The Oracle

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  Vlassos accelerated: ‘Don’t worry, Captain, they won’t get away. We’re in better shape than they are; we slept all last night, while they were taking turns at the wheel of that junk heap.’

  ‘Right,’ agreed Karamanlis, ‘but they’re younger than we are.’

  ‘You think they’re headed to that place they marked on the map at the bar?’

  ‘Yes. I do.’

  ‘But why all that confusion, running here, running there, to scribble a few lines on a map hanging on a wall?’

  Karamanlis seemed not to have heard his last question; he’d turned on the reading light and was going through his appointment book. By chance, he opened to the page dated 5 November where he’d written the words ‘Beware the pyramid at the vertex of the great triangle’, which immediately brought to mind the big triangle that Norman and Mireille had drawn on the map in that smoky bar at the port. Okay, so his destiny was waiting for him at some godforsaken place in the mountains of Anatolia. His day of reckoning? So it seemed, and he thought of the contorted face of the kallikàntharos on Mount Peristeri, that cruel, alien voice: ‘What are you doing here Captain Karamanlis?’

  A rush of adrenaline coursed through his veins and he pounded his fist on the open book.

  ‘It’s my own fucking business what I’m doing here!’ he shouted.

  Vlassos turned towards him, disconcerted: ‘Hey, Captain, who are you yelling at? Are you sure you’re feeling all right?’

  Karamanlis closed the appointment book and leaned back as if he wanted to rest: ‘Fine. Of course I’m fine, I’ve never felt better.’

  Vlassos shut his mouth for a while, sneaking looks at his travel companion who was sitting with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes half closed.

  ‘Captain,’ he said, ‘what if there’s more than one person waiting for us there? There’s only two of us. What are we going to do? That one guy . . . you said he was so tough . . .’

  ‘Afraid are you, Vlassos? No, you needn’t be afraid. Don’t you know I’ve got a lot of friends in this country? Back during the war in Cyprus, when there was the arms embargo against Turkey, I let a couple of shipments of spare parts get through . . . they remember their friends around here.’

  ‘You made military shipments to the Turks? Captain . . .’

  ‘Idiot, what do you know about international strategies? What’s important is that at Adyaman we’ll find a little group of Kurds armed to the teeth. They’re going to help us – let’s say – hunt down some drug traffickers, loaded with dope and with dollars. The traffickers are ours – dead, of course – the money is theirs. Not bad, huh? They thought they’d be luring us off into a strange land where we’d have no one to count on, but they were wrong, weren’t they? A gentleman always has friends, remember that. Now let me sleep for a while. Wake me up when you can’t keep your eyes open any more. Until then, race like the wind, Vlassos.’

  Eski Kahta, eastern Anatolia, 16 November, 5 p.m.

  Michel got out of the car and found himself leaning up against the wall of a nearby house, weak from fatigue. Over the last three days he hadn’t slept more than a few hours, but he was tormented by the idea of not getting to Claudio in time. So much time had been wasted; he’d had to have the car repaired when it could no longer stand up to his gruelling demands, and he’d even turned down the wrong road a couple of times, exhausted as he was.

  The cold night air whipped a bit of vitality into him, until he felt steady enough on his feet to go towards the agency which rented jeeps during the summer to tourists for a jaunt into the mountains. The office was closed, but a little boy assured him that it was not only in Smyrna, in Istanbul, in Adana that there were important tourist agencies. In fact, the local rent-a-car agent turned out to be easily located: the man, in his sixties, worked as a leather tanner in the off-season, and he greeted Michel in the midst of a flock of shorn sheep. He said that the Italian had indeed passed through, but that he hadn’t left the car; he’d wanted to keep it for another twenty-four hours.

  ‘Where was he going?’ asked Michel. ‘Did he say?’

  The man shook his head: ‘He’s crazy, that one. He took the road that goes up the mountain. I told him about the bad weather that’s been predicted, but he didn’t even answer. Well, all the cars are fully insured, so if he’s happy, I’ve got no problem with it.’

  ‘What could he have gone to do on the mountain?’

  The man widened his arms: ‘To see the pyramid, why else? I’ve never seen so many people at this time of year, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Has someone else been by?’

