The Oracle (11 page)

‘Just give me time to go down and come back up,’ promised Ari, slipping through the half-opened door and hurrying down the basement stairs.

Kostas closed the door, muttering under his breath, when the telephone began to ring again. ‘Oh Lord,’ said the old man, accelerating his pace, ‘who could it be this time? Thirty years and nothing ever happens, and now, in just ten minutes . . . Oh, good heavens, good heavens. What if . . .’

‘National Archaeological Museum,’ he answered, lifting the receiver and trying to conceal his agitation.

‘The general director of Fine Arts and Antiquities speaking. Who is this?’

‘The chief custodian, Kostas Tsountas. What is it, sir?’

‘I’m calling from a police car. We’ll be at the front door in five minutes. We have to search the premises.’

The old man thought he would die, but tried to gain time: ‘I’m not authorized to open up for anyone at this time of night. If you really are the general director, you know that we’re subject to checks and that we have orders to refuse any request. I can’t obey a voice on the telephone.’

‘You are perfectly right, Mr Tsountas,’ said the voice. ‘I’ll be providing an order written on the Ministry letterhead, along with my personal identification card. I’m with Captain Karamanlis of the Athens police. I congratulate you on your diligence.’

Tsountas found the strength to answer: ‘I’ll look at the documents, sir, and decide whether the door should be opened.’ He hung up and fell back on to the chair.

Ari! He had to get him out of there before they came to inspect the place. Maybe someone had seen him going in and called the police; what else could have happened? He got up and ran towards the basement stairs. He yelled: ‘Ari! Ari! Get out of there on the double, the police are on their way for an inspection!’ There was no answer. He went down two steps at a time, nearly breaking a leg, and rushed to the storeroom door: ‘Ari! Get out of here, the police are coming, they’ll be here any minute!’ His words echoed between the bare brick walls of the basement and died, leaving the building in total silence once again.

He grabbed the handle of the door: it was locked. Thank goodness, Ari had already left. He searched his bunch of keys feverishly to find the one that would open the storeroom so he could check that everything was in order. He opened the door, switched on the light and gave the room a once-over. Everything looked fine. He locked it again and went back up to the main floor. His heart was in his throat: his weight, his age and all this excitement had taken their toll. He heard the bell ringing at the entrance and then a roar of thunder that seemed to shake the whole building. Someone was beating down the front door with a weapon of some kind; the noise was resounding all through the museum’s rooms and halls.

At the front entrance, he adjusted his uniform, dried the sweat that was dripping down his brow, then called out as steadily as he could: ‘Who is it? What do you want?’

‘It’s the general director, Tsountas. I’m with police Captain Karamanlis. I called five minutes ago. I’m about to pass a written order on official letterhead under the door, as I said I would, along with my ID card and that of Captain Karamanlis. Check everything and then open the door immediately. Any resistance will be considered insubordination, with all due consequences.’

Tsountas checked the documents to see that everything was in order, then opened the door, relieved that Ari had left after putting that piece in the storeroom.

‘Come in, sir,’ he said, removing his cap. ‘Please excuse me, but I’m sure you realize that I’m responsible . . .’

‘Do you have a map of the museum?’ asked Karamanlis immediately. ‘I have to inspect the premises.’

‘What in goodness’ name has happened?’ asked Tsountas, taking a folded tourist map from the souvenir counter and handing it to the officer.

‘It seems that a group of subversives used the museum as their base during the occupation of the Polytechnic,’ explained the director. ‘Most likely with the complicity of a museum employee, without whom they wouldn’t have been able to enter. The captain wants to search the museum before any evidence disappears . . . I’m sure you understand.’

Tsountas didn’t feel so sure any more, and suddenly remembered Ari Malidis’s strange request to enter the basement in the middle of the night . . . could he be the accomplice they were talking about? No, impossible. Ari had never got mixed up in politics, in all the thirty years he’d known him.

A
RI WAS IN
a panic: he had looked everywhere after thoroughly going through the corner cabinet where the boys had said they’d hidden the vase. When he’d heard Kostas Tsountas’s footsteps and his key turning in the lock, he’d flattened himself behind some shelves, where the brooms were kept, but as soon as Tsountas had left, he’d begun searching again. It was simply nowhere to be found. He was crushed.

Professor Harvatis had died for nothing . . . the treasure which had cost him his life had disappeared, perhaps into the hands of someone who could not understand its value and its meaning. What would he say to that man when he came back for the vase? Because he’d be back, could be back at any moment, to ask for what was his.

The room wasn’t very big and there weren’t many places where such an object could be hidden, but his anguish drove him to rummage everywhere without any plan in mind, and then to search the same places once again in the conviction he hadn’t looked well enough.

That man would be back, holy Mother of God, he’d be back with that iron stare and that voice capable of making anyone obey him. How could he tell him that he’d lost it . . . lost it for ever?

A footstep sounded in the hall and Ari slipped back into his hiding place. Someone was putting the key in the lock, opening the door, heading straight for the corner cabinet.

Captain Karamanlis knew what he was looking for. He took the bucket of sawdust out of the cabinet, dipped his hands in and lifted the embossed vase up towards the ceiling to observe it in the lamplight. The reflection of the gold on his face made him look deathly pale and more than a little bit crazy, but his gaze was eloquent: that marvel had instantly invaded his mind. He seemed lightning-struck, and the astonished, avid look in his eyes betrayed tumultuous feeling.

Ari realized that he had no choice. He slipped behind the other man, and when Karamanlis put the vase down he hit him hard with his torch between the nape of his neck and shoulders. He collapsed without a cry.

Tsountas and the nightwatchman who had just arrived to take over his shift found him ten minutes later, stretched out on the floor, groaning. They helped him up.

‘Captain, Captain, what happened? Do you feel ill?’

