The Oracle

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  Ari placed the bundle he was carrying on a table and took off its wrapping: the magnificent embossed Mycenaean vase emerged. ‘The commander said you are to use this gold for your work.’

  ‘This? Oh my God, how can I . . .’

  Ari watched without saying a word, arms crossed over his stomach as if waiting for a reply. The man contemplated the beautiful object at length, turning and touching it as if to impress every detail in his mind for ever.

  Ari said: ‘The commander doesn’t want anything to remain . . . you must not dare make a copy.’

  The sculptor turned towards the draped easel standing in the corner and uncovered the mask he had fashioned first in clay and then in white cement. ‘But why destroy this miracle?’

  ‘That’s what the commander wants. The gold must come from this vase. The entire vase. If you are his friend, do as he says.’

  The man nodded. ‘All right. I’ll do as he wishes. Come back in two days.’

  ‘No. I’ll wait until it’s finished. It’s time now.’

  Ari went to sit in a corner and took out his pipe.

  ‘Where will you bring it when it is finished?’

  ‘To Ephira,’ said Ari. ‘It will all be over soon, very soon. The time has come.’

  The sculptor lowered his head and began working.

  THE COASTAL HIGHWAY to Patras was nearly empty at that time of morning and Sergeant Vlassos was driving fast, taking a bite of a sausage sandwich and a swig of beer every so often, sticking the bottle in the glove compartment between gulps. Captain Karamanlis sat next to him and paged through his notes.

  ‘Why don’t we get some help from our colleagues at Preveza, boss?’ asked Vlassos between one mouthful and the next. ‘We’ll set up roadblocks all around the city and then more of them a little farther out. The fish will swim right into our net. And I’ll take care of him afterwards. We’ll get rid of the bastard once and for all. I’ll tear the creep to pieces. He has to pay for what he did to me . . . for everything I’ve suffered. Damned son-of-a-bitch bastard.’

  ‘And what did we do at Dirou and Portolagos? Roadblocks, encirclements that not even a mosquito could get through, but he got through, didn’t he? He got through just fine. He’s got the devil on his side, that bastard. Yeah, if I believed in the stories that priests tell, I’d say I’d met the devil himself, in person. In the flesh, just like you’re sitting next to me now.’ Vlassos’s mouth, full of sausage, dropped open. ‘Even if I couldn’t tell you whose side he was really on. But we’ll find out soon, very soon. I’ve tried everything, but there’s only one sure way to get our man now: he wants me, but he wants you even more. At Portolagos he would have finished you off if we hadn’t stopped him in time.’

  ‘Then I’ll be the lure for our fishy. Fine. Let him try. This time the hook will stick.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re in favour of all this. But be careful. This time we can’t count on anyone else’s help. It’s too dangerous. I don’t want any of the behind-the-scenes stuff coming out. You know what I mean. The more people we involve the messier it gets. We’re going to do it by ourselves this time. The game is up, and it’s two against one, right? Maybe even three against one. If the worst comes to the worst, two against two . . .’

  ‘Who the hell is this other guy, and why don’t we know whose side he’s on?’

  ‘He’s the guy who saved your ass at Portolagos.’

  ‘Then he’s on our side.’

  ‘No. Not on our side. But maybe not on the other side, either. I have a hunch that he’s playing a game of his own, but I don’t know his cards. Or the rules, for that matter. But it won’t be long. It won’t be much longer now . . .’

  Vlassos swallowed. ‘Captain,’ he asked, ‘we’ll come out on top this time, won’t we? You’ve got a plan, right? Something up your sleeve, I bet.’

  Karamanlis continued to go through his notes until he came to the colour photo of a beautiful dark-haired girl: Kiki Kaloudis.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, raising his head and watching the ribbon of asphalt unwind in front of him. ‘Yeah, I’ve got something up my sleeve all right. But I’m not using it till all my other cards are played out. Hey, stop here a minute, I have to take a piss. This damned prostate . . . maybe Irini’s right, maybe it’s time I made up my mind to retire.’

  Vlassos gulped down a little beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You’ll retire all right, boss. When we’ve got this fixed. Now I’ll stop so you can pee.’

