The Oracle (35 page)

‘You’re terrible. You know that here people are used to collaborating with the police without expecting something in return.’

‘Naturally, my collaboration is free of charge, but I want to understand exactly what we’re talking about. Seems legitimate to me. So this man is connected with this archaeological object. In what way? And what kind of object is it?’

‘Look, I’m the one who asks questions in this office.’

‘If that’s how it is . . .’ Mireille started to get up.

‘Sit down, please. We need to identify this man. People’s lives are at risk. And he . . . he is the only lead we have which could enable us to avert this threat.’

‘I see. Then tell me what the object was. I teach history of art, perhaps I can offer an interpretation.’

‘Your turn first.’

‘My turn? All right, I’ve found a flower shop in town that has been paid to put fresh flowers every week on Harvatis’s grave, by . . . this man,’ she said, again pointing to the pencil sketch on Karamanlis’s desk.

‘How on earth did you manage . . .’

‘Your turn to tell me what the object was. It could be very important.’

‘A vase. A very ancient vase. In gold.’

‘Did you see it?’

‘Yes I did.’

‘Where?’

‘In the basement of the National Archaeological Museum.’

‘Where, obviously, it no longer is?’

‘Obviously.’

‘Who has it?

‘I think he has it,’ said Karamanlis, nodding towards the drawing. ‘He may be trying to sell it to two foreigners.’

‘Can you remember what the vase is like? Can you describe it?’

Karamanlis made an effort to picture the vase, although he’d only seen it for a few moments ten years earlier.

‘. . . and at the centre there was a man with something on his shoulder, a shovel or a club, something like that. And behind him a bull, a ram and a pig . . . or a boar, I guess. Then someone hit me over the head, and when I came to, the vase had disappeared. I’m convinced that he, this man here, had it stolen.’

‘Maybe it was his. Or maybe it was for him.’

‘Miss, how did you come to sketch out this likeness, and what is the licence plate number?’

‘Okay. On the night between the sixteenth and seventeenth of November 1973, at least two people arrive in Athens from Ephira: Professor Harvatis, let’s say, and his dig foreman, Aristotelis Malidis. Harvatis is dying, but when Doctor Psarros later examines the autopsy results, he is unable to establish the cause of death. His symptoms seemed to indicate a massive heart attack, but there are no traces of heart damage whatsoever. The vase is certainly brought into the museum basement by Malidis: he works for the Antiquities and Fine Arts Service and has easy access to the museum. But it’s just a temporary storage place; it soon disappears, into the hands of our mysterious friend, we can presume . . .’

‘You’re good,’ said Karamanlis, annoyed at not having pulled things together himself throughout all these years. ‘But you think I’ve never reflected on all this myself ? And what then? Well? What then? See, you see? All of this leads nowhere, if we don’t understand who this man is and what he wants. And you know something you’re not telling me.’

‘You were there that night at the assault of the Polytechnic, weren’t you, Captain Karamanlis? Weren’t you?’ She recalled the note scribbled at the bottom of Michel’s notebook page: ‘Athens . . . how will I ever find the heart to see Athens again?’

‘That’s right. What of it?’

‘Nothing. It has nothing to do with the rest.’

‘Then are you going to tell me how you made that sketch? Trust me: there are human lives at stake.’

Mireille took out one of the photographs she had taken of the bas-relief that day near Cape Sounion, and handed it to him: ‘I traced it from this.’

Karamanlis took it and examined it, astounded.

‘Can you give this to me? You must have the negative.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t. It’s the only copy I’ve got and I can’t give it to you.’

‘Let me get a copy made, at least.’

Mireille nodded.

‘It won’t take more than five minutes,’ said Karamanlis. ‘I’ll bring it right back for you.’

