesley burst through the fire exit, flew down the flight of stairs and sprang away like deer toward the sound of a slow and steady drum beat. It was dark outside now, cooler, with a slight breeze running through the air and blowing Laurence's hair into all sorts of untameable fashions. The bright spots in the sky that pierced the sheet of night guided them on their way, so too did the enormity of their desire, on Laurence's part to save Brigitte, on Wesley's to stop Randall.

They came to a large set of rocks, which were positioned together to give the shape of a prism. The pair huddled around these rocks and looked down below at a deep ditch where a large congregation of people had assembled. Some were sitting on wooden chairs right at the very back, only a few feet below Laurence and Wesley; others were on their knees in a stance of supplication and worship, chanting rhythmically and waving their arms like palm trees caught in the midst of a tropical storm. Before them were seated the same suited persons who Laurence had earlier observed inside the conference room, save for the detained Bernadette and the dead Gomes. They too were singing aloud, though rather unenthusiastically compared to their kneeling counterparts, to a raised platform which had four pillars, one on each corner, a large stone altar in the centre and behind it, a long wooden pole about ten feet in height. Standing next to the altar, basking in all the glory he was receiving, was Randall Johnson in splendid linen robes. He walked around the long wooden pole, dispersing grain around it as he went round. After he had done this, he raised a small bucket of water. At this moment, the great throng of people dispersed and four formidable men approached from the back of the crowd to the platform, carrying a stretcher on their bulging shoulders. Strapped to this, furiously struggling against her bonds was a beautiful woman who was shrieking and pleading with the people around her. 'Brigitte!' Laurence shouted, or would have shouted, had not Wesley covered his mouth as soon as he noticed he was about to speak.

Brigitte was lifted off the stretcher and brought to the pole. The men forced her head into the bucket for a few seconds and when she came up again her face was drenched and her finely braided hair was dripping. The chants began again, faster but less loud this time. Brigitte's waist was tied around the pole with a long stretch of rope; her arms were raised above her head and tied with cords round the back of the pole, while her feet were forced together in a similar fashion. Randall then tipped the remained of the bucket on himself; the harsh cold of the water making him gasp and shiver. Laurence looked out to Brigitte; her hair flowed long and lustrously down her back; around her neck was shimmering golden necklace; her white dress was cut low on the chest but fell to her ankles. She wasn't wearing any shoes. Her ivory skin was as pale as the moon in fright; the look on her face suggested she was looking into the brink of death itself. From his basket of grain, Randall produced a long, thin knife that glinted in the moonlight. He held it high and the crowd of people cheered. Brigitte began to cry uncontrollably. She tried to form words to shout out for help or to plead for salvation but none were forthcoming. On the stone altar Wesley could see scrolls of parchment, no doubt containing the words Randall would read to ordain the opening of the box.

'Right, this is the plan.' He turned to Laurence, but Laurence wasn't there. He looked further along the curve of the crater and saw him, darting along the steep decline, clambering over and under rocks, trying to remain silent and not alert anyone to his presence. He quickly came to behind a boulder that was level with the front of the platform. He looked to his left; all eyes were on Randall who was by this time stood with his hands aloft to the heavens and shouting until his lungs were empty in ancient Greek. His tone was demanding and expectant rather than one of worship. The men of the conference room looked uneasy as Randall's delivery became more frantic; he seemed to revel in the performance.

Then he stopped suddenly. The atmosphere changed. The torches that were lit around the area flickered with concern and the sky seemed to grow darker. Silence reigned. From the back of the crowd five men stood up and made their way slowly to the platform; they were clearly struggling carrying a heavy object. When they had reached the steps they heaved their luggage onto the platform before the altar. Randall stooped over the object and let forth a great cry of joy. So here it was! Finally, Laurence could see it. Its exterior was that of any clay pot. It was half the height of a man, of a murky orange colour, with a slender neck and round body, about the width of a football. On it was depicted a young girl bending over and lifting the lid of a similar looking vase, from which a dark cloud was emerging. Next to the girl's slender frame, in tiny, almost unreadable lettering, was the name 'Pandora.' So this was what everyone believed to be Pandora's Box. To Laurence, it looked like just another amphora. Yet, as in many things in life, it was what was in inside that mattered. The vase was treated with tremendous care by the men, who were especially careful not to let the lid fall off before the appropriate time in the ceremony came for Randall, his face a picture of childlike delight, to open the box. He now turned to Brigitte, whose own face was mesmerised by the sight of the vase. The men removed themselves from the platform and Randall lifted his blade high into the air. It was now or never. Seizing a handful of sand, Laurence leapt, gazelle-like, onto the platform.

