The Oracle (19 page)

The immense stretch was studded with countless burial mounds – thousands, tens of thousands of them, many with markers of limestone or selenite or quartzite. Others still were marked by weapons, corroded by the salt water, lying alongside the tomb or plunged into the ground. Rivulets of water had penetrated their way into some of the tombs, uncovering the bodies buried within. Incrustations of carbonate had coated the skeletons, their weapons and belongings, creating spectral compositions.

‘What is this? Commander, what is this place, this endless necropolis? It’s incredible. A place like this . . . cannot exist.’

Bogdanos continued walking without turning: ‘This is Hades. The home of the dead. Legend has it that the cave of Dirou is the entrance to Avernus, to the underworld. This is Lake Avernus.’

‘But that’s nothing but a myth!’

‘Myths, my son, are nothing but reality deformed by time, like objects sunk in deep water. This cave was used as a necropolis for three thousand years. Here sleep the Minians, the Pelasgians, mythical lords of the sea, the Achaeans of the shining greaves, destroyers of Troy. Here, for millennia, they have listened to the song of the sea every night, waiting for the light of Hecate, the moon, to caress their bare bones. Here lie youths mowed down before their time by the Chaera, maidens who had never known man, children torn from their mothers’ breasts, warriors at the height of their virility, young boys with but the first hairs of their beards. They dominated the seas on agile ships and the land on fiery steeds, on gleaming chariots with blazing wheels . . . They sleep in the clean sand, among these sharp rocks, under this solemn dome, in this uncontaminated air. Their rest is sacred and inaccessible.’

He turned his head slowly: his pupils were fixed and dilated as if staring into the deepest darkness. Claudio looked at him, amazed: ‘You speak as though you envied them, Commander. But why? Why are you so tired of life?’

Bogdanos lowered his head, his eyes hidden in the shadow of his hood. ‘We have to continue walking,’ he said.

O
FFICER ANDREAS PENDELENI
unlatched the belt with his regulation handgun and hung it on a coat hook. The police commissioner who had come from Kalamata raised his eyes with a questioning expression: ‘Nothing?’

Pendeleni shook his head: ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. The caves have been searched inch by inch, the lakes dragged for evidence: not a trace. Not a clue.’

The police commissioner had been up all night listening to his service radio: his eyes were puffy and his voice hoarse with all the cigarettes he had smoked. The ashtray on the table was overflowing with butts and the air was blue. Officer Pendeleni opened the window: ‘Mind if I change the air?’

‘Sure, go ahead. You must be as tired as I am. Go to bed. It’s morning, dammit.’

‘And we’ve failed.’

‘Not a single clue? No leads at all?’

‘I think the whole thing was carefully planned: when poor Karagheorghis called me over the radio to come and give him a hand, I took off immediately. But there was that truck full of lumber blocking my way – I wasted more than half an hour. Just the amount of time the killer needed to massacre the poor bastard. To think he was just a few months short of retiring.’

‘Yeah. He died like those soldiers who die the last day of the war. Why didn’t you arrest the truck driver?’

‘Wouldn’t have made any difference. He’s not to blame. He was just carrying out someone else’s carefully laid plans. The loaded truck started up the road just as Karagheorghis entered the Katafigi cave.’

‘So the killer had an accomplice. That’s a possible lead.’

‘I’ve tried to follow up on it, but no one knows the man described by the truck driver. And even if we found him, how could we get him to talk? If he is the accomplice, that is. There’s no law forbidding the transport of wood from one place to another . . .’ He took a little slip of paper from the inside jacket of his pocket and placed it on the table. ‘Here’s the description of the man who commissioned the shipment from Hierolimin to Gythion.’ He stood up to close the window. ‘And the roadblocks? The helicopter? The coastguard?’

The commissioner shook his head, letting it drop down between his shoulders. ‘Nothing. As if he had vanished. All we have is that stupid, absurd message.’