Karamanlis got to his feet, leaning against the wall for a few seconds. He passed his hand over his eyes and looked slowly around, eyes coming to rest on the empty surface of the table in front of him. He said in a calm voice: ‘I must have passed out. I haven’t slept for two nights, maybe it’s the stuffy air down here . . . there aren’t any windows. Let’s get out of here, I need a breath of fresh air.’ They went back up to the main floor.

‘The captain passed out,’ said Tsountas.

‘It’s nothing. I just felt a little dizzy, that’s all. I’m just tired.’

‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ asked the director.

Karamanlis sneered as he massaged the back of his neck. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I did. And someone will pay for it sooner or later, you can be sure of that.’ They walked out of the front entrance together. Karamanlis stopped a taxi to have the director taken home.

‘Aristotelis Malidis – does that name mean anything to you?’

The director shook his head.

‘He works for the Service. I’d like to know everything possible about him. Send me his personal file, please. Today if you can. I’ll be waiting for it.’

‘Of course, Captain. Do you have evidence against him?’

‘Nothing certain. Just . . . a suspicion. But it’s best to check things out.’

‘Naturally.’

‘Goodnight, director, and thank you for your collaboration.’

‘Goodnight, Captain. Always at your disposal.’

Karamanlis watched as the taxi sped off into the night, and walked to his own car. It was time for him to go to sleep, even though the day had been a bad one, unsatisfactory in every way. With a fresh mind tomorrow morning, he’d decide what to do.

K
OSTAS
T
SOUNTAS HAD
finished his shift and was planning on going to bed as well. He jumped on his bicycle and started to pedal steadily. He couldn’t wait to get home, although he was afraid he wouldn’t sleep. His headlight cast a little beam on to the dark street, sometimes intense and sometimes weak, depending on the incline. In front of his house, he pulled out the key for the little garage, raised the shutter and put his bike inside. It was as shiny now as when he’d bought it twenty years ago. He closed the shutter carefully, trying not to make a noise, and knelt down with difficulty to close the padlock, although he knew well there was nothing worth stealing in there.

A hand touched his shoulder as he was getting up: his legs crumbled beneath him and he fell back down on his knees, trembling with fear.

‘It’s me, Kostas, it’s Ari.’

The old man struggled to get up, leaning against the shutter. ‘You? Now what do you want? Don’t you think you’ve fooled me enough for one night? I’m sure that you didn’t put anything back in that storeroom. You came to wipe away the traces of some nasty business of yours, didn’t you? Don’t you care anything about the honour and reputation of an old colleague?’

‘It’s true,’ said Ari, his head low. ‘I did come to erase something, and I was the one who let the subversives into the museum. Three terrified kids, they were, trying to help a girl who was wounded; those butchers put a bullet right through her, the poor child. I tried to save them, while many others just like them were falling under fire, being mangled by their tanks. Poor kids . . .’ His voice trembled with indignation and sorrow. ‘They were our children, Kostas, oh holy Mother of God.’ His eyes welled up. ‘They were our children . . .’

‘You did the right thing,’ said the old man. ‘By God, you did the right thing. I couldn’t imagine.’ He sat down on the front steps. ‘Sit down here with me for a moment,’ he said, ‘just for a moment.’

O
FFICERS
P
ETROS
R
OUSSOS
and Yorgo Karagheorghis were travelling on the state road for Marathon and were entering the wooded area on the Pentelikos heights. They weren’t far from the appointed spot: the big hydroelectric basin fed by the Mornos river. A little road led off the state highway, following the shoreline in a north-westerly direction and ending up in a densely forested area. A small boat was waiting for them, tied to a stake on the shore.

They loaded up Heleni’s body and some weights. Karagheorghis left the car’s headlights on and got into the boat behind his companion, who was sitting at the rudder. Roussos started up the little diesel engine at the stern and directed the boat towards the middle where the water was deepest. It was totally dark, and his only point of reference was the light in the dam’s control cabin which was blinking on and off about half a mile in front of him. Roussos, sitting at the stern with the rudder in hand, was thinking of how he would spend the bonus the chief would give him for carrying out this mission. Karagheorghis had planned everything out carefully: the body was all strapped up with nylon cord and the weights would take her right to the bottom.

They’d reached the spot, near a little peninsula on the left side of the lake. Karagheorghis switched on a light on board to tighten the straps, then threw the body overboard, followed by the weights which would drag it to the bottom.

In the dim light, Heleni’s white forehead and long hair remained visible for an instant, like a tuft of black algae floating in the Stygian swamp.

Then Roussos switched off the light, accelerated and veered towards the shore, towards the car’s headlights; those little white staring eyes guided him safely back through the night, back to the land of the living.

I
T WAS POURING
with rain, a dirty rain that sullied the windscreen on the squad car with black streaks. All Karamanlis had in his stomach was a cup of coffee, although he’d already smoked a couple of cigarettes. Roussos and Karagheorghis must have completed their mission; he’d seen the ‘okay’ signal, a string of
komboloi
beads hanging from the rear bumper of his car, which he always left parked in front of the house. There was another problem, however: the Italian boy. What was Bogdanos going to do with him? If the kid talked, it might get him into real trouble; he didn’t know what to expect from a guy like Bogdanos.

He had to find out first of all who was giving him his orders, and how he could get back in control of the situation. There must be something in the guy’s reserved file, some way he could blackmail him. He turned on the radio to listen to the morning news. What he heard gave him a real start: ‘There has been a terrorist attack in the immediate vicinity of police headquarters. A car loaded with explosives has blown up with two people aboard: a man and a woman. A wing of the building has been damaged.’

Karamanlis switched on his service radio and picked up the microphone: ‘This is Captain Karamanlis. What the hell were you waiting for to inform me? I heard the news over the radio.’