  MIREILLE HADN’T SLEPT at all. She drove back to the hotel, paid the night porter for her room with a credit card and started off immediately, after leaving a message for Mr Zolotas and a generous tip for the waiter at Milos’s Bar.

  She was heading down the same highway and had at least three hours’ advantage over Karamanlis, but every once in a while she was forced to stop, overwhelmed by fatigue. She’d pull over and sleep five, ten minutes, then wipe her face with a wet towel and start off again.

  She knew that she was caught in a race against time, and that Michel’s very life depended on the outcome. She didn’t have enough information on where she could find him, but she had to get there first. Before fate had its way; a fate that had every advantage over her and could strike at any time.

  It was already daylight when she lined up at Rion behind a couple of cars and half a dozen trucks to take the ferry to the northern side of the Gulf of Corinth. She passed Missolungi and Arta without stopping, eating a few crackers and an apple, and arrived at Preveza in the early afternoon. The November sun was low and pale. Norman was waiting for her at the hotel.

  ‘I’ve looked everywhere,’ he told her, ‘but this is all I found.’ He handed her a slip of paper which said: ‘I’ll call you the day after tomorrow from Canakkale, I hope. Had no time. Michel’

  ‘The best thing to do is wait here until he calls, so we can find out why he had to leave in such a hurry. We have an old friend who lives here – his name’s Aristotelis Malidis; he helped us back during the Polytechnic uprising. I think Michel might have gone to talk with him. I’ve looked for him too, but he seems to have disappeared.’

  ‘He helped you? With what?’

  ‘Michel never told you anything about what happened, did he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, then, but I don’t think I have the right . . .’

  ‘Fine. In any case, I’m leaving.’

  ‘Leaving? But you can’t even stand up. You look awful.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said the girl, her feminine pride slightly offended.

  ‘What I mean is that it looks like you haven’t slept in a week. Listen, take a shower and lie down until dinner time. Maybe Michel will call early, and you’ll be able to talk to him.’

  ‘No. Michel’s life is in danger. I absolutely have to find him.’

  Norman’s forehead wrinkled: ‘His life is in danger? Why?’

  ‘I don’t have time to explain and you probably wouldn’t believe me anyway. If there’s nothing else you can tell me, I’m leaving.’

  Norman took her arm. ‘But you don’t even know where to look for him. Canakkale is no village.’

  ‘I’ll manage somehow. I have to go.’ She was pale and clammy. Norman could see that nothing would stop her.

  ‘All right. If you’ve really got to go, I’m coming with you. I’ll drive, at least, so you can get some sleep. Rest a little. And maybe I’ll be able to spot Michel; he did leave with my car. Take a shower while I put a few things together. I’ll tell the receptionist to say when he calls that we’re heading out that way, and to let us know where we can find him. Then we’ll call the hotel along the way. How about that?’

  Mireille lowered her head and dropped her bag on the floor: ‘Sounds good to me. I’ll be ready in ten minutes. My car is the Hertz Peugeot parked in front.’

  KARAMANLIS AND VLASSOS arrived at dusk. Karamanlis dropped Vlassos off at the small motel on the road to Ephira that they had booked for the night. He drove to the Prev
eza police station, where he identified himself and asked for the guest lists of all the hotels and boarding houses in the area in an attempt to locate any foreigner whose description might fit that of Claudio Setti. There wouldn’t be many foreigners around so offseason. He did learn that Norman Shields and Michel Charrier had both been in the area and had left at a few days’ distance from each other.

  He went to the hotel they had been staying at, where he learned that Norman Shields had gone off that afternoon with a beautiful girl. From the porter’s description, it sounded just like Mireille.

  All here. They’d all passed through here. But why? And where had they gone to? He went back to the motel and picked up his key at the front desk. There was already a message waiting for him: ‘He’s meeting Ari Malidis at eleven o’clock tonight at the excavation site, at the guest house where Malidis lives. He has already spotted Vlassos in town and is out of his mind. Don’t get it wrong this time.’

  He went to knock at Vlassos’s room, and the sergeant came to the door in his underwear. ‘Thought I’d lie down for a few minutes, Captain. Something new?’

