The Oracle (7 page)

‘T
HIRTY-TWO
A
RISTOMENIS
S
TREET
. They got here by cab and are in the second-floor apartment. She’s with a young man. They’ve been there for about half an hour.’

The
astynomia
officer picked up the microphone: ‘This is Captain Karamanlis. Can you see if the apartment has a phone line?’

‘No, no phone. The apartment is isolated.’

‘Are you sure they didn’t meet anyone before going to the apartment?’

‘Absolutely. The taxi brought them here directly without a stop. The only person they spoke to was a friend of theirs who walked them down from the doctor’s office.’

‘And where is he now?’

‘He left on foot, but he’s being followed by Roussos and Karagheorghis, car number twenty-six.’

‘All right. Don’t move an inch and don’t lose sight of them. I’m holding you responsible.’

‘Got you.’ The policeman turned off the radio and lit a cigarette. The window at second-floor level was still closed and there were no signs of life. He couldn’t figure out why he was tailing these two kids. They sure seemed innocent enough. His partner at the steering wheel leaned back, pulling his cap over his eyes.

The radio crackled to life again a few minutes later: ‘Captain Karamanlis here, are you listening?’

‘Yes, Captain. Go ahead.’

‘Proceed to arrest them, immediately.’

‘But nothing’s happened.’

‘I’ve spoken with car twenty-six. The boy they were following entered the British embassy, and shortly thereafter a car with a plain-clothes agent was seen leaving the embassy. He’s headed in your direction. They may interfere, it’s happened before. I don’t want problems. Arrest them and bring them here.’

‘Will do. Over.’

They entered the courtyard, went up the external staircase and banged at the door.

‘Open up. Police.’

Claudio jerked awake and Heleni shook out of her slumber as well. The pot was boiling on the stove and the room was filled with the delicious smell of broth. The two young people looked at each other with an expression of agonized panic.

‘Someone told them where we are!’ gasped Claudio. ‘Fast, outside the bathroom window. There’s a terrace: from there you can get into the attic apartment; it’s empty.’

He turned towards the door: ‘Just a minute! I’m coming!’ He helped Heleni get up and urged her towards the bathroom, trying to help her up on a chair so she could get out the window.

‘I can’t do this!’ she cried. ‘I’ll never make it, Claudio. Let them take me.’

‘Open this door or we’ll knock it down!’ the policemen were yelling from outside.

‘I’ll distract them. You do what I told you to do. Leave the attic apartment through the back door and cross the street; there’s a little church right there, Aghios Dimitrios. Hide there and wait for me.’ He closed the bathroom door and went towards the main door, which was already swaying under the blows of the police outside.

‘Where’s the girl?’ they shouted, pointing their pistols at him.

‘She left with her parents an hour ago.’

The officer slapped him hard: ‘Where is she?’ Claudio didn’t answer. The other went to open the bathroom door, but Claudio lunged after him and landed a punch to the nape of his neck, knocking him out cold. The first officer tried to hit Claudio with the butt of his pistol, but Claudio saw it coming out of the corner of his eye, slipped to the side and tripped him. The man fell down hard on to the floor but managed to spin round, and jumped up, pointing his gun straight at Claudio.

‘I’ll blow your brains on to the wall if you make a move.’

Claudio put his hands up, backing off. The policeman struck him in the stomach, again and again, until he doubled over in pain, then drove a knee up into his face, splitting his lip. Claudio collapsed to the ground, mouth and nose bleeding. The other man had got up and now kicked open the bathroom door. He saw the chair near the window and looked out. Heleni was dragging herself weakly across the terrace, towards the attic. He pointed his gun at her: ‘Come back this way, baby, we have to talk.’

The car from the British embassy arrived a few minutes later. The driver parked and began to get out, but then ducked back in quickly, lowering his head: two men were coming down the side stairs. One was holding a girl under his arm: she was pale, with black-rimmed eyes, stumbling at every step. The other dragged a semi-conscious boy, his face and clothing covered with blood. They got into a car parked on the other side of the street and took off. The British agent turned on his radio: ‘Hello?’