  ‘Two men, a couple of hours ago.’

  ‘Did you see them?’

  ‘One about sixty with a grey moustache and balding head, the other a little younger, about fifty, big man, well built. Both of them all tooled up.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Michel. ‘Listen, how far do you think I can get with that?’ he asked, pointing to the dusty blue Rover.

  ‘Almost up to the peak unless it starts to rain. Or worse, snow. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes if that happened.’

  ‘Thanks for warning me,’ said Michel.

  He found a store open that sold everything from olive oil to climbing boots, and bought a pair of heavy shoes, a blanket and a sheepskin jacket. He got some bread and a bottle of water too, returned to the car, and sped in a cloud of dust through the little town of low houses surrounding a minaret. The mountain top towered before him now, silhouetted against the reddened sky.

  Herds of sheep traversed the fields all around, being led towards winter pastures by their shepherds dressed in full-length fur capes and flanked by ferocious Cappadocian mastiffs with iron-spiked collars and ears clipped to the root. What could Claudio be doing on that mountain? For a moment he thought he’d made a crazy mistake, following a spectre he’d seen for a few seconds in a dusty truck-packed car park through the whole of Anatolia. But Claudio’s image in his memory was solid and very real, turning towards him for an instance in the beam of full headlights, his eyes filled with pain just like that night in the courtyard of the astynomia in Athens. Had he recognized Michel? Was that why he had fled so quickly? Or was he too racing towards an appointment he couldn’t miss?

  He went as far as he could by car, then abandoned it at the side of the road, shouldered his backpack with the blanket, bread and cigarettes and began the climb. The mountain peak got darker and darker, step by step, the black pinnacle standing out against the night sky. The tall grass, desiccated by the long dry season, bowed under sudden gusts of icy wind.

  The fatigue brought on by climbing suddenly overwhelmed him, his legs buckled and he fell to his knees. He looked around in a panic: if the storm surprised him in this condition he’d surely die. There was a little cave just ahead, sheltered from the wind. He hobbled towards it. Some shepherd must have used it; there was some hay in the corner and a little straw. He curled up with the blanket around him and ate some bread from his pack, forcing down a few sips of water. He felt a little better but decided to wait until dawn to continue his climb towards the peak. Who would be crazy enough to venture out in such solitude? He pulled his jacket tighter around him and lit a cigarette. That small glow in such a deserted land shone like a beacon over a wide sea.

  ‘CAPTAIN, CAPTAIN, DID you see that?’

  Karamanlis was staring at the black pinnacle looming up at less than a kilometre’s distance: the enormous mausoleum of Commagene. He turned towards Vlassos, annoyed: ‘See what?’

  ‘A light. Down there, look, now . . . see it?’

  ‘So? A shepherd lighting up a stinking cigar. Calm down and get some rest. As soon as it’s light, we’ll go and see if there’s anyone up there. And if so, what their intentions are. Our friends will be along soon; they’re used to travelling in the dark, like cats.’

  Vlassos tucked his gun close, checking that it was loaded, and stretched out in the sleeping bag. ‘Well, if anyone gets close, shepherd or no shepherd, I’ll do him a favou
r. To stay on the safe side. I don’t like this place.’

  The hiss of the wind died down and the distant grumbling of thunder quieted as well. But in the growing silence, an unnatural sound rained down from the summit. A flute: soft and sweet, achingly beautiful. It slipped down the rocky gorges, seeped into the dry grass, licked the bare branches of the trees.

  Vlassos sat up: ‘What the hell is that?’

  Karamanlis strained to hear as well, not understanding at first, but as the music became louder and clearer he saw, as in a dream, that underground corridor in the astynomia ten years earlier, heard that desolate, proud song that had penetrated the massive walls of the cell. ‘I know what it is,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard this melody before. It’s a challenge: he wants us to know that he’s here and he’s waiting for us.’

  ‘Christ, I’m going to go up there and . . .’

  ‘Don’t move yet. Let him play. We’ll make him dance, and we’ll set the tune when the rest of the orchestra gets here.’

  THE REST OF the orchestra were making their way up on foot, up the western face of the mountain. They had instructions to circle the entire area around the peak, and to cut off all access roads.

