‘All right,’ said Claudio. ‘But we’ve got to hurry: listen to those dogs barking. Damn, it’s like they were waiting for us this time.’
‘In a certain sense, they were. Our adversary is not only ruthless and brutal, he’s also quite intelligent. But he doesn’t know that it’s our game he’s playing. There you are, son: if I remember well, you’re at the right depth. You should have the opening right in front of you.’
‘I can see it, Commander.’
The torch beam wavered at the bottom of the well, its halo shining on the walls before disappearing suddenly, as if swallowed up into nothing. Claudio’s voice sounded suffocated: ‘You can drop down now, Commander, but first give me a length of chain. I need enough to pull it tight.’ Bogdanos dropped down another couple of metres of the chain. With Claudio holding it taut, he began to lower himself, the bow over his shoulder. The barking of the dogs was very close. Once he reached the opening, Bogdanos handed the bow to Claudio and let himself be pulled into the passage, taking care to collect the chain and not allow it to fall to the bottom of the well.
‘Why didn’t you drop it? It’s not like we can hoist ourselves out.’
‘You’ll understand soon,’ said Bogdanos. ‘Turn off that torch now.’
A group of police arrived just a few minutes later with the dogs. The hounds pawed the door of the farmhouse, then ran to the well, back and forth, whining and yelping.
‘They’re on to something,’ said one of the men.
‘You search the farmhouse,’ said their commanding officer. ‘I’ll check the well.’ He leaned over the side and flashed down a powerful beam of light. ‘There’s nothing here,’ he reported, after having carefully inspected it. He turned towards the house, waiting for his men to finish their search.
‘See,’ said Bogdanos, ‘if we had left the chain, that policeman would have seen the ripples on the water at the bottom and would have understood that someone had thrown or dropped something into the well. He would have become suspicious, perhaps even dropped down to inspect it. And a chain is always useful.’
They walked along the passage, lined with large clusters of maidenhair fern, lighting up their way with the torch. After about half an hour they reached the huge cistern, the castellum aquarum of the ancient Roman aqueduct.
‘Ingenious, isn’t it?’ observed Bogdanos. ‘When it rained enough or when the snow melted and the water level in the wells rose, they’d channel the water towards this cistern. The sediments deposited, and then the water could be used to feed other wells in areas which were dryer or had been contaminated by salt water.’ He walked all around the cistern and started down one of the passages which branched off from it. ‘There must have been much more water back then; the level’s very low now, as you can see.’ Claudio followed him in silence, gripping the big bow in his right hand. The ferns got smaller, then disappeared entirely and were replaced by lichen, as the tunnel evidently led them away from the damp area of the swamp.
‘We’re almost out,’ said Bogdanos, turning back. A few minutes later he stopped in front of a dark opening and gestured for Claudio to come closer: ‘Come along, son. This is the well we’ll use to get out. It’s crumbling; you can use your hands and feet to climb up.’
Claudio went up first and Bogdanos soon joined him. They found themselves in the middle of a patch of brambles not far from the sea, just a couple of dozen metres from the state road for Komotini. They went on until they reached the sea shore. Lights twinkled on the beach, perhaps a small drink stand, and they could hear the notes of a song mixing with the roll of the tide. Bogdanos sat on the sand.
‘How do you feel? Sit down, come on, sit down here.’
‘Commander,’ he said, dropping to the sand, ‘why did we fail this time?’
Bogdanos lowered his head. ‘The risk we took was great, my boy, although we came out well. But now, you see, we’ll have to suspend our work for some time. The entire Greek police force will be looking for us, because we’ve plunged the stick right into the hornets’ nest. Vlassos will be protected around the clock, and Karamanlis is no fool. He won’t let himself be taken by surprise. Our goal has been accomplished: the third message has been delivered. You’ll see, it won’t be long before it starts to take effect.’
‘I don’t know how you can be so sure. I keep thinking about the two of them getting away. I haven’t been a human being for a long, long time, Commander, and maybe I never will be again, and they are to blame. Only them. At this point, I want the game to end, understand? With you or without you, I have to finish this game. I’ll never have any kind of life until I do.’