‘“She’s naked. She’s cold.” Like he’s making fun of us. And the corpse, stripped of all his clothes. It must have been a maniac. A damned psychopathic son of a bitch.’ Just then, a waiter from the bar around the corner came in with a tray.

‘You must be hungry. I’ve sent out for coffee and sandwiches. Eat something.’ The officer took a cup of steaming coffee. ‘If you don’t want to go back home to bed right away, they’re sending someone over from Athens who should be here any minute. A supercop from headquarters. The kind who can figure their way out of anything.’

Pendeleni took his belt from the coat hanger: ‘No, thanks. You give him my regards. I’ve had it and I’m going to bed. If you need me you know where I am.’

As he was leaving, a car pulled up in front of the police station. The officer who got out strode into the station without knocking. The commissioner walked towards him, holding out his hand. The officer gave him a quick salute and then shook his hand vigorously.

‘Captain Karamanlis, Athens police. Don’t get up, Commissioner.’ He glanced over at the tray. ‘I see you were just having breakfast. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

‘Oh no, not at all. I was just grabbing a bite. We’ve been up all night here. Why don’t you join me?’

Karamanlis took a seat: ‘Don’t mind if I do, commissioner. I’ve been up all night as well, I wanted to get here as quickly as I could. Please brief me on everything that’s been going on. I’m sure you’ll agree with me that we’re dealing with a maniac here. Five weeks ago at Parthenion, in Arcadia, another colleague was found murdered – butchered, I should say. A retired officer, Petros Roussos.’

‘Did you know him?’

‘Personally. We had worked together for fifteen years. An excellent man. Capable, courageous, trustworthy.’

‘What about Yorgo Karagheorghis. Did you know him?’

Karamanlis nodded. ‘He was a direct collaborator of mine for many years. What’s more, he fought at my side for months and months during the civil war, against the Communists in the mountains. Let me tell you, he had guts. Wasn’t even afraid of the devil.’

The commissioner looked at him with a mixture of fear and astonishment: ‘Karamanlis. But then you are Pavlos Karamanlis, better known by the battle name
O Tàvros
during the civil war. My God, Captain, I come from near Kastritza . . . they still talk about you around my parts. You’re quite a legend.’

Karamanlis flashed a tired smile. ‘So much time has gone by. But I’m pleased that someone still remembers “the Bull”.’

The commissioner did not dare add why the people of Kastritza still remembered
O Tàvros
, letting Karamanlis think what he liked. ‘But captain,’ he added, ‘if Roussos and Karagheorghis worked so closely with you for so many years, you must have more information to give us than we can give you. I spoke last night with the coroner who is investigating the death of Roussos at Parthenion. He also believes that the motive for this homicide involves the fact that the two victims worked for the political police in Athens. With you, that is.’

‘There’s certainly something that links these two crimes. There is a suspicion arising in my mind, but it seems impossible, really. Absurd. I need more elements.’

‘What about that message? I was told that they found the same words at Parthenion, near Roussos’s body.’

‘Right. The element that the two killings have in common. The assassin’s signature. And his challenge, as well.’

‘Could it be a sign?’

‘Yes, of course, a sign. Or a trap. I have to find out. Now please tell me everything that’s happened here.’

The commissioner took the last sip from his coffee, cleaned his lips with a napkin and lit up a Papastratos. ‘Do you smoke?’ he asked, offering the pack to Karamanlis.

‘I quit a year ago.’

‘Lucky man. Well, there’s really not much to say. Our investigation has not uncovered much of anything. I think we’re faced with an exceptionally intelligent criminal whose ferocity knows no bounds. The only lead we have, I’d say, is the unknown man who commissioned a shipment of lumber two days ago to be taken from the port of Hierolimin to Gythion, without any apparent reason.’

Karamanlis listened carefully while the commissioner repeated all the details. When he had finished, he read and reread the slip of paper that Officer Pendeleni had left with the description of the man who had ordered the wood shipment.

‘Does it remind you of someone?’ asked the commissioner.

‘In a certain sense . . . it does. In any case, I mean to get to the bottom of this. Find the truck driver for me: I want an identikit. And don’t let up – that bastard can’t have disappeared into thin air.’