  There were five of them, armed with Kalashnikovs, dressed in dark clothing, with the puffed trousers and wide waistbands of the southern Kurds. They must have come from around Jezireh, close to the Iraqi border. They marched with the slow, untiring step of highlanders towards the place where they were to meet the two foreigners before dawn. On the other side of a rocky outcrop, the head of the party raised his hand to stop the others and pointed to something a few dozen metres in front of him.

  It looked like a camp, but there was only a single man, sitting alone in front of the fire. The leader approached and looked more closely at him: his head was covered by a hood, but his hair and beard were black, his skin dark and his eyes blue, hard and penetrating. He was dressed like the peasants of the high plains and had a strange object in front of him, leaning against his knee.

  ‘Isn’t it too late in the season, farmer,’ asked the Kurd, ‘to be using that?’ He turned towards the mountain. ‘The wind is blowing hard, but I don’t see any threshed grain to be aired with your winnow here.’

  The man’s eyes blazed: ‘You’re right, peshmerga. I’m here for another reason. Turn back with your men, turn back and go in peace. This is a bad night . . .’ He raised his eyes, which glittered with the reflection of the flame. ‘I’m not here to scatter the chaff from the grain with what you have taken for a winnowing fan. I’m here to scatter souls to the wind, if the gods so wish . . .’ He lowered his head.

  ‘Sorry, dad,’ replied the Kurdish warrior. ‘But we’re expecting a good harvest on this mountain, and you’ll have to let us by.’ He put his hand on his gun.

  MICHEL, CURLED UP in a shelter he’d found higher up on the mountain, heard a gunshot echo in the valley, then another and yet another, and then a furious volleying of shots, how many he couldn’t say. The echoes multiplied wildly amidst the ravines and cliffs on the barren slopes of Nemrut Dagi.

  Sergeant Vlassos sprang awake in his sleeping bag and grabbed his rifle: ‘Christ! What the hell kind of music is that?’

  Karamanlis didn’t know what to think. ‘Don’t move. The mountain is crawling with smugglers; they might have met up with some army unit. Or it’s a gunfight among shepherds robbing each other’s sheep. Listen . . . See, it’s all over.’ The mountain had fallen back into a deep silence. ‘This is a strange place, all right. Let’s try to get some sleep now. Tomorrow we’ll take care of this business and then we’ll never think of it again. Saturday we’ll be in the Plaka eating a nice bowl of bean soup with some new retsina.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Vlassos, ‘You’re right. I hadn’t thought about that. The retsina should be ready to drink by now.’

  NORMAN AND MIREILLE got to Eski Kahta a little after midnight in a new car, a Ford Blazer which they’d traded for the Peugeot at a rental agency in Kayseri. It had started to rain and the dusty roads of Eski Kahta had turned into slimy streams. The loudspeakers on top of the minaret invited the faithful to the last prayer of the day, and the chanting of the muezzin spread like a wail in the downpour.

  Norman and Mireille decided that they should both sleep for at least an hour, and set the alarm. When his electronic watch started to beep, Norman sat up, raised the seat to an upright position and started up the car, letting Mireille sleep a little longer. He looked over at her: even so worn out, with black circles under her eyes and an oversized sweater, she was incredibly beautiful.

  The Ford Blazer started down the dirt road that crawled up the mountain, skidding at every curve on a thick layer of mud. Norman turned on the radio and tuned into the station of the US base at Diarbakir. Snow was forecast that night over three thousand feet.

  CAPTAIN KARAMANLIS WOKE up stiff with cold. The wind was blowing hard and frozen sleet was falling like tiny balls of hail, piercing his hands and face. He looked at his watch: it was five o’clock and still dark, but the white sleet and the cloudy sky emanated a light glow, as if dawn – actually nowhere to be seen – were approaching. He glanced up towards the mountain peak and saw a quivering light. Yeah, there was something moving up there. A halo of flame became increasingly evident, casting a reddish glow on the colossal stone statues which sat motionless at the foot of the enormous mausoleum, looking like the spirits of darkness. There was a fire in the clearing, and again he could hear that flute, barely perceptible, soft and sorrowful as a sigh, then hard and cutting as the screech of an attacking hawk.

