“A new procedure is going into effect. They will start arresting teenagers and young people for minor infractions from every twentieth family, but not entire families. The detainees will be prosecuted and sent to the jails for infidels—to Compiègne, for example. I think you have heard what things are like there. It will not be unusual for a fifteen year-old boy to be caught in some undesirable gesture during prayers, prosecuted and sentenced. But the parents will be ready to do a lot to ease their child’s stay in Compiègne. Not even for the sake of getting him released—just to better his lot. To give him a chocolate bar, to bail him out from solitary confinement under the toilets, to save him from sexually serving the wardens. They will decide that a dozen strangers’s lives is a reasonable price for this.”
Whatever was in the smooth, well-modulated voice of Ahmad ibn Salih, it was certainly not pity toward people forced to make this undignified but terrible choice.
But what if he is not lying? thought Eugène-Olivier quickly. He probably wasn’t. It was true that they had begun to arrest more young people. He hadn’t thought about it much. In any case, he himself was unlikely to end up in prison. Compiègne was for minor violators. The Arab wasn’t lying about that, but what about the rest?
“Why are you telling me all this? I have no intention of continuing to play cat and mouse with you. What the devil do you want from me?”
“Now, why would I be talking in Maquis passwords with someone who broke into my house to steal my spoons?” Ahmad ibn Salih grinned for a moment, glancing at a small turtle peering through the glass of the aquarium.
Eugène-Olivier could tell him that he had come to steal antiques, but he had gotten distracted and began to play with the computer. Ahmad would never believe it.
The turtle for whom Ahmad ibn Salih was rapping on the glass was opening its mouth, not understanding why it could not catch anything except the smooth surface.
“I need to meet with Sophia Sevazmios. I understand that you don’t know who she is. But the guarantee of my interest in such a meeting is that I know what the religious guard does not, and that I remain silent.”
He was an ordinary fool, nothing more! Sophia would never trust any of them or believe anything they said. She would never allow them to dictate the rules of the game.
“You can give her something for me.” Ahmad ibn Salih suddenly got up and left the room. To bring his men? To make a phone call? Eugène-Olivier silently slipped toward the door. The only thing he could hear was impatient banging, as if all the drawers of a chest were being pulled out one after another.
“You can give the files you copied to anyone you want. I believe you have my entire hard drive,” the scientist called from the other room. “But I must warn you that they are unlikely to interest Madame Sevazmios. They have been absolutely filtered. But I think she will find this more interesting.”
With these words, Ahmad ibn Salih, who could move noiselessly, it turned out, despite his weight, appeared in the doorway, one step away from Eugène-Olivier. In his hands was a cellophane bag with a small box inside. The Arab shook the box out onto the palm of his hand; it was a little smaller than a pack of cigarettes, made of pear wood, with half-erased carvings on the lid.
“ Here.” The Arab held the box out to Eugène-Olivier.
“Open it,” Eugène-Olivier said, taking a step back.
Nodding, Ahmad ibn Salih carefully lifted the lid, showing its contents—or more accurately, the absence of contents. The little box was empty. Then he brought the box closer to his face and sniffed it.
“The smell is very strong but it’s not dangerous.”
The dark wood smelled strongly of some kind of spice. Eugène-Olivier turned the box over in his hands several times, perplexed. It was an old thing. At one time it had been decorated with amber, but almost all the stones had fallen out. So now what? He hated such games! Before him was an enemy, a real enemy, who didn’t even know how to hide it.
“You could, of course, toss it into the first trash can you find as soon as you are in the street.” Ahmad ibn Salih stepped into the hallway, clearly showing that the conversation was over. “But in your place I wouldn’t do that.”
And my life depends on knowing what you would or wouldn’t do in my place? What’s more important to me is figuring out what I should do in my place. What if this is all some kind of fiendishly clever trap? It’s no big deal sacrificing a pawn to claim a bishop. Or better yet, a queen. So, thanks for your advice about the trash can. It won’t be in the first one I see.
Ahmad ibn Salih, who had been walking ahead of Eugène-Olivier toward the front door, suddenly stopped as if he had read his mind, and turned around. “You know what? If Sophia Sevazmios is at that address tonight, that means I’m right. See for yourself whether she’s there or not.”
* * *
There was a small antique shop at the address the Arab gave him, although it would be more accurate to call it a run-down second-hand store. There were racks on the walls hung with clothing preserved from earlier times. Women’s sleeveless and short-sleeved blouses were still sewn for lounging at home, but those were emphatically sensual. It would not have occurred to any Muslim designer to make a blouse such as this one, made with a modest checked fabric with pockets. Or that one, which was solid beige.
The shelves were crammed with Faience teacups, interspersed with photo frames—which in a Muslim country were useless. The items that attracted the most attention were completely neutral: coffee pots, vases, trays, little boxes. That’s why Sophia, who was turning the suspicious parcel over in her hands, looked as if she were evaluating one of the items displayed for sale.
Even the expression on her face was that of a person lazily contemplating an unnecessary purchase.