'Randall!' The shout was full of anger and confusion, but it did not come from Laurence's mouth. It came from a member of the crowd, who was pointing to above the crater, where the sound of a motor engine was coming. A second later the source of the sound became apparent, as a yellow Ferrari bellowed up into the air and came crashing down into the crowd of people who were immediately screaming and flooding out of the area in blind panic. The car stopped only a few millimetres short of the platform; Pandora's Box rocked to and from but then steadied itself. Laurence was immediately behind the rocks at the back of the platform, but knew it would be suicide to untie Brigitte just yet. A stroke of luck was what he needed, and it came in the form of Giorgio Carraciolo. A roaring noise came from behind the audience and though many were confused, the source of the noise became clear very quickly. The twin bulbs of the Ferrari's headlights shone into Randall's cruel eyes and lit up the stage like a theatre spotlight. From the car emerged Giorgio Carraciolo and Ruby Holland.

'Stop this madness, Randall!!' Giorgio shouted as he closed the car door behind him. He raised his right foot onto the platform. Randall flashed a cruel smile at him and brandished his ravenous knife once more. He glared at Giorgio with spite and vengeance in his eyes.

'You can't stop me this time, Giorgio! You're too late! This time, I win!' He grinned like a demon and delivered a vicious kick to Giorgio's face, sending him off the platform and onto his back. Ruby rushed over around the car and to his side. It was then that Laurence rushed forward and stood before Randall and his prey, Brigitte, whose face was hopeful. They looked at each other in the eye. Randall laughed menacingly, 'Oh please!' He walked straight towards Laurence, who he expected to stand aside. But Laurence instead threw the sand he had in his hand at Randall. Tiny grains lodged themselves in and around Randall's eyes, which he immediately closed, but too late. He staggered about the platform like a drunkard, swearing and cursing and waving his knife blindly at things. He lost his footing and crashed into the altar, which fell from the stage and onto the bonnet of Giorgio's car, causing it to shatter into random, meaningless fragments. Randall screamed; he didn't have to have eyes to know what he had done. Meanwhile Laurence raced over to Brigitte and began to untie her from her bonds.

'Hello Brigitte!' He greeted her as innocently as if he had just met her for the first time. Before Brigitte could reply, she noticed Randall getting to his feet and her face was once again full of alarm. Giorgio called out to Randall,

'Stop this, old friend!' He was on his feet again and was joined by Wesley, who had clambered down the rock face and was now aiming his gun at Randall, whose teeth were bared and gritted as if here were a guard dog about to bite an intruder. He began speaking to himself in Ancient Greek; he was finishing the prayer to the Gods!

'Mr Johnson, it's over! I advise you not to make any sudden movements. Give yourself up!' Stern concentration in his face was matched by his voice and stance. Two of the stretcher bearers returned to their senses following the blind panic; one of them lifted Wesley into the air from behind, forcing him to drop his gun, and tossed him into a row of seats that collapsed onto the ground. The other guard charged into Giorgio and surely would have killed him with his gun but for Ruby, who, with incredible alacrity, seized the attacker's left wrist and, with sterling strength that belied her tiny frame, pulled him through the car's driver's side window.

By this time Laurence had finished untying Brigitte and he was now holding her hand. He would have rushed off then and there to help Wesley and get Brigitte to a place of safety but Randall had other plans; he had finished muttering to himself and, with less pomp and circumstance than he would have liked, lifted the lid of Pandora's Box.

'No!!!!' Brigitte, Laurence, Giorgio and Ruby called out simultaneously, and they all four of them jumped to the floor in anticipation of what would then happen. Wesley would have joined in the cry of despair were he not already on the floor and being throttled by one of Randall's men. The lid of the box crashed to the floor and the sound seemed to echo around the world.

The following seconds felt like they were whole years. Nothing happened, and yet it seemed as if everything around them changed. A shadow crept over the platform, the viewing area, over everywhere. Through the gloom a scream was heard; it came from out of the box and it penetrated the air, sending the assorted group into the depths of despair. Then the light of the moon shone clear and proud over them and it lit up a most horrendous and awe-inspiring scene. Popping out of the box came smock; thick, black, blinding. It rose and rose and spread out all around them so nothing could be seen. Nothing could be heard also, for a deafening high-pitched wail that seemed to stand for thousands of years of hurt and pain erupted from the box and all who heard it reached to cover their ears in a vain effort to blot out the sound. The noise pierced their ears. The shroud that preceded the noise formed a mass thundercloud above them, like an island in the sky, which rumbled and grumbled with anger and fury. Lightning streamed out of the box and into the cloud, and then shot out all around, narrowly missing everyone but striking nearly everything else. Flames roared all about them.