‘James Shields here. Well?’

‘Sorry, too late. The police were just accompanying them out as I pulled up. What should I do?’ asked the agent.

Silence on the other end.

‘Sir, if you send me a couple of guys from special services, we could head them off before they get to destination.’

‘No. Come right back. There’s nothing more we can do.’

Shields turned to Norman: ‘I’m sorry, son. They were arrested by the Greek police just before our operative got there. I’m very, very sorry.’

Norman covered his eyes: ‘Oh my God!’ he said. ‘Oh my God.’

T
HE CAR ENTERED
police headquarters. The officer at the wheel got out and opened the back door. Others came and took Heleni away. Claudio tried to stop them, but was dragged forcefully to another entrance. When the door opened, he caught a glimpse of Michel sitting between two policemen in an adjacent room.

Their eyes crossed for a moment but Michel seemed not to recognize him. Claudio’s face was all swollen up, his eyes reduced to two slits, his lips puffy and bloody, his dirty hair plastered to his forehead.

Michel couldn’t comprehend how everything could have happened so quickly. Twenty-four hours ago, he was just a boy, lively and full of enthusiasm. Now he was broken and humiliated, deprived of all sentiment and feeling. They carried him out and put him in a car headed towards Faliron.

‘Where are you taking me?’

‘To the airport. You’ve been released. You’re going back to France.’

‘But I have a house in Athens, all my things, my clothes. I can’t just leave.’

‘Yes you can. Your things will be shipped to you. Your plane is leaving in a little over an hour. We’ve even bought you a ticket.’

At the airport, a ground hostess met them with a wheelchair.

‘He’s just been operated on,’ said the policeman. ‘He won’t be able to walk for a week. He’ll need help at his arrival in France as well.’

‘Certainly,’ said the hostess. ‘We’ve already been notified.’ She pushed Michel in the wheelchair past the metal detector and parked him at the gate. He was carried to his seat near the window.

The plane took off and flew low over the city and port before beginning its ascent. A steward started to illustrate emergency procedures and show the passengers how to use the life jackets under their seats if they were forced to make an emergency landing, but Michel wasn’t listening. He looked down at the Acropolis, and from this height it seemed desolate. A field of chalky skeletons.

There was the agora, the archaeological school, emerging from the low houses of the Plaka. He would never see Athens again. Never.

And his memories? Would he ever be able to rid himself of them? His friends: Claudio, Norman. He’d met them two years before, on a mule track between Metsovon and Ioannina. They were hitch-hiking and he brought them to Parga in his Deux-Chevaux. Friends at first sight. An exclusive, fierce, crazy friendship, they had raced through life together, always the best, plotting adventures, studying, arguing, discussing the destiny of the world at the local dives, drinking retsina at the tavern, hitting on girls . . . Heleni, what a beauty. A knock-out. And Heleni had chosen Claudio. He had tried with her as well, but then forgot her, what the hell, your best friend’s girlfriend . . . She had become part of them. Heleni, so beautiful and so sweet, courageous and proud. He had turned her in. He had been unforgivably weak, a coward. That was the thought that tortured him, made him bleed inside. How could he ever forget what he’d done?

What kind of life was left to him? How could he ever find the strength to do anything again? Oh, Athens, Athens. He’d never see her again. Never again.

The stewardess repeated her question: ‘Would you like something to drink, sir?’

Michel didn’t turn but his voice was firm and polite. ‘No thank you. I don’t want anything.’

C
LAUDIO WAS LEFT
for hours in total isolation in a freezing, windowless cell, without a cot, just an iron door and a single chair, iron as well. They had taken his belt and shoestrings with his wallet and watch. He had no way of calculating how much time had passed.

