‘Where is Claudio Setti?’ asked Karamanlis again.
‘Tomorrow night he’ll be in Turkey. Maybe by sea, maybe by land. See? You don’t stand a chance. You’ll never find him. But he will find you, when the time is right.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ said Karamanlis. He then turned to Vlassos: ‘Let’s get out of here.’ They left, slamming the door, and returned to their cars. Karamanlis was back in his motel room before midnight. He dropped on to the bed, his head aching. How could it have happened? He had watched him as he walked into the house and greeted the old man. A minute later he was no longer there. What had he come for? To get something? Or to leave something? Just to be seen? Or to fuck him over? Had someone warned him? And now how the hell would he find him? Blast it all! It was like having scabies and not being able to scratch.
‘How did it go, Captain Karamanlis?’ The voice sounded from the end of the room as the table lamp lit up, revealing the man sitting behind it.
Karamanlis started: ‘How did you get in?’
‘They let me in. Didn’t you say at the front desk that your TV wasn’t working?’
‘My TV? Oh, God damn you.’
‘Well?’
‘It went badly. Very badly. He got away and we have no idea where he’s headed. Turkey, maybe. And now if you would like to get the fuck out of here . . .’
‘The information I gave you was exact.’
‘The information you give me is always exact, but there always turns out to be some fuck-up.’
‘Because you are incompetent.’
‘Go to hell!’
‘Fine. But let me inform you that you will be taken off the previous homicides and the attempted homicide at Portolagos, and someone else will be taking over the investigation. You will probably be investigated yourself. Almost certainly. Some explanation must be found for all this. And you, Captain, are the best explanation. Once your head has fallen, the case will be closed, and everyone will be happy.’
‘I don’t believe you. Nothing will happen. You don’t count for anything.’
‘Optimism is a good quality. I hope that everything goes as well as you hope. Goodbye, Karamanlis,’ he said, walking towards the door.
‘Wait.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘No one cares about an old mastiff who’s lost his teeth, do they?’
‘Unfortunately.’
‘Even if he’s always served faithfully, risked his life . . .’
‘Isn’t it a pity.’
‘It’s a fucking world.’
‘It is.’
‘What card do I have left to play?’
‘Either kill Claudio Setti or turn yourself in and confess to everything.’
‘Why don’t you kill him, damn you?’
‘You are a fool, Karamanlis. Consider me the explicit but informal expression of the powers that be. The collaboration I offer you is already a great sign of our appreciation that you do not seem to understand. I cannot act personally for the simple reason that you are the one who has committed such a serious transgression without succeeding in preventing or suffocating the consequences. A good policeman can get away with anything, but he must be able to cover it up.’
‘Can I . . . can I still find him?’
‘There is one hope.’
‘What is it?’
‘His friend Michel Charrier is looking for him, and we have reason to believe that he may know where he is. He’s driving the blue Rover that you are familiar with, and he’s somewhere between here and Alexandroupolis. It shouldn’t be too difficult to locate him and follow him. Remember, even if you don’t find Setti, he will surely find you. But the choice of the battlefield may be important. Decisive, even. Goodnight, Karamanlis.’
22
Parga, 11 November, midnight
CLAUDIO SETTI SAT waiting in silence at the wheel of his Alfa Romeo, watching the steely glitter of the sea under the pale glow of a hazy sky, listening to music on a cassette and glancing at his watch every now and then. A few minutes later the dark bulk of a Mercedes pulled up alongside his car. The driver’s door opened, letting out the notes of some other music for a moment, different music, a Mahler symphony.
‘Hello, my boy. How are you?’
‘Hello, Commander. I’m well.’
‘I hope it wasn’t too risky for you.’
‘I’m used to it. It was no worse than the other times. But Ari . . . they’ll have hurt him. Couldn’t that have been avoided?’
‘No. There was no other way. Ari is a strong, courageous man. If they’ve hurt him, they’ll pay for that as well. We are at the end. The last journey is about to begin: three days from now it will all be over. You’ll understand then, I believe, that this was the only way.’
‘And afterwards? What then, Commander?’