With his attacker now rolling around in agony, Wesley reached for his gun, though the effort it took was immense. A most terrific wind howled and swirled above their heads. Giorgio and Ruby placed their arms onto one of the platform's supporting legs; Laurence and Brigitte followed suit. Wesley fired four bullets into Randall, who was clearly overjoyed. The natural phenomena around him were not affecting him in the slightest. Indeed, where they seemed to attack and hurt the others, they seemed to engulf themselves around him, into him, through him. The bullets flew into him. A beam of pure white light, vibrant and blinding to look at, shot out of the box and into his face. He began to rise into the air, and lightning fired out of his fingertips. Giorgio struggled to look up; the intensity of the light was so startling he could not stare at Randall for longer than a nanosecond. Around Randall a crimson glow began to appear, his arms stretched out as shadows, ghost-like and formless, ran into his body. Wesley's bullets went in his direction but did nothing. They flew through his body! Wesley felt retribution as a huge gust of wind came his way, throwing him back against a rock face, knocking him unconscious. A deep gash formed on his head. He lay motionless and Laurence turned his head away from the box and toward his friend. The noise of the screams grew louder and ever more terrible; it was a sound of horror and despair. Randall's eyes became enflamed, so too did his hair, and yet he displayed no signs of pain. He cackled with delight. Laurence had to stop this, and fast.

Above the whirling wind and whipping tornado that began to form, sucking in the chairs and the car and other items that lay about the place, he shouted to Brigitte, 'Hold on and don't ever let go!' She didn't hear him but nevertheless her grip didn't loosen for a second. He, on the other hand, let go. He feared he would fly straight into the tornado, but it was not so. Getting to his feet, he staggered onto the platform, crawling up and over the edge and then along the planks of wood. The power of the wind and the strength of the cries pushed him back but he kept going. The bolts of lightning started to fire straight out of Randall's eyes. Behind them, the majestic triangle shaped building, the headquarters of Randall's new order, was hit by several streaks of lightning and exploded upon itself. Glass scattered itself all over the site and over those still remaining. Randall was being raised into the cloud itself, which roared at its freedom from the box with the snap of a thunderclap.

Something strange was beginning to happen to Giorgio's face; where his skin had been fair and smooth, now it was becoming covered in wrinkles and lines. His hair was beginning to grey and thin as well. He felt strength fading from his body. The affliction started to happen in Ruby and then Brigitte, and then Wesley, and now Laurence, who was edging ever closer to the lid of the box. His blonde hair was now white as snow, his face withered and his skin saggy and thin. He felt weaker and weaker in body, but his mind was unaffected by the box. With a great effort he seized the lid of the box tightly and began to raise it over the box. A terrifying sound came from above him; it was Randall, but not Randall. His entire body had now become one shining white light amid the gloom of the thundercloud. He had no arms, no legs, just two eyes and a vague form resembling a body, but was essentially just a bundle of light. Laurence took the lid, and slammed it down where it belonged; over Pandora's Box. As the lid fell, everything fell with it. The thunder and lightning, the shadows and shades, the screams and shouts fell to a murmur and all became one swirl of dense cloud which descended deep into the vase. The darkness diminished and so too did the effects of the box; as the cloud grew less and less, so too did the results of ageing recede on their bodies; Ruby and Brigitte returned to their former beauty, Giorgio's hair was as smooth and glossy as ever, and Laurence's hair retained its Golden Retriever like colour.

There was one sound left however, and that was the scream of Randall Johnson as he cascaded from the top of the cloud; he was certainly being brought back down to earth with a bang! He plummeted unceremoniously onto the box itself; it cracked into innumerable pieces.

'No!' Giorgio shouted, though it was not clear whether he was shouting about the destruction of the box or the fate of his former friend. For a few seconds there was pure, joyful, beautiful silence. Then the weather altered. Bright sunshine shone around the place and calm resonated proudly. Brigitte threw herself over Laurence who lay exhausted on the floor and began to weep over him, kissing his bruised and battered face all over. Ruby and Giorgio embraced and Giorgio lifted onto the platform to check Randall's pulse.