The light bulb spread a flat, harsh light. The walls didn’t let through any sound and his own footsteps rang out as if he were pacing back and forth in a tin can.

His soul had never been filled with such anguish. He was tormented by his despair and the physical pain that racked his eyes, his mouth, his ribs. It was intolerable. Not a fibre of his being was free of pain. When he heard footsteps outside his cell and the door swung open, he was ready for murder. He wanted nothing more than to strike the man in the doorway with a killing blow, to crush him, to mangle him. He gripped the back of the iron chair as if it were his shield.

The man was of average height, freshly shaven, impeccable in his
astynomia
uniform. His hair was streaked with white and his moustache was neatly trimmed. He was calm and nearly reassuring. He came closer and his aftershave smelled cool, even pleasant.

‘Sit down,’ he said in Italian. ‘Police Captain Karamanlis. I’m here to help you.’

‘I’m an Italian citizen. I have the right to call my consulate. You have to release me. I’ll have you put on trial.’

The officer smiled: ‘My friend. I could eliminate you whenever I like. Your corpse would disappear and never ever be found. And I would collaborate with the utmost zeal to help your consulate, providing them with false information that would close the case for ever.’

He took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Claudio, who accepted it, taking a long drag. ‘And now that your situation is clear to you, I want you to know that what I’ve just suggested is the last thing I want to do. I studied in Italy, I admire your country greatly and I’m quite fond of your people.’

Right, thought Claudio. Now he’ll give me that old proverb: Italians and Greeks, same face, same race.

‘And then,’ said the officer, ‘you know how the old saying goes: Italian and Greek, same face, same race. Right?’ Claudio didn’t answer. ‘Now, listen well to what I have to say. There’s only one way you can save yourself and save the girl. You don’t want anything to happen to her, do you?’

‘Have her taken to the hospital, immediately. She’s been wounded, she’s in danger of dying . . .’

‘We know. And the longer you wait, the greater the danger becomes. It all depends on you. We want to know everything about Heleni Kaloudis: who her friends were, her accomplices. Who is behind her. What were their plans, what were they plotting? Who were their contacts in the Communist party, and what about foreign agents? Bulgarians? Russians?’

Claudio lost hope. That man already had a story worked out, and all he wanted was to hear it confirmed. Nothing would convince him otherwise.

‘Listen, I’ll be sincere because the only thing I want to do in this world is save Heleni. There is not a grain of truth in what you’re thinking. Heleni’s just part of the students’ movement, like thousands of others at the University. But if you want I’ll confess to everything: plots, foreign agents, orders from above, as long as I see her in a hospital bed being treated by capable doctors.’

Karamanlis looked at him with a mixture of condescension and satisfaction: ‘I’m glad that you’ve decided to collaborate, although I understand your desire to exculpate your girlfriend. I must tell you that your . . . confession will be compared word by word with what the girl has told us.’

Claudio backed up towards the wall, gripping the chair: ‘You can’t interrogate her in her condition! You can’t do that, you can’t!’

‘We have to; we have a duty to do so, Mr Setti, and when we have compared your two statements and found them in agreement, you’ll be released and the girl will be treated so that she’ll be capable of facing trial . . .’

‘No, I’m sorry, Captain, you weren’t listening to me. I’ll collaborate only if I see that the girl is being treated, otherwise you can forget it. Forget it! You can cut me to pieces, cut off my balls, tear off my fingernails . . . what else is on the torture agenda? I will not say one word, not one, you got that? Do you understand? The girl has to be brought immediately to the hospital, not interrogated, is that clear?’ Claudio shouted. His eyes were bulging, veins stood out in his neck and temples. He looked crazy.

The captain backed up towards the door, which was opened behind him in an instant. An officer approached him: ‘She didn’t say a word,’ he whispered. Karamanlis’s face twitched in a strange smirk, in grotesque contrast with his smooth, respectable countenance.

‘How is she?’ he asked.

‘Weak. If we force our hand, she’ll buy it.’