He left the office and went to the photo lab. As soon as he had closed the door after him, Mireille noticed a bag on the floor next to his seat. She couldn’t resist the temptation to look inside, but there was nothing of interest. Some legal papers, documents, an appointment book earmarked at yesterday’s date. There was a phrase written in pencil at the centre of the page that seemed strange. She copied it as best she could and put the book back in its place. Karamanlis entered shortly afterwards, the photograph in his hand.

‘Where did you take this photograph? What’s behind this sculpture?’

‘I took it in the studio of the artist who crafted it. That’s all I can tell you for now.’

‘But what is it, in your opinion?’

‘I’ve studied it at length, and thought about it a lot. There’s only one explanation, in my eyes. It’s a mask. I’d say a . . . funeral mask.’ She fell silent for an instant, then added: ‘You’ve seen the golden masks from the Royal Tomb of Mycenae at the National Museum, haven’t you?’

Athens, police headquarters, 6 November, 7 p.m.

‘I
WANT TO KNOW
where she’s staying and I want a car on her constantly, beginning this instant.’

The officer consulted the main computer of the
astynomia:
‘She’s been at the Neon Hermis in the Plaka for three or four days.’

‘Who do we have in the area?’

‘Manoulis and Papanikolaou.’

‘Are they on the ball?’

‘They’re good, Captain.’

‘I want them to search her room. I want that licence plate number.’

‘Yes, sir, Captain.’

‘Wait a minute: tell them to go lightly. I don’t want her to notice a thing.’

‘Okay. The velvet touch.’

‘And I want her telephone under surveillance. Right away.’

‘But it’s a hotel extension, sir.’

‘I couldn’t care less. Bug the whole hotel if you have to.’

‘As you wish, Captain.’

Karamanlis went back to his office and took out the two photographs again: Heleni and Angheliki Kaloudis, Kiki to her friends. Like two drops of water. He looked at his appointment book, trying to make sense of the gibberish pronounced by the seer, words he’d rather forget: ‘Stay away from the vertex of the great triangle. And beware the pyramid at the vertex of the triangle.’ Pure idiocy. Geometrical bunk. Didn’t make any sense at all. Just about anyone could make up something that stupid, even if he weren’t a psychic. There was a knock at the door.

‘Captain: got a weird one for you.’

‘What is it?’

‘We’ve got a lead on that identikit.’

‘From where?’

‘Corsica.’

Karamanlis stood up and followed his subordinate into the fax room.

‘Here, take a look at this.’

He was handed a faxed photo showing a platoon of the Foreign Legion in an African oasis: the head of one of the officers was circled.

‘A warrant officer from Sûreté of San Clemente says he recognizes the man in the identikit: he was his commander in the Legion when they were backing the British between Sidi el-Barrani and Alexandria. This photo was taken at the Siwa oasis on 14 April 1943.’

Karamanlis took a magnifying lens and inspected the photo carefully. ‘Looks a hell of a lot like him,’ he said, ‘but it can’t be him. This man would be at least eighty years old now. The man we’re looking for is no more than fifty. Keep at it. Something may still come in.’

N
ORMAN AND
M
ICHEL
had discussed at length what their next move should be after their meeting with Karamanlis. They added up everything they knew, or thought they knew, about the event that had affected their lives so profoundly, but still had no clue about what might happen next. They realized that they’d completely lost track of the vase of Tiresias, the object that could have linked them up with that night so long ago and led them to the others who had played a role in the tragedy. At least, those who had survived. One thing was certain: since all the messages had come from Ephira – and the Oracle of the Dead had started spouting predictions again – that was where they had to go, sooner or later. Michel still knew people at the National Museum through his academic contacts, and he managed to get some precise information about Aristotelis Malidis without raising suspicions: he’d retired two years ago and had gone back to Parga, where he had a little house. Michel contacted the State Treasury Department and had them give him the address where his retirement cheque was sent.

‘He’s got to know more than we do,’ Michel said to Norman. ‘He was here for years after you and I left.’

‘Maybe he even knows where the vase is. He was the last person to see it and probably the only one. Maybe he was behind the person who contacted us at Dirou . . .’