Low on the horizon, misty with clouds and vapours, the large red moon was setting, projecting long, bloody wakes on to the sea. Bogdanos turned suddenly towards him: ‘You have to wait until it’s time, my boy. You must wait – do you understand me? There is no other way. I stopped you from killing Vlassos because just one more minute would have led Karamanlis straight to you. What we did was well done. Your arrows struck their mark; I helped Karamanlis put him on the boat. He was bleeding like a stuck pig.’ He reached out to stroke the grip on the Pearson bow. ‘This is always the best weapon,’ he said. ‘Precise, silent. Modern technology has built jewels of such perfection . . . once a bow had to be greased, heated over a fire . . .’
‘I want him dead.’
‘You’ll have him.’
‘When?’
‘Not now.’
‘When?’
‘And not here.’
‘Well then?’
‘First we have to gather them all together. All three, including Vlassos, if he lives. We have to lead them far away from here. Very far from here, where they can count on no one’s help, and they will be at our mercy. Trust me. At the right moment, each one of them – without knowing why – will follow the trail that will lead to their deaths, all together. On the same day. At your hand. But the days will be very short ones, the sun will be low and pale on the horizon. Just like the days of the massacre, the days in which they spilled the blood and the tears of an innocent creature, trampling her body and her soul.’
Claudio didn’t answer, watching the rim of the moon as it sank into the liquid boundaries of the horizon. The tears which flowed from his eyes were more bitter than the waves coming to die at his feet.
‘Commander.’
‘Yes, son.’
‘Who was the man I killed in Macedon?’
‘You recognized him, didn’t you? It was the man speaking English who collaborated with Karamanlis that night.’
‘Yes, I recognized him. But who was he?’
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was James Henry Shields.’
‘Shields? You don’t mean . . .’
‘Yes. He was Norman’s father.’
He lowered his head, burying it between his knees. ‘It was Norman, then . . . who betrayed me?’
‘No. It was Michel.’
Claudio twisted his back as if whiplashed, then bent over again and wept silently.
Bogdanos stretched out a hand towards his shoulder, but didn’t dare touch him. He stood up. ‘I must go, I can’t make Karamanlis suspicious. I have to give him proof that he can trust me.’ He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood from a small wound on Claudio’s arm, cut by the brushwood.
‘We won’t see each other for many days,’ said Bogdanos. ‘On the night of the eleventh of November, be at the Cimmerian promontory in Ephira. It will be nearly the anniversary of the battle of the Polytechnic. Until then, watch yourself and make no errors. Before the year is out, justice will be done, but we still have a long way to go. It will all happen far from here. Very far from here.’
Claudio lifted his head and looked at him: ‘Commander, if something should happen to me . . . If I should fall into their trap, be killed . . . would you finish this task?’
Bogdanos shot him a fiery look: ‘Do not even say such a thing. You will
strike, when the time is right. You will strike with a steady hand, for Heleni, for yourself and . . . for me. Farewell, my son.’
‘Goodbye, Commander.’
He stepped into the shadows and Claudio was left alone with the waves on the beach and the ravaged clouds in the sky. He dragged himself under a rocky spur that had kept the sand dry during the rain. Fatigue overwhelmed him, and he fell asleep. He dreamed that the sun was rising and that Heleni was emerging nude from the waves and was running towards him as bright as the morning star.
CAPTAIN KARAMANLIS SAT at the wheel of his squad car, so agitated that he was just about to light up a cigarette from the pack he always carried in his pocket even after he had quit smoking. He restrained himself; the last word had not yet been said. Not all of the patrols had reported in: there was still hope, after all. He turned on the light in the car and scanned a topographical map of the zone, marking all the areas his men had already sifted through. There wasn’t much left, unfortunately. When he raised his head, he saw standing before him, in the brief, blinding beam of his headlights, none other than Admiral Bogdanos. He started involuntarily. He took a toothpick from his pocket and, chewing it in place of the cigarette, got out of the car: ‘Where did you come from?’
‘Did you get him?’
‘No, we didn’t get him. At least not yet. But just how did you get here?’