'Brigitte, I'm okay. I'm not dead!' He said to her in happiness. She smiled with unadulterated happiness and kissed him straight on the lips. He jumped to his feet from the platform and surveyed the surrounding area. A wondrous event had happened here today; Laurence had been kissed by a really attractive girl! But more than that, Pandora's Box had threatened to wreak devastation on the whole of humanity, and he had saved the day!

'Is he?' Laurence gestured towards Randall.

'Yes.' Giorgio answered solemnly. Randall Johnson was dead. He lay at peace with his beloved Pandora's Box. Suddenly Laurence's mind rushed to another possible fate.

'Wesley!' He ran over to the rock face and found Wesley, who was clearly in a great deal of pain, breathing calmly on the floor. 'Are you alright, Wes?'

'Aye, I'm alright! You did it! Now get me a bloody ambulance!' Wesley said through the pain barrier and Laurence smiled.

### Chapter Eleven

### Goodbye?

Once again, Laurence's eyes glazed over and his head dipped with exhaustion. One day since the events in Athens, Laurence found himself in the boardroom of the 'Paris Museum of Ancient History'. He was just one of many suited bodies that were sat around the circular table that took up the huge room at the very top of the building. The revelations that followed the night's events still resonated in his mind. Giorgio had followed Laurence as far as the café near the Gar du Nord due to a tracking device that was installed in a button on Laurence's shirt. After that, Giorgio simply followed him by train, ferry and car and ended up delaying Randall's intended obliteration of the world.

The rest now seemed like ancient history to Laurence, or at least a very long time ago. Wesley had been taken to hospital and patched up before he, Laurence, Giorgio and Ruby were summoned to a meeting to establish what had happened. Giorgio had made a call and all that remained of Pandora's Box was swept into a dustpan and delivered with the utmost care into a plastic bag that one might wrap their sandwiches in; a most humble end for so great an object. A helicopter came to take it and the others back to Paris. The ashes of the box were then sealed, apparently, in a bullet-proof, bombproof, waterproof, burglarproof, childproof, titanium crate and shipped to a top-secret location, though Laurence thought it would perhaps have been more fitting if it had been returned to where it came, and was scattered over the Mediterranean sea. And now they all, with the exception of Brigitte, who was having a much-needed lie down back at her apartment, had been beckoned to the museum to provide a sworn testament of what they had experienced.

Having given his version of events, and in no way understating his actions, Laurence had fallen into a welcome but accidental slumber until he was awoken by a very rotund man who was sat next to him, and who permanently had a sour look on his face, as if he had just tasted something that disagreed with him. Wesley, fully recovered from last night's travails, sat across the table from Laurence and looked at him with cold, hard eyes. They were shuffled quietly in an orderly fashion into an open, cold room. The back wall had the flag of France draped over it and, below that, a ten foot by ten foot map of Europe. The wall facing Laurence had one of those electronic white boards you would normally find in classrooms or lecture halls and on it were photos taken of 'Site A'. An image came up of the burning rubble that was once the pyramid headquarters of Randall Johnson, his evil grand design. Then there flashed an image of the wrecked stage which Laurence had crawled across in desperation. Planks of wood were pointed in the air, broken in half or little more than a black and charred mess. On the table before him was a glass of water and around the table sat many strangers, and some familiar faces, who were no doubt very important; the toad-like man on his immediate left, the raven-haired French ambassador, the finely bearded Greek Foreign diplomat, Michele Vivant, Head of the museum, whose own head was barely above the rim of the table, Wesley Gilliand, now cleanly shaven and just generally clean, though his face still held an angry expression, an old man with chubby cheeks, the good-looking and wide-grinning Giorgio Carraciolo, the glasses-wearing Ruby Holland, who looked imposing in a turquoise coloured blazer, and other men and woman of varying shapes and sizes. Unlike Laurence they behaved in an exemplary fashion, except the French and Greek ambassadors when the subject of whose rightful property the box was. The latter extended his palm forward in a threatening motion not for the first time as he sought to make his point, but it only drew a yawn from Laurence. Noticing this, William Williams, the Head of Interpol, a solidly built man, who was sitting three seats to Laurence's right motioned to the Greek to be seated, and turned to the yawning 'hero' of the hour. Williams had only spoken very rarely in the past two hours, but when he had finished, Laurence had been struck with admiration for the way Williams' voice never strayed from a calm, dignified level and yet held great authority. To his right, and between him and Ruby, was his secretary, a nosey-looking man with a moustache like a brush and a bald head which was badly sunburnt. He had been scribbling away for the entirety of the meeting; every word, every cough, every breath. Laurence noticed Williams' eyes were on him and sat up straight, as if he were a schoolboy who had realized he had erred and was now subject to a teacher's condemning glare. Williams' tone was far from judgmental,

'Thank you my friends. I can see this debate will rage long on into the night and perhaps into tomorrow as well,' at this the Greek man and the French woman both gave a tut of disapproval in each other's direction. 'But rather than arguing over where the box should end up, let us thank the man who brought the box back in the first place. Are you alright, Mr. Swift?' All heads turned in Laurence's direction; he stared back not knowing what to say or do and so he just grinned; in truth Laurence had not listened to anything that had been said. After saying his piece he had fallen into a peace of his own and as such had missed the chance to contribute whatever meaningful argument he might have given to the debate. William Williams smiled understandingly at him, 'What a tremendous ordeal this must have been for you, Mr. Swift. I'm sure we can excuse your tiredness. We cannot repay you enough for the great humanitarian work you have done; thanks to your bravery and quick thinking, the world is a safe place again. Mr. Gilliand paid a glowing tribute to you in his report.' Laurence looked at Wesley in pleasant surprise. Wesley returned his gaze and smiled warmly, breaking his outwardly angry bearing. Laurence reflected on the journey between them; not so long ago he had thought that Wesley had regarded him as a complete buffoon, but the truth was that Wesley thought he was only partly a buffoon. They had saved each other's lives and it seemed to him that he had made a good friend. William continued, 'Perhaps Mr. Kelly may have a job for you in the near future?' and he looked over at Wesley's boss, the chubby bulldog of a man, who merely grunted at this suggestion. 'At any rate, if you ever need a favour from Interpol, you have it without hesitation.'

'Thank you very much, Mr. Williams. I certainly hope that every journalist I speak to is as kind as you've been!' Laurence beamed and daydreamed about how his family and friends would admire what he had done. The look of pride on their faces! Their joyful voices barely managing to contain their admiration! And what about Quentin Derry! He would give all the money he had to see his face when he looked at the morning papers and saw the headlines celebrating Laurence as a hero. This daydream, like all others, was to be smashed into bitter reality.

'Ah, Mr. Swift, unfortunately I cannot allow that,' William's carefully chosen words hit Laurence like a punch in the face and thanks to his newly-found experience of these, he knew how much they hurt. There was a change in William's countenance; he looked like he was carrying the world on his shoulders. 'This must be kept a closely guarded secret. The world must never know what happened last night in Athens. If word got out that we were only seconds away from apocalypse, panic would grip the streets and unrest would follow.' Laurence wanted to shout out in objection but his heart had deflated like a recently popped balloon and his spirit faltered.

Mr. Kelly grunted and pointed his glass of gin at Laurence. Here came the lowest blow of all. 'As such, certain steps must be taken to ensure that you remain tight-lipped. If you even mention anything that happened last night, or in the days preceding, your girlfriend, Miss Girard will never be allowed to work in this, or any other continent, again. If anyone hears of what transpired from your lips, I will personally see that your life, and hers, is destroyed. Do I make myself clear?' Mr. Kelly looked like he took no pleasure in telling Laurence this, but his tone was unshakeable and showed no remorse. 'I'm sorry Mr. Swift. The press would have a field day if they knew what happened, and what could have happened. An elaborate cover-up story is being put in place as we speak.'

Williams added to this in an attempt to soften the blow, 'But we will attempt to ease the transition back to normal life for you. I've spoken to Mr. Derry in London and, although he took some persuading, I've managed to get you your old job back. And as a token of our gratitude and esteem, we've just transferred £500,000 into your bank account. I hope this atones in some way for all that has happened to you.' It was more money than he had ever dreamed of having, and more than he expected to end up with when he first began the search for Pandora's Box, but it was not enough. A part of him felt ungrateful, but a bigger, stronger, more emotional part felt aggrieved. He didn't want his job at the museum back, he wanted recognition for his achievements and to be able to receive the praise he deserved. He would have argued with Mr. Kelly but however much he cared about his own feelings, his concern for Brigitte was too great a barrier. Almost as if he had been programmed to say it, Laurence delivered an unemotional parting remark and rose from his seat. 'Thank you, that's very kind of you.' He said, and William made his way over to him, shook his hand and patted him on the back.

'Well done Mr. Swift. Thank you.' He smiled a genuine smile that was full of appreciation and returned to his seat. Laurence left the room with a whimper.

***

If ever there was a time when Laurence needed a sight to restore his spirit, it was now. It was lucky for him then that Brigitte was standing at the bottom of the museum steps looking astoundingly beauteous in a red summer dress that sat on the knee. She had a flower in her luscious, long hair which was at this time hanging loose down her shoulders and draped over her chest. Laurence emerged from the swivel door in his grey suit and upon seeing her, his grumpy frown altered into a rapturous smile. He almost skipped his way over to her such was his happiness to see her again. But Brigitte did not look at all happy to see him. In fact, she looked as if she was about to deliver bad news.

'I guess this is farewell then?' She smiled reluctantly staring deep into his eyes, eyes that were rippled with tears.

'Farewell?' Laurence was stunned. His heart felt like it was on a skewer. 'I thought you wanted to come back to London with me?' Only last night Brigitte had stated her intentions to come with Laurence to England as his guest, though he secretly hoped she would develop into something else by the end of their trip.

'I'm afraid I cannot come with you to London. I must stay here in Paris and leave you to your adventures. As much as I like you, and believe me I do, I cannot keep up with these escapades of yours; it isn't me. I can't live like this. I set out to recover the box, and that's what I've done,' She never lifted her eyes off the rain soaked pavement as she delivered her words, words which were like an epitaph to their relationship. Laurence tried to reason with her, tried to tell her that this was just a one-off occurrence but words failed to arrive at his lips. He placed his arm gingerly on hers in desperation and she closed her eyes. She warmed to his touch but then slipped away, stepping backwards to the edge of the curb, where Laurence now noticed a taxi was ready and waiting, the engine running impatiently. Brigitte's oval lips formed a cruel circle, 'But I know in my heart that I will see you again. I do not believe it was accident that we met. You could say the Gods themselves fated it to happen. But for now at least, it is over. The last few days have been so fast...' Brigitte's alluring eyes were full of tears.

Right on cue, a flood of rain fell from the heavens and Laurence could not tell whether the water that fell between him and his beloved was rain or tears. He stroked Brigitte's cheek and smiled wryly before saying, 'Look, don't beat yourself up.' At the recollection that these were the very words she had first said to Laurence, Brigitte's skin seemed to shine and fill with warmth. She smiled now, and Laurence took a mental photograph for her sadness seemed only to add to her beauty, and she had never looked more wondrous than in this heart-wrenching moment.

'Take care of yourself, Laurence. I'll be thinking of you always, worrying about you.' Laurence took hold of her right hip, placing his right hand round the small of her back and pulled her close to him. They observed each other's faces one last time and closed their eyes. Laurence leant in and put his lips against hers tenderly. It was perfect, it was short, but it was also farewell. Like a sad puppy left by its master at home; he sees the master going but can do nothing to prevent it, and is forced to watch and not to weep, so too did Laurence try and keep his own tears at bay as Brigitte descended into her taxi and out of Laurence's life. The rain fell in increased hostility, almost mocking his sorrow. With his head bowed in resignation, his heart well and truly in the dumps and his feet as heavy as lead, he turned and left.

### ***

He was tired, oh so very tired. Laurence Swift sat in a melancholy state in the first class lounge of British Airways flight BA0145 to Heathrow from Paris and reflected on his journey. The trip had given him what he had always wanted; adventure, romance, excitement and the chance to be a hero, the hero. But try as he might, he couldn't shake the feeling of dissatisfaction and unhappiness that draped itself over him like a long trench-coat. It was all over now and he would slip back into the shadows of nothingness. From zero, to hero, and back down to zero. He had won the Tour de France, saved civilization from annihilation, gained an immense fortune, met a whole host of exciting people, fallen in love and for once had had it requited, even though he had only a broken heart to show for it. Laurence looked around him; none of these people would ever know what he had done, or who he was, and even if they told him, they would never believe him. He thought about all he had done and put aside his feelings of sadness and disappointment. After all, he had saved the world, and that was something to be proud of. But what was he to do next? He picked up a travel magazine that advertised a holiday to Peru on its front cover.

***

After a short flight, Laurence flicked the light switch of his hotel room and, removing his blazer, got into bed.

The phone rang.

### The End

69