‘Of course not, Captain. My deputy will be taking over from me shortly and he’ll continue to coordinate the search efforts. This evening we should also have the autopsy report for you.’

‘Thank you, commissioner. If you need me I’ll be at Hotel Xenia.’

He put the slip of paper in his pocket and went out to the car. The sun was high and the day promised to be beautiful. Karamanlis went to his hotel to take a shower and stretch out on the bed for a couple of hours before starting the hunt.

As the water poured down on him, relaxing the fatigue in his muscles after the long car ride on rough country roads, his mind returned to a call he’d got three days before in Athens. He had returned home late at night after an exhausting day and was sitting in his study taking a look at the newspaper. The telephone had begun to ring. In his mind he could hear the tone of voice perfectly, those slow, distinct words.

‘Captain Karamanlis?’

‘Who’s speaking?’

‘Do you remember the golden vase which disappeared ten years ago from the basement of the National Museum?’

‘Who is this?’

‘Someone who knows where it is.’

‘Fine. Keep it and don’t break my balls over it.’

‘Don’t say that. Listen to me for a moment. There are others who know, friends of yours from the good old days: Mr Charrier and Mr Shields. They just got off the boat at Patras this morning and they’re headed south. They want the vase.’

‘Let them take it.’

‘But they may be here to open up an old wound, I’m afraid. The death of two of their friends under mysterious circumstances the night of the Polytechnic massacre. Claudio Setti and Heleni Kaloudis. Do those names mean anything to you, Captain?’

Karamanlis had hung up, but he hadn’t been able to get his mind off the call. Shields and Charrier. What in the hell had they come back to do after such a long time? And together, on top of it. The pelting water calmed his nerves; he curled up on the floor and leant his head against the wall: God, he would like to dissolve into that water. And yet he’d soon have to get on his feet and unravel the most complicated mess of his lifetime. All the ghosts of that distant night seemed to have arranged a meeting in that lonely corner of the Peloponnesus, but one of them was striking out ferociously. Who would it be next time? Him? And what did that absurd message mean? The trail of blood was marking out an answer. Maybe another dead man would make it clear . . . or would put an end to the questions – for ever.

The water turned tepid, then cold, and the captain jumped to his feet as if whiplashed. He dried off and lay on the bed. He was used to sleeping under the worst possible conditions, but he felt threatened from all sides. And didn’t know which way to turn first.

M
ICHEL CHARRIER ENTERED
the city of Skardamoula at a snail’s pace. It was dusk, and he parked his car in the central square. He had left Norman at Kalamata that morning so he could meet with an old clerk from the British consulate who seemed to have news about his father’s death.

It was the town’s patron saint’s day. A procession advanced through the streets of the centre, directed towards the church, which was strung with hundreds of coloured lights. Market stalls had been set up for the occasion; stands with fried fish and roasted
souvlaki
spread an inviting aroma through the air. He started pacing back and forth, checking his watch every few minutes. A hand slapped him on the shoulder.

‘What do you say, Michel, shall we stop to eat here?’ asked Norman, pointing at one of the stands.

‘Ah, you’re here,’ answered Michel, turning towards his friend. ‘Well? What did you find out?’

Norman shook his head: ‘Practically nothing. The Yugoslav police are in the dark. My father was killed in the middle of a forest in the high valley of the Strimon in Macedonia, just a few kilometres from the Greek border. Someone laid a trap for him and shot him dead. With an arrow, just one, straight to the heart. The bow was the kind used for big game, very powerful, a Pearson, maybe, or a Kastert. The only other certain thing is that his mouth and his eyes were covered after he was already dead.’

‘What was he doing in such a godforsaken place?’

‘He was hunting. He liked going hunting all alone, for days at a time, sleeping in the open.’

‘So he was armed as well.’

‘He was. Didn’t help him, though. Not a shot had been fired from his rifle. Why don’t we find a place to sit down so we can talk? How about this place here? Smells good.’