“I really do recognize it.” Sophia was sitting back in an old rocking chair in the far corner of the smoke-filled room. “My father-in-law used to keep red myrrh in this box. Even if I had forgotten the remaining amber stones, I think that the smell would have reminded me. It was his quirk; he preferred myrrh to incense. No question, it’s useful to have a letter that only the addressee can read. That means all of this was planned a long time ago.”
Eugène-Olivier remained silent. A soldier has no right to question a general, even when the general is musing in front of him. Sophia Sevazmios, in fact, was just thinking out loud, and could not possibly be interested in the opinion of a person who had failed twice before noon today. A new record! His first failure was that he had not succeeded in killing himself, and the second, that he had endangered the safety of many others as a result. And being a fool could be considered a third failure, perhaps the biggest of all.
“Don’t worry, young man, this is a hard nut to crack for someone who still has only his milk teeth. As you can see, nothing awful happened, because you are still alive.” Sophia dropped the box in her pocket, taking out her cigarettes at the same time.
“I’m not so sure.” Eugène-Olivier dared to raise his eyes.
“You’re probably wondering if any of my husband’s relatives are still alive.” Sophia smiled, pausing. “Would you be so kind as to pass me the ashtray? If I get up, ashes will start falling on the floor and old George doesn’t have a maid. As far as I know, there’s no one left. At least not in Eurabia. Moreover, everyone knows they can’t get anything from me by blackmail.”
Eugène-Olivier had heard that they tried. The hostages were all killed, but they were avenged so horribly that the Wahhabis had not made further attempts. The retribution took half a year, and did not end until the last of those involved in taking the hostages was dead. One actually did survive, but he went mad waiting for his turn to die. Now he hid under his hospital bed whenever he saw a new nurse or aide. Unless all this was legend—one of many that accumulated around people like Sophia Sevazmios.
“It was the only thing I could think of,” he said, moving only his lips. “He’s an enemy, and what can an enemy have up his sleeve except blackmail?”
&nb
sp; “There are a lot of possibilities.” Sophia rocked in her armchair. “Do you know why they didn’t manage to occupy the entire planet after all? You wouldn’t remember, but there was a moment when they could have done just that.”
Eugène-Olivier remained silent. The feeling of guilt gnawed at him. The only thing he could do was endure and not show it. After all, he wasn’t asking for forgiveness or trying to justify himself.
“Sit down on that crate. Quit pacing in front of me.” As usual, Sophia’s most benevolent sentences sounded like orders.
“You see, even in the old world, the sons of Allah liked to claim that they, unlike Christians, talk to the higher power, so to speak, without intermediaries. It’s all nonsense. If you want details, talk to Father Lothaire. But in this nonsense, there’s some truth—because every proud Muslim who has ‘spoken directly with Allah,’ as he describes, can’t understand why Allah has told another Muslim something very different! They can’t agree among themselves!
“That’s why we haven’t disappeared completely. And they still can’t agree now. Maybe some enthusiastic renegade is playing a game against a brother who is a true believer by helping a kafir . Whether it is this Ahmad or someone backing him, we don’t care.”
So all the pieces fell into place. There you go, buttocks. And you thought Sophia Sevazmios would want to meet with you.
“And where did this person propose that we meet?” Sophia extinguished her cigarette. Eugène-Olivier jumped up so suddenly that some Chinese paper fans spilled on the floor.
“You young people will never become gamblers,” Sophia said with amusement. “Let’s suppose he wants to use the Maquis forces for his own purposes. If he’s doing that, it’s to betray someone from his agency. Maybe it’s just to create a few opportune incidents so that an official on their side who keeps losing men, loses his job. They constantly betray each other out of self-interest—that much I know. In the process, we get a chance to play a game of cards with him—not for his advantage, but our own.
“But how does he know what the religious guard doesn’t know yet? He didn’t lie about that. I don’t like that, I don’t like it at all.
“So the effendi will have to satisfy my curiosity. There is something strange here: Where did he get this box? Father Demetrios Sevazmios left all his personal belongings in Russia.”
CHAPTER 6
The price of intimidation
A suburb of Athens, 2021
“If you had done your missionary work yesterday, we wouldn’t have to buy weapons today.” His son’s words echoed in the ears of Father Demetrios.
The white stairs of the crypt of Sienna marble were strewn with the petals of dark roses, and thus looked sprinkled with blood. The cloudless sky shone with the blueness not known in colder regions. A young woman stood apart from the crowd among the light-colored crosses on both sides of the narrow path. She was motionless, absolutely motionless, as her black skirt and wrap danced in the wind.
Father Demetrios realized that it was the first time he had seen his daughter-in-law like this. A black scarf of handmade lace covered her hair, which was gathered in an old-fashioned bun. The free, wide hem of her long skirt—which came down to her ankles in their black hose, giving way to thin, elegant, high-heeled shoes. In mourning, dressed so femininely, her beauty finally shone in its full glory.
She, who was so un-Greek, not only looked like a Greek woman, but like a supremely Greek embodiment of ancient female sorrow, like Medea or Elektra. Sad, but divinely beautiful with her calm face. She would not wring her hands and tear her hair—but where did she get that icy black spirit?