  He woke Vlassos, who rubbed his eyes and pulled up his jacket collar: ‘Let’s get moving. He’s up there waiting for us. Let’s get this over with.’

  ‘But Captain, weren’t we supposed to get help?’

  Karamanlis lowered his head. ‘They should have been here hours ago. Men who had no fear of the mountain or of the snow. I’m afraid those shots we heard . . .’ Vlassos’s eyes opened wide in an expression of pathetic bewilderment. ‘But then . . . Captain . . . maybe it’s better to turn back . . . I don’t know if . . .’

  ‘Shitting in your pants, are you? Fine, go to the devil, go get fucked, go wherever you want to go. I’ll go up alone, but get the hell out of here at least, you sorry excuse for a man!’

  Vlassos changed his expression: ‘Hey, Captain, that’s enough. I’m not shitting in my pants. I’m better with one ball than you and that bastard up there with both. I’ll show you who’s a sorry excuse for a man.’ He took the machine gun and jacked up the magazine with the palm of his hand, heading up towards the top of the mountain.

  ‘Wait,’ said Karamanlis. ‘There are two of us, we can split up. The pyramid up there is flanked by two terraces – one on the east and one on the west. I’ll go up the back, on the western side, and it will take me a little longer. You go up this way. You have an infrared sight on that piece you’re carrying. You can see that demon even if he’s hiding. Don’t give him time to take a breath, lay him out as soon as you see him: he’s too dangerous. I’ll be coming up the other side, so be careful not to shoot me. Good luck.’

  ‘You too, Captain. We’ll drink up tonight and then get out of this damned country with the first ship, the first plane, whatever.’ He moved off, lying low, dashing between the rocky outcrops and dry tree trunks that covered the white mountain.

  Fifteen minutes of silent advance brought Vlassos to the huge landing on which the immense complex stood. In front of him rose the colossal heads of the statues, wide-eyed as if surprised by a monstrous axe which had chopped them off their trunks. Behind them, nearly at the centre of the landing, crackled a fire made of branches and twigs.

  He scoured the disturbing space in front of him until his face suddenly lit up: there he was, the bastard! Half hidden behind a stone block, wearing the same damn grey-green jacket with an American army emblem that he’d had on the last time he’d seen him in the underground prison of the police station. He was peering left and right to see
around the post, checking his surroundings. Vlassos pointed his gun, and his infrared sight confirmed the body’s natural heat. Not for long. He shot five times in rapid succession and saw the man crumble to the ground.

  He ran forward shouting: ‘Captain, I got him! I killed him dead, Captain!’ But as soon as he reached his objective his heart stopped still: what he’d shot was a dummy lashed on to a stick frame over a handful of embers. The rising heat had permeated it and fooled the infrared sight on his M-16.

  A voice he’d never forgotten sounded behind him: ‘Here I am, Chìros!’ And before he could turn round an arrow pierced his back between his shoulder blades and came out of the front of his chest. Vlassos spun around with enough strength still in him to want to empty out the rest of the magazine, but his executioner had a gun of his own and turned his hand to pulp with a series of shots.

  Vlassos collapsed into his own blood, which flowed copiously on to the great altar, and before his eyes glazed over he recognized the young man who so many years before had suffered – at his own hand – the cruellest of tortures in an underground chamber of the police station in Athens. With a last burst of energy he raised his arm in an obscene gesture muttering: ‘I fucked . . .’ But the words never left his mouth. The final bullet pierced his throat, cutting the phrase in half, and Vassilios Vlassos, known as O Chìros, reclined his head, breathing his last into the gelid mountain wind.

  The sound of the shots had reached Michel, who shook himself awake and left his shelter. They stopped Norman cold as well. He’d switched off the engine, unsure what he was hearing, but the next shots were as clear as could be, carried on the north wind blowing stronger and stronger in their direction. Mireille got out and could see the flash of gunfire near the top of the mountain. ‘Oh my God, Michel!’ she started to yell. ‘Michel, turn back, it’s me, turn back!’ But Michel could not hear her because her shouts were carried away on the wind and because he was already crawling up the mountain in the direction of the shooting and the fire.