How could that be? He had just dropped down into the sewers through a manhole – Karamanlis had heard his steps underground. And yet in her heart she felt sure it was him. She walked quickly around the block, passing just a few metres from Karamanlis’s men, still crowded around the sewer hole. The shutter of number 17 was still locked, but light glowed faintly from the basement of the next door down. The sign above it said ‘Artopoleion’, and the delicious smell of warm bread meant that the baker had begun his long night’s work.
She spotted the man opposite her, walking in her direction. She measured her pace so that they crossed paths under the street light, and she looked up into his face: it was him, without a doubt. She sniffed him in passing – if he’d been in the sewers she’d definitely be able to perceive the stench.
He smelled like bread. Fresh bread right out of the oven. She couldn’t understand it. She stopped at the first intersection and turned around. He was about thirty metres away, and was entering a phone booth.
THE TELEPHONE BEGAN ringing in Ari’s house, but he made no move to answer it.
‘I don’t understand what you’re saying,’ said Michel, starting at the noise, ‘but if he’s alive, I’ll find him and I’ll make him listen to me. He’ll have to listen to me.’
The telephone rang five times, fell silent and then started up again. Michel looked at Ari expectantly, then looked back at the phone on the table. The ringing filled up the bare little room with an intolerable anxiety, until Ari suddenly put his hand down on the receiver. The ringing stopped and then started again. Four times.
The old man didn’t say a word, as if he were listening intently, then said: ‘There are places and times and even people for whom the words “life” or “death” do not have the meaning we are accustomed to . . . the final hour has come. I beg you, my son, leave. Go home. I shouldn’t be the one who has to tell you, but I’m telling you. Go home while you’re still in time to save yourself, please! Oh, Holy Mother of God, wouldn’t it have been nice to get together for a glass of ouzo, a song . . . it would have been nice. Oh, Dear Mother of God. Leave now, my boy, go away.’
‘The day after tomorrow at Canakkale . . . there’s not much time.’ Michel got up, opened the door and clutched his raincoat close as he was hit by a strong gust of rain. The sound of the flute had stopped, and the last light in Tassos’s tavern had been turned off.
MIREILLE OBSERVED HIM carefully and had the impression that the man had not said a word into the telephone. Maybe there was no one there on the other side of the line. Or maybe he was sending some sort of signal. What could it be? And how could he have escaped their trap? He smelled like bread. The bakery! The light coming from the basement apartment next to number 17 – he must have gone through there and come up on the other side of the street. She remembered that little gesture, his hand rapidly passing over the gutter above the door. She went back to the house and approached the little door in the enclosure wall, but a sudden shuffling and a deep growl reminded her that there was a guard on duty.
She backed off to take a better look at the door the man had come out of, and noticed that the roof of the building was topped by a little attic that could easily by reached by climbing up a thick wisteria trunk in front of the next house over: the wisteria formed a trellis above the attic. The wind was even blowing in that direction; with any luck, the dog wouldn’t smell her.
She was frightened and had a strong impulse to flee, to go back to the hotel and wait for Michel. But she was also keenly aware that she had to do this for him; nothing had ever been so necessary in her whole lifetime.
She scrambled up the trunk without much difficulty. Every so often she’d feel a sparrow flitting away through her fingers; they’d chosen the boughs for their evening shelter. The beating of the small frightened wings vanished instantly into the dark.
She reached the attic, covered with dry leaves, and dropped to the rooftop of the neighbouring house, crawling over the tiles until she reached the door. She stretched her hand into the rain gutter and felt around until she came up with a Yale key. The key to enter the secret refuge of that enigmatic man. Maybe she’d be able to uncover the mystery of that mask, and of the light which filtered from under the closed shutter of number 17 Dionysìou Street late at night.
She had to figure out where the dog was. As soon as she dropped down on to the landing, she knew he would leap at her. She had to manage to open the door and close it again as quickly as possible. But where was the dog? She waited with an ever more rapidly beating heart, aching to hear him move so that she could calculate how far away from the door he was. Was he down in the garden, or already on the stairs? But not a sound was to be heard: he was absolutely still and hidden somewhere in the garden, ready to spring, no doubt.
She waited a bit longer: she had no intention of being torn to scraps just to satisfy her curiosity. She heard a low mewing and saw the dark shadow of a cat standing out on the top of the enclosure wall. Finally! He’d have to come out now. The cat continued its slow prowl, but nothing happened. It stopped and hesitated, wiggling its front paw into the emptiness, then jumped into the garden. Again, no response from the dog. It seemed that the guardian knew that the intruder was elsewhere, and was waiting for her, immobile, on the threshold.
Mireille decided that she had to try anyway. If she left without trying, she’d never be able to forgive herself. She considered how best to drop on to the landing without making any noise, keeping the key in her hand so she wouldn’t have to fumble around in her pocket for it. She ardently hoped that she’d have enough time to slip it into the keyhole and turn it before the dog went wild. She took a deep breath and lowered herself, feeling for the landing with her toe. She dropped down without making a sound. She was in the doorway, lit by the lamp above the door. Anyone could see her, as she had seen the man when he stepped out.