‘I’d say they haven’t a chance. If I managed to get out, so will he.’
‘You’re trying to tell me that you slipped out of the encirclement unnoticed? I can’t believe that.’
‘Don’t. Ask your patrols whether anyone saw me. You won’t get an answer.’
‘So what you’re saying is that a man – who we’re presuming is wounded on top of everything else – has managed to give a dozen patrols and sixty men the slip?’
‘Don’t ask me, Karamanlis. He’s already shown that he’s uncommonly clever. Maybe he was helped by the rain, the darkness . . . maybe your men made a mistake. Lots of things could have happened. I did find something.’ He handed him the bloody handkerchief. ‘As you can see, I wasn’t mistaken when I said he was wounded. It was near a grove of willows on the north-east part of the lagoon. If you get it analysed we’ll learn his blood type. And if I’m not mistaken you still have a medal with Claudio Setti’s blood type. If you haven’t kept it, I hope you’ve written the type down somewhere. If they coincide, I’d say that gives us some solid proof. At least we’ll know who we’re looking for.’
Karamanlis gave him a strange smile: ‘Thank you. I will certainly make every effort. But, as usual, I won’t know where to look for you to inform you of the outcome of our investigation.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll find you. Haven’t I always found you?’
‘You have.’
‘Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, Admiral.’
Karamanlis got back into the car and called in all the patrols, one by one, without much conviction. Something told him all the reports would be negative.
When his assumption was disappointedly confirmed, he switched off the radio and went back to the hospital. It was nearly morning and Vassilios Vlassos had already been moved to the ward after an operation of nearly four hours. He had needed another transfusion and had not yet fully regained consciousness.
‘He suffered an incredible trauma,’ the surgeon told Karamanlis. ‘Anyone else’s heart would have given out, but he seems to be doing well. He’ll be feeling better in a few days. We’re going to have to keep him on a drip until the sutures in his intestine have healed completely. He has lost a testicle, unfortunately; one of the arrows crushed it completely.’
‘Thank you, doctor, for everything you’ve done.’
‘No need for that,’ said the doctor. ‘Let me call the nurse; she has the arrows we extracted. I assume they will be used as material evidence.’
‘You’re right. Thanks once again, doctor.’ Karamanlis waited a few more minutes for the nurse, who handed him a plastic bag closed with a rubber band. He opened it and examined the arrows, all three of which bore that strange phrase. As he twirled them between his fingers, Vassilios Vlassos opened his eyes.
‘Steady now, Vlassos, you’re all right. You were badly wounded, though – look at what they took out,’ he said, showing him the arrows. ‘One of these went through your gut and tore apart your testicle, but the doctor says there’s nothing to worry about. You’ve still got one left, old boy. For a guy like you that’s more than enough, isn’t it?’
Vlassos moved his lips as if he wanted to say something, but no sound came out.
‘Don’t strain,’ repeated Karamanlis. ‘You can tell me everything when you’re better.’
Vlassos motioned for him to come forward; his voice was little more than a whisper: ‘I’ll kill that bastard son of a bitch, Captain, I’ll tear his balls out . . . I . . . I . . .’
‘I know you will. But stay calm now, try to get some rest.’
Vlassos tried to push up on his elbows. ‘Captain, you have to promise me . . . that you’ll let me kill him with my own hands.’
‘Lie down, you stubborn dunce. You’re all stitched up inside and out. If one of the sutures splits you’ll bleed to death for real this time.’
‘Promise me . . .’
Karamanlis nodded. ‘Yes. I promise. When we’ve caught him I’ll leave him in your hands. You can do what you like with him.’
‘Thanks, Captain. What about my lady friend?’
‘She’s fine. We brought her home. Scared the willies out of her, but she’s all right now. I’ll let her know the operation went well so she can come to visit.’
Vlassos dropped back on to the pillow, mouth in a foolish, ferocious smile. Karamanlis put a hand on his shoulder: ‘We’ll get him, old man. You can be sure of it. Sooner or later we’ll catch him.’ As he left the hospital, the sun was rising and the streets were coming to life with the confused buzz of traffic.
CLAUDIO WAS AWAKENED by the first rays of the sun and by the jingling bells of a flock of sheep. He sat up, rearranged his clothes and tried to look like a tourist who had stopped to enjoy the dawn during a morning stroll on the beach.
‘Who are you?’ asked a young voice behind him. Claudio turned and found the flock’s shepherd: a boy of no more than thirteen.
‘An Italian tourist. I wanted to see the sun rising. And what’s your name?’
‘Stelio. Do you know what place this is?’
‘I think we’re near Messemvria.’
‘This is Ismaros, the city of the Cicones. This is where Odysseus landed when he returned from Troy. Here he got the wine that he used to make the Cyclops drunk. But how come a tourist like you doesn’t know these things?’
Claudio smiled: ‘Well, I do know about these things, but I didn’t know this was the exact spot. How do you know?’
‘My teacher told me. Want to meet him? He lives over there,’ he said, pointing at a little white house on a small promontory.
‘Sorry, but I can’t now. I’d like to another time, if I’m passing by here again.’
‘All right,’ said the boy. ‘You’ll know where to find me. I always bring my sheep here in the morning.’
Claudio got up, waving goodbye to the boy, and headed towards the state road. He walked for a while along the edge of the road with his thumb out until a truck headed for Turkey stopped and let him in. An hour later, the big semi-trailer stopped at customs and the driver passed two passports to the police, one Turkish, issued to Tamer Unloglu, resident of Urfa, and one Italian, issued to Dino Ferretti, resident of Tarquinia.
‘Hey, Italian!’ called the policeman, in a good mood. ‘Spaghetti, macaroni!’
Claudio waited until he had handed him back his passport and waved at him: ‘That’s right, buddy, spaghetti, macaroni and . . . all the rest.’
The truck started up again, crossed the Evros bridge and stopped a few minutes later at Turkish customs. Claudio filled out a form to request an entry visa, and exchanged a li
ttle money while he waited for the driver. They passed Ipsala and Kesan, where the driver turned south to Canakkale. Claudio got out at the turn-off to Istanbul. A few minutes later, another truck picked him up and took him all the way to the great bazaar by evening. Claudio waved goodbye and immediately disappeared into the multicoloured crowd swarming down the streets of the immense market.
CAPTAIN KARAMANLIS DECIDED to keep the message engraved on the arrows to himself this time. He asked the surgeon to keep quiet about it as well, explaining that this preliminary investigation demanded complete secrecy. He could not avoid reporting back to his superiors in Athens about his stay in Thrace and the attempted homicide of his subordinate while he was on holiday at Portolagos. This put him in a difficult position, because over the last ten years all the top-level security police positions had changed due to the new political situation and he could no longer count on the cover he had once enjoyed.
‘Captain,’ said the chief of police, ‘you were sent to Dirou to coordinate the search and the investigation and you didn’t accomplish a damn thing. At Portolagos, even worse luck: either we’re chasing a ghost, which I have my doubts about, or you’re proving to be quite incompetent. We’ve been able to keep the press out of this until now, but it won’t be long before they catch wind of it.’
Karamanlis grimaced: ‘Unfortunately, I must admit my failure. But please allow me to say, sir, that as far as I’m concerned the game is not over and the next hand will be mine.’
‘Would you mind telling me then what cards you’re holding?’
‘I think I’m close to identifying the murderer. I also am quite sure that I’m on his list, and that makes me the person most suited to carrying on this investigation. I am both the predator and the prey.’
The police chief looked quite confused: ‘It’s very generous of you to offer to act as bait. But won’t you tell me then why the assassin has included you – and your men – on his hit list?’
‘I have not as yet drawn any definitive conclusions, and I shall certainly communicate them when I have. But it’s hardly difficult to imagine why: our work involves turning over the worst scum of society to the law. When someone manages to escape, or to be pardoned for . . . political reasons, then this someone will be out looking for revenge. Consider in any case that the killer was not allowed to succeed in his intent: sergeant Vlassos was saved, at the brink of death, by our operation.’
The Oracle Page 18