‘You’re young. You will close a sad chapter of your life, but an important one. Your flesh has known the most atrocious suffering, and your spirit has known the most extreme emotions. You know how it feels to inflict capital punishment, like God, like a king. With justice. For justice. You’ll go back to being a man like other men.’
‘And I won’t see you again?’
The commander laid a hand on his shoulder and it seemed to Claudio that his eyes were moist: ‘I would like to leave this . . . work that I’ve been doing for much too long, and I’d like to return . . . home. It depends on how this story ends, if your strength is sufficient and if fortune is on my side. Anyway, you see, I’ve been used to living alone for a long, long time. This adventure that we’ve lived through together has passed by so quickly, and I’ve become very fond of you . . . as if you were my son.’
‘Don’t you have a family, Commander?’
‘I did. A woman who was beautiful and proud . . . she came from around here. And a boy, who’d be as old as you are. He was a lot like you. Quite a lot. But let’s not talk about such sad things. We’ll see each other tomorrow evening at Canakkale. There I will give you your last assignment . . .’
Claudio felt a knot tightening in his throat and lowered his head in silence. He had nothing more to ask.
MIREILLE DROPPED OFF as soon as her head touched the reclining passenger’s seat of her car, and Norman drove on and on in silence, without even turning on the radio. He looked over at her every now and then and thought that Michel was very lucky to have such a beautiful and passionate girl in love with him. Mireille had fallen into a deep but troubled sleep. She moaned and let out a suffocated cry. She must really be worried about him.
Canakkale. What the devil could Michel have gone to Canakkale for? It sure wouldn’t be easy to find him. Even if Michel learned from the hotel that he and Mireille had set off to look for him, he might not want to let them know where he was. Not right away, at least. And he might have no intention of even phoning the hotel, otherwise why would he have left in such a hurry without saying anything?
The first three hundred kilometres were the worst; Mireille had been right about leaving right away if they hoped to reach Canakkale in less than thirty-six hours. At Ioannina he stopped to get a couple of sandwiches at a bar and to call the hotel, but there had been no word from Michel. He started off again towards Metsovon. The road was very steep, full of hairpin turns. They had nearly reached the pass when Mireille awoke.
‘You really slept a long time, you must have been exhausted. Would you like a sandwich?’
‘Thank you, I’d love one,’ said Mireille. ‘I’m famished. What time is it?’
‘One o’clock.’
‘Want me to take over the driving?’
‘Not yet, thanks. I’ll drive for another hour at least. There’s a can of Coke in the back too. Don’t you want to tell me what kind of danger Michel is in? Why do you have to reach him?’
She turned to him with a fierce look: ‘Michel could be killed at any time.’
‘Then it’s not true that you don’t know anything about what happened in Athens ten years ago.’
Mi
reille lowered her head, not contradicting him.
‘Well,’ Norman said, ‘we’ve got a long night ahead of us and nothing to do. Maybe I should let you know how things really went, in case you just got part of the story.’ Norman began talking, recalling distant, anguish-filled hours, the story of three young men dragged into a whirlpool of horror and blood, as the flame of his cigarette burned between his lips, the only grim light in the darkness of the night and of his memories. Mireille still could not connect what she had seen in the basement of Dionysìou Street with what Norman was telling her. Her anxiety grew, as if the reasons for Michel being killed were multiplying out of control.
‘Can you imagine the reason why Michel left for Canakkale so suddenly?’ she asked Norman when he’d finished.
‘I’ve been thinking hard about that. There seems to be a good chance that our Italian friend Claudio Setti is alive, despite what we were led to believe at the time. And that he is obsessed by a desire for revenge . . . he may have gone totally off the deep end. Michel is tormented by remorse and obsessed by the idea of somehow justifying what he did, of redeeming himself in his friend’s eyes. While you were sleeping, I was thinking: it could be Claudio Setti who’s waiting for Michel at Canakkale.’
‘A trap?’
‘I couldn’t say. Maybe. All those who were involved in one way or another with the death of Heleni, Claudio’s girlfriend, have died a horrible death or come close. But how did you find out the truth?’