‘Could be.’

They left their hotel in Athens and headed west towards Missolungi. From there they went north to Ephira. When they reached the town it was nearly dusk: the days were getting shorter and shorter. Norman stopped the car in a little square and got out to stretch his legs. Michel joined him, leaning against the car’s bumper, and lit a cigarette.

‘My God, it’s so beautiful here. I’ve never forgotten these places. Look, up there on the hillside: the little town where we saw Claudio for the first time and gave him a lift to Parga.’

‘The beginning of a great friendship.’

‘Yeah. Beautiful. And short. It was here that it all started. Look, the sun setting over the sea of Paxos. A cry rises from the dark recesses of the island’s caves: “The great god Pan is dead!” ’

‘Right. And night falls on the black firs of Parga.’

‘And on the cold banks of the Acheron . . .’

‘My God, Michel, what a dreamer you are! Look around you. Just look. There’s a pizza parlour right over there. And check out the discotech that’s going up. The cold banks of the Acheron will be rocking soon. Michel, there are certain situations that you live too intensely. This is a place just like any other, and why we’re here is to put an end to all that we’ve suffered over these years. To find a lost friend, if we can, and to prevent another tragedy, if we can. To find an incredibly old and beautiful object, if possible, and to discover what it means. But this is a place just like any other place, understand?’

Michel threw the butt of his Gauloise on to the asphalt. ‘There’s no need for you to play things down. I feel perfectly calm and I’m not about to go off the deep end. And right, this is a place like lots of others: down there is the cliff of Laucade, from which human victims were hurled into the sea for centuries. Ithaca, over there, is the birthplace of the most astounding and profound legend of all humankind. And here’s the island of Paxos, from which a mysterious voice announced the end of the ancient world. That lagoon we just drove through was where the fate of the world was decided, when Octavianus and Agrippa defeated Mark Antony and Cleopatra. The Peloponnesian Wars began in this sea; they led to the end of the civilization of Athens. And here, at our feet, the Acheron poured into the Stygian swamp. Beyond those mountains in front of us, the Pelasgian oracle of Dodona – the oldest in Europe – spoke for over two thousand years through the rustling leaves of a gigantic oak tree. You’re absolutely right, Norman, this is exactly a place just like any other place.’

Norman grumbled, ‘Can’t we get something to eat? I’m starving,’ and got back into the car. Michel followed.

‘Want to bet that Tassos’s tavern in Parga is still open?’

‘That would be great. I’d love to stop there. Do you think he’ll recognize us?’

‘Well, we never used to stay very long, but we did go often.’

Tassos had lost a lot of hair and put on a belly, but his memory was still good: ‘Welcome back, boys,’ he said when he saw them. ‘How are you?’

‘Pretty well, Tassos, and we’re happy to see you,’ said Norman. ‘We thought we’d get a bite to eat before going to our hotel.’ They sat down outside, under a canopy.

‘Sure!’ said Tassos as he poured them some wine and gestured to the waiter to bring out some food. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come inside? It’ll start getting cold soon.’

‘No thanks,’ said Michel. ‘We’re dressed well, and we’ve been sitting inside the car all day.’

‘Your choice,’ said their host, and started reminiscing about the time when he’d first met them, still students, roaming the hills of Epirus in their search for antiquities. ‘And your Italian friend?’

‘Ahh, Claudio has left us, Tassos. He got mixed up in the Polytechnic affair ten years ago. He’s dead.’

‘Dead?’ said the host, and his voice revealed surprise mixed with incredulity.

‘That’s what we were told,’ said Norman. ‘You never heard otherwise, did you?’

Tassos poured himself a glass of wine and lifted it in a toast: ‘To your health!’ The others lifted their glasses as well, smiling with a melancholy air. ‘Isn’t that a sin! It would have been beautiful to have a toast together, like in the good old times. You say he died at the Polytechnic?’