She looked for the keyhole and feverishly tried to insert the key. It wouldn’t go in. She reversed it and was finally able to turn it; with a sharp click, the door opened. Mireille stopped a second, straining for any sound in the darkness.
She was lucky: total silence. She pushed the door open slowly so it wouldn’t creak, slipped into the opening and turned to close it behind her when a sudden furious barking froze her in terror. The dog had catapulted from the top of the stairs and was bent on keeping the door open with claws and teeth. Mireille pushed with all her might, but the dog had nearly got his head through the jamb and was struggling to get his body through as well. His frenzied barking echoed in the closed room with endless, overwhelming energy. Mireille had her back against the door and her feet propped firmly on the floor, but she realized that her strength could not hold out any longer than a few more seconds.
Amidst her confusion and terror, she remembered that she had a can of spray deodorant in her inside jacket pocket. She felt for it and found it. Keeping her feet firmly planted, she turned and sprayed its contents into the dog’s face. Suddenly blinded, he pulled back and Mireille pushed the door shut. A moment later he began his attack again with even greater fury, hurling himself against the door so it felt like the whole wall was shaking. Mireille quickly ran down what seemed to be a dark hall, then crossed a room and started down some stairs. The dog’s barking seemed slightly allayed, fading into a low, distant growling.
She found a switch and turned on the light. She was inside, finally, but inside what? She walked between two white, completely bare walls and found herself in front of another door. She figured that she must be at ground level and opened it on to another room, not very big but beautifully furnished. In the corner, on an easel, was an unfinished portrait of a woman: she appeared to be an actress dressed in a costume from a classical theatre piece. She was quite lovely, with an aristocratic, intense beauty, reminding her a bit of Irene Papas. On the wall was the photo of a bare-chested young man, no older than thirty, drawing a double-pulleyed bow. The youth was lean and muscular, with the sun at his shoulders illuminating his left arm. A di
agonal beam struck his eye, concentrated on its target, creating a sinister flash. That dark glaring eye seemed to be intent on delivering implacable justice.
There were no windows in the room, nor were there any in the hall preceding it. She caught her breath in fright and tension. What would she do if the owner of this strange refuge suddenly appeared? She walked towards the door at the end of the room and was about to turn the handle when she pulled back her hand, her heart skipping a beat: agitated steps sounded in the next room.
She wheeled around, desperately seeking shelter, somewhere to hide. Nothing. She couldn’t leave the way she came or the dog would tear her to shreds. There was no way out.
‘THAT WAY, CAPTAIN, he went that way. I can hear his footsteps. We’ve got him now. Hurry, Captain!’
Karamanlis ran panting towards the beam of the torch which one of his men was using to illuminate the walkway alongside the sewer’s trunk line.
‘Did you see him?’ he asked, leaning back against the dripping wall.
‘No, Captain, but I could hear him.’
‘I don’t hear anything.’
‘No, really, Captain
‘He’s duped us again. That son of a bitch has got away.’ All at once he heard the sound of footsteps in the distance, accelerating into a run.
‘You are right, dammit, it’s coming from that way. Come on! Get moving and catch him for me, goddamn you, I’m out of breath.’
The policeman and his companion ran off in the direction of the noise but soon came up short against a solid wall. They looked each other in the face, astonished, and turned back in the direction they’d come from. The silence was total under the mould-encrusted vaults, but not a minute passed before they heard the footsteps again, nice and slow this time, as if whoever it was was perfectly at home in that stinking underground maze, indifferently touring his realm.
MIREILLE WAS CROUCHING in the only concealed corner, behind a couch, but her hiding place offered her no security. Once those footsteps reached the threshold and the door was opened, how long would she be able to remain hidden? A minute? Two? But there was something strange in the pace of those steps. They slowed down, stopped, quickened, but never got any closer.
Mireille plucked up her courage and went to the door. She clutched the handle and opened it just a crack. On the other side were a few descending steps and another rather small room, faintly lit by a hanging bulb and by what seemed to be the flashing lights of an electronic control panel. Suddenly she could hear the steps again, but there was obviously no one in that small space.
She opened the door wide and walked down the stairs. The electronic console in front of her stretched along the far wall. The display showed a glowing layout that looked like a network of streets, or a railroad or subway. At a point at which a lateral pathway cut away from the main trunk she could see a pulsating red light moving along at the same rate as the footsteps she was still hearing. A trick. A computerized illusion. But what was the point?
There were some switches at the lower left. She impulsively flipped the first one and a voice made her start with fright: ‘Stop! Stop, you imbeciles. Can’t you see that we’re running around like idiots in this shit, in pursuit of no one at all!?’
‘But Captain, you heard the footsteps yourself . . .’
‘Yeah, and we’re still hearing footsteps. And where are they coming from? From over there, where we just were. And the only way to over there is from over here. Did you see anyone pass by? It’s a trick, dammit, a dirty, fucking trick.’
My God, it was Karamanlis! And his voice resounded as if he were standing under a vault. So he must still be in the sewers, and this machinery must be able to identify his position – perhaps from his voice or his own footsteps or those of his men – and program acoustic traps to lure them here and there down the sewer lines, in senseless pursuit of a ghost!
Mireille flipped the switch again and the