‘The truth? From what you just told me.’
‘You were bluffing.’
‘No. I know of another danger, just as lethal, hanging over his head. But the two roads to death may come together. We must find out where . . . and when. I don’t want to lose him, Norman. I couldn’t bear it.’
A long silence fell between them, and Norman switched on the radio to dispel the anguish that was suffocating them. Then, not far from Trikala, he pulled over. ‘I’m really tired. Would you mind taking over?’
As Mireille was getting out to switch sides, a patrol car proceeding in the opposite direction stopped and one of the policemen got out to check their car.
‘Any problems?’ he asked, raising his hand to his cap.
‘No, sir, thank you,’ replied Norman. ‘She’s just going to drive for a while. I’ve been at the wheel for hours, and she’s been resting.’
‘I see,’ said the policeman. ‘Be careful, and if you want my advice, stop at a hotel at Trikala; you won’t have problems finding a room. Better not to risk going on if you’re tired.’
‘Thank you, officer,’ said Norman. ‘But there’s a place we have to get to.’
‘You know your business,’ said the man. ‘Safe driving, then, and goodnight.’
AS SOON AS they took off, the policeman got back into his car and switched on the radio. ‘Headquarters? Officer Laridis here. I’m at kilometre 52 of state road E 87. We’ve just spotted the car that Preveza has requested localization of. There’s a man of about thirty-five and a younger woman aboard.’
‘Headquarters here,’ replied a voice on the radio. ‘Where are they headed?’
‘East towards Larisa and probably further. They have no intention of stopping at Trikala and seem to be driving non-stop, taking turns at the wheel.’
The Trikala station promptly relayed the news to Preveza, but the officer on duty did not immediately communicate the information to his colleagues from Athens who were staying at the Cleopatra motel. He had been ordered to wake them only if he had news of a blue Rover with English plates driven by a single man, aged thirty. Which happened at six a.m.
‘Captain Karamanlis,’ said the officer as soon as he answered the phone, ‘we’ve located both cars: the Hertz Peugeot and the blue Rover.’
Karamanlis sat up in bed and took a sip of water from the glass at his bedside. ‘Good work. Do you have the times and positions?’
‘The Peugeot was entering Trikala a little before two o’clock this morning, and the blue Rover has just been reported at Rendina, in Calcidica. Both are directed east. The Peugeot may be catching up; the two drivers are switching and proceeding non-stop.’
‘Thank you. And now find us a quick passage to Thrace. I promise you’ll have a bonus for distinctive merit if you do.’
‘Thrace, Captain? Where in Thrace?’
‘Anywhere, as close as possible to the Turkish border. See if you can find out whether they are headed for Kesan or Edirne. You never know.’ Karamanlis dressed and woke Vlassos, dragging him into the hotel’s front hall, where a sleepy bartender was just turning on the coffee machine.
‘Rendina, the Frenchman is already at Rendina?’ asked Vlassos. ‘We’ll never catch him, boss, if you don’t have him stopped at the border.’
‘No. We won’t stop him. We have to follow him. We’ll see who has the last word here. Get yourself something to eat.’
They asked for coffee, and Karamanlis dipped a couple of cookies in his, suddenly hungry. The chase always primed his appetite and made everything else fade away. When they’d finished breakfast, Karamanlis took the paper and sat down to read it in the lounge, under the amazed look of his companion, who was pacing back and forth, smoking one cigarette after another. Headquarters called half an hour later, at seven-thirty.
‘Captain, we’ve found a flight. A small Esso Papas plane is taking off in half an hour from Aktion; it’s headed for Piges, transporting some engineers who have to inspect a chemical plant. They’ll give you a lift. A car will be by to pick you up in five minutes. Take the seven-forty-five ferry: the airport is on the other side of the gulf.’
‘You’re top-notch, my boy. Top-notch. You’ve earned your raise, let me tell you. Have an undercover car ready at the airport, with a full tank and some food. Goodbye.’
‘But Captain, don’t you want to know my name?’
‘Oh, right. Of course, where is my head this morning. I was forgetting the most important thing. Your name, son?’