  ‘Listen. I’ve found out that our man is going to be at the guest quarters of the archaeological site down by the river at eleven o’clock tonight. It’s a good place, isolated. There’s a little church right nearby; I’ll be able to keep an eye on the place from there. I’ll wait until he goes in; it’s better that we do our business indoors. As soon as I’m ready to go in I’ll signal you with my walkie-talkie and you come in through the back. Got it?’

  ‘You bet. But why don’t you let me go in first? You promised you’d let me have first crack at him. You promised, remember?’

  ‘Of course I remember. And I want to take him alive, if I can. Before I send him off to hell I want to ask him a few things, and you’re the best person I know to get someone to sing. There’s an old abandoned sheep pen on the mountainside nearby. We’ll take him there so we won’t be disturbed.’

  ‘That’s the way I like it, Captain.’ He took out the case with his gear and started to inspect and to test the long-barrelled Beretta calibre 9 and the sharpshooter’s rifle with its infrared sights. He tossed it from one hand to the other, aimed to shoot, pretended to pull the trigger.

  ‘And the old man? What are we going to do with him?’

  ‘He’s alone and there will be no witnesses. Still, it’s best not to kill him if we can avoid it. We’ll tell him that we’re arresting Setti and have to interrogate him.’

  Karamanlis began to check his gun as well, loading it with great care and precision.

  ‘One more thing, Vlassos.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You have to be ready for the unexpected. This might even be a trap, you know, to lure us to where they want us. Someone else might show up – the guy who gave me this tip, actually. He’s about fifty, medium height. And he’s tough. The last time I saw him he was wearing a black leather jacket and a light-coloured sweater. If you see him, watch out. He could take you out before you have the chance to bat an eyelid.’

  ‘But didn’t you say he was the guy who saved my skin at Portolagos?’

  ‘He saved you, all right, but I don’t think it makes a difference. We don’t know anything about him. Not even his name. We can’t trust him. Just watch out, I’m telling you. Maybe it’ll all go smoothly, but you watch your ass.’

  They left the motel separately, each with a walkie-talkie to stay in contact, Vlassos at ten, to stake himself out in a concealed spot from which he could keep an eye on the rear door of the guest house and the road from town, Karamanlis shortly afterwards, heading towards the deconsecrated church located on the hillside above the Oracle of the Dead. The entrance to the guest quarters was directly in front of him, at a short distance. Anyone who went in or out would be within range. It was chilly, but the breeze still carried the residual mildness of the late autumn day.

  Suddenly, headlights illuminated the top of the little bell tower and Karamanlis saw a car descending alongside the church and stopping in front of the guest house. An elderly man got out: Aristotelis Malidis. Okay, so far so good. He looked at his watch: ten-thirty.

  The old man held a wrapped bundle under his left arm, while he unlocked the door to the little house with his right and switched on the lights inside. He went through a second door and when he reappeared in the main room a few minutes later he was no longer carrying the bundle. He had a torch in his hand, which he switched off and put in a drawer. He sat down and turned on the TV.

  Karamanlis didn’t lose sight of him for a second through his binoculars, and called Vlassos every few minutes to check on the situation.

  At just a few minutes before eleven, another light slashed through the darkness, and a second car approached the guest house. Vlassos had seen it as well. ‘Is it him, boss? Is it him?’ he hissed over the walkie-talkie.

  ‘How the hell do I know if I can’t see him? But I think it must be. You stay ready to come in through the back, but make sure first that there’s no one anywhere around you.’

  ‘All right. I’ll wait for your signal.’

  The car, a small Alfa Romeo with Italian plates, stopped with the driver’s door practically touching the front entrance. A man got out and slipped into the house. Karamanlis couldn’t even get a glimpse.

  He put down his pistol and picked up the binoculars, looking through the window: he saw him for a second before the old man closed the blinds, and his inveterate policeman’s heart skipped a beat: it was him! Claudio Setti!