Had her husband been aware of how beautiful she was? Probably not. She probably wore running shoes to her own wedding. Not that anyone knew for sure, because they had married practically in secret—terribly insulting a good part of the family.
Her beauty was usually well hidden in light jackets, men’s sweaters, and jeans. Her noble neck was concealed by carelessly falling hair, her face by abominable dark glasses.
Had she wanted to, she could have shone in the elite Greek society to which Leonid had been born. This was despite her origin—for she was Russian, and if not worse, almost a Jew. But she did not want to.
The little cemetery was old and belonged to the family; consequently, there was no need for ritual transportation. The procession walked to the villa on foot and scattered at the bend among the graves and the cypresses.
* * *
“How can I entertain so many of you? All right then, I won’t insist. You two, see what’s wrong with the toilet in the bathroom in the corner—the water runs for fifteen minutes every time we flush. You, there, pick up the empty cans and take them to the trash bin downstairs; there must be a lot of them everywhere, especially in the bedroom under the bed. You’ll find garbage bags in the kitchen under the sink. That’s right, but first of all, polish my shoes.”
These were Leonid Sevazmios’ last words, although Sophia did not know them as she walked like a dark shadow among the dark cypresses. Then he fell, strafed with bullets, into a deep armchair in their small apartment not far from Kifisia—not the most exclusive spot in Athens, but quite decent. The apartment, surrounded by a balcony swamped in flowers and greenery, consisted of a bedroom, a small computer office, a still smaller room for frequent guests, and a dining room that was also not ostentatious, but suitable for a small family without children— still without children, as their friends put it.
Instead of a kitchen, there was a corner in the dining room with a sink, a stove and a refrigerator separated by matte green glass through which daylight could pass. There was only room for one person in it at a time. One couldn’t really say that the young housewife worried much about this inconvenience. Even when they dined at home, which was not often, one could always order something from the nearby restaurant. They gorged at two in the morning on pita bread stuffed with grilled meat and smothered in hot sauce. They remained slender and healthy.
She could almost see Leonid’s face as he said those words—his open smile full of the unconscious, inherited air of a gentleman, placing his foot in his evening shoes with laces and thin leather soles on the small table with newspapers. They had been getting ready to go to the theater, to a modern adaptation of something ancient.
The words were not quite ancient but they were completely him. When the lights suddenly went out and then the mechanical part of the locks on the door silently yielded, and four men with automatic rifles suddenly burst into the apartment, Leonid didn’t even try to check whether the telephone was working. “It would have been pointless,” as Sonya would say.
But it was one thing to be aware that something was pointless and another not to lose one’s head. He understood in a flash that he could not escape, and provoked the leader of the four to kill him on the spot instead of torturing him according to their custom. He bluffed and won a quick death.
Walking among the white crosses, she knew only one thing: He died at peace. He knew very well that Sonya would never enter the house without first calling from outside and hearing a familiar voice from the headset, unless an absence had been agreed upon earlier. And even that familiar voice had to use certain words and could not use other words.
Leonid loved pomp. Sometimes Sonya, when she wearied of shocking her husband’s relatives with her torn jeans, made concessions to him. Not often, of course, but on that day when he didn’t answer the telephone, she had spent three hours in a hair salon patiently submitting to the hair stylist’s efforts to transform her rebellious, coarse hair into a fanciful evening style with large and small curls.
They managed to hide, all four of them, although they greeted the police, not Sonya.
Sonya found out her husband’s last words only three and a half years later. The third of the four criminals (she had not managed to catch the first two alive) began talking immediately. Having a pistol sliding over his face stimulated his memory. She believed him because everything matched—he remem
bered that Leonid had been in a white shirt with the collar up but still without a necktie; he remembered many small details that proved he was not making it up. And how could he make up something like that anyway? When he repeated the whole sentence for the third time without adding anything, Sonya pushed the gun barrel in his mouth. She was impatient lest this unworthy, subhuman creature that transmitted the words of her husband add something of his own to them.
But she did not pull the trigger right away. For a minute she saw the young face, which looked as if it were split in two: the forehead, nose and upper part of his cheeks tanned from the sun, while the lower half was all white. Not even the thick beginnings of a new beard could hide the bluish whiteness. The terrorist had shaved his mujahid beard in the hope of cheating death.
But Death was looking him in the eyes with a smile in the corner of her lips, smiling with eyes in which small fires now danced. Death had thick bangs like a little girl, her hair was gathered in a ponytail, and she was dressed in a blue denim shirt. It was pointless to scream upon feeling the salty, cold metal in his mouth, the face of Death rocked above him despite the tears, most sincere and abundant, that filled his eyes and ran down his cheeks. Don’t, don’t, don’t!
It was the last time she killed any of them with any emotion.
Before that, many days had passed. Many laborious, difficult tasks had to be done.
* * *
“Sophia, wait.” Father Demetrios decided to disturb her solitude.
She slowed her walk, stopped, fixed the scarf that had been loosened by the wind, and smiled only with her lips, but calmly.
“I wanted to talk with you,” said Father Demetrios quietly. “Not about Leonid. It’s unlikely that there is anything we could tell each other about him. As an old man, I would just like to have a little chat with you. It’s difficult in the house, so many people...”
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