MICHEL’S TENSION AND exhaustion mounted the further east he got. His eyes were burning and his stomach was cramping up insufferably. He’d passed Kavala and Xanthi and was approaching Komotini. Canakkale was very close as the crow flies, but the road was still quite long. After the Turkish border, he’d have to continue east for a number of kilometres and then turn back west again, following the edge of the Gallipoli peninsula until he reached Eceabat at its tip, where he’d be able to catch the ferry for the Asian side.
It was dark already, and there was nothing but truck traffic on the road: big semis carrying goods all over the Middle East. He stopped at a petrol station to fill up the tank and grab something to eat, but his stomach was in knots and he couldn’t swallow a thing. He knew that if he didn’t find Claudio, the rest of his life would be hell. He’d never be able to forget, to bury the past.
He downed a glass of milk while a group of Hungarian truck drivers sat down in front of huge platters of steaming sausages and a pitcher of beer. He crawled back into the car to rest for a few minutes, just long enough to make sure he wouldn’t end up crashing into the guard rail, but he fell instead into a deep sleep.
The blaring horn of a huge truck, as violent and as piercing as the trumpet of justice, jolted him awake. He’d slept much longer than he had meant to.
He gulped some coffee from a Thermos he’d put in the car, lit a cigarette and got back on the road, travelling as fast as he could. He made up pretty well for the lost time, but at the border at Ipsala, a customs guard made a long and thorough inspection of his suitcases and documents as he fumed helplessly, his eyes fixed on the huge electric clock in the window of the duty-free shop.
He finally took off at top speed for Gallipoli, but he missed the eleven o’clock ferry by a whisker. It was the only way he could have got to the pier at Canakkale before midnight.
He ran up and down the wharf, trying to find a private boat that would take him over. He was sweaty, panicky, overwhelmed with fatigue and sleeplessness, but the open-sea fishermen had a
lready set off to cast their nets in the Marmara Sea and the tourist services had been closed for hours, given the season. He had no choice but to wait until the next ferry dropped its loading bridge on to the pier. When the ship docked on the Asian side at Canakkale it was ten minutes past midnight. He was the first to drive off as soon as the bridge touched the wharf. He parked in the first space he could find and jumped out, looking around in the glow of the lamplight. The cars coming off the ferry drove one by one towards their destinations, while the truck drivers sought a space big enough to stop, switch off their engines and pull the shades over their windscreens to curl up for a while in their bunks.
There was practically no one on foot. A boy walked up to him: ‘Hotel? Hotel, sir? Three stars four stars five stars no problem good food no sheep good price . . . nice girls if you like—’
‘Ahir, teshekur.’ He cut him short in Turkish to get rid of him. Just then, a dark corner of the square was lit up by the headlights of a crane manoeuvring at the wharf, and for a fraction of a second Michel saw him – a man standing next to the open door of a Toyota Land Cruiser, grey-green jacket, dark, unkempt beard, talking to an older man whose hand was on his shoulder. It was him! Claudio!
Michel opened his mouth to shout his name, but the younger man disappeared into the car and took off, tyres squealing. Michel took off at a run with every ounce of energy he had left, shouting: ‘Claudio! Stop! Stop! Oh God, Claudio, stop!’ He tripped and fell to his knees as the Toyota disappeared into the night. He stayed on his knees, pummelling his fists on his legs, drained of energy and will. A big semi-trailer coming from the opposite direction sounded its horn and flooded him with blinding light. He got up, moved to the side of the road and walked back, disheartened, towards the square. The customs building was still lit up and there seemed to be a bar inside. Michel went in.
As he was eating a sandwich with a glass of milk, he noticed that the car rental shop was still open. It might have been right there that Claudio had rented the Toyota he was driving.
He slipped a ten-dollar bill under the service window and said to the clerk: ‘Excuse me, I need your help. A friend of mine just left here with a Toyota Land Cruiser that he rented from you. I absolutely have to reach him to give him a message from his family, but I lost sight of him and he must have driven off. Can you tell me where he’s arranged to turn the car in?’
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