  He was wearing an army jacket, his hair was dishevelled and he had a couple of days’ beard. It was him. The guy who had broken Roussos’s bones, dragging him by his heel with an ice hook, the one who had riddled Karagheorghis with a rain of stalactites, who had nailed Vlassos to the ground and half castrated him. The guy who ten years ago had left the Athens police station nearly dead in the trunk of a car, stuck in there with his girlfriend’s bloody, raped corpse. All these thoughts exploded in Captain Karamanlis’s mind and convinced him that there was not enough room in the world for both of them after all that had happened. What good would it do to capture or interrogate him? He screwed the silencer on to his gun barrel. He would kill him straight off, and the old guy too. He’d have plenty of time to get rid of their bodies.

  ‘Vlassos,’ he said softly into the walkie-talkie.

  ‘I’m here, Captain.’

  ‘He just walked in. It’s him, no doubt about it. Check your watch. When I give you the go-ahead you’ll have ten seconds to come through the back. I’ll go in the front. Is there anyone around?’

  ‘No, don’t worry. Not a soul.’

  ‘Good, no one on this side either. All right . . . Now!’

  Karamanlis was up against the door in a few seconds; when his watch gave him the ten-seconds-up signal, he kicked the door wide open and burst in, gun levelled. He heard Vlassos smashing through the back door and yelling ‘No one move!’

  Ari jumped and backed up to the wall, raising his hands above his head.

  ‘Where’s the kid?’ shouted Karamanlis. ‘Vlassos, fast, search this shithole and watch out for the other guy I told you about. He’s screwed us again, God damn him!’

  Vlassos ran back through the door he’d come in, and a moment later they heard his agitated footsteps up the stairs, all over the second floor and then outside down at the archaeological site.

  ‘Where is he?’ insisted Karamanlis, pointing his pistol at the old man’s throat.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Ari.

  ‘I’ll blow your brains out if you don’t answer. You have two seconds.’ He pulled the firing pin. ‘One . . .’

  The roar of the Alfa Romeo exploded in the courtyard. The window glass and the walls were machine-gunned with a hail of stones flung up by the wheels of the car which shot off like a bullet down the road to Preveza.

  Karamanlis released Ari and ran out as Vlassos dashed around the corner of the house. Karamanlis shot repeatedly at the car, but he hadn’t
had time to take off the silencer and his range was not sufficient. When Vlassos started shooting with the rifle, the car was already behind a curve, and when it reappeared for a second slightly further on, he had no time even to take aim before it disappeared again.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ howled Karamanlis, pounding his fist against the wall. Vlassos’s glance fell to his pistol: ‘Captain, why the silencer? You would have got him without the silencer.’

  Karamanlis wheeled around in a rage: ‘It’s my fucking business why, all right! Shut the fuck up!’

  They went back in and Vlassos lifted Ari up by the collar from the seat he’d fallen over on to: ‘This pretty boy will tell us where the kid went in his Alfa Romeo. Won’t you, gramps?’

  ‘Well?’ demanded Karamanlis. Ari shook his head. Karamanlis gestured towards Vlassos, who struck the old man with a strong back-handed blow. Ari fell to the ground, his mouth full of blood.

  ‘I’ll tear your balls off, you ugly slobbering old fucker, if you don’t tell me where he went,’ Vlassos yelled. Ari replied with a groan. Karamanlis nodded again, and Vlassos started beating the old man, hitting his stomach, his face, his groin.

  ‘That’s enough, for now,’ said Karamanlis. ‘I want him to talk, not die.’ Ari struggled to sit up, back to the wall. ‘Well?’

  ‘You’ll never get him,’ he muttered.

  ‘That remains to be seen. You tell us where he’s headed if you want us to stop.’

  ‘Wouldn’t help. By now he has a different car, different documents. He’ll already have changed his clothes and the colour of his hair. You’ll never catch him. But he will get you . . .’ Vlassos raised his fist, but Karamanlis stopped him this time.

  ‘No, leave him alone. It won’t help.’

  ‘Let’s kill him now. This old bastard knows too much.’

  ‘He hasn’t said a thing. Why should he talk now? Right, old man?’

  ‘I haven’t said a word,’ said Ari, ‘but not out of fear. I’m just waiting for the day you’ll be punished. If there is any punishment that can match what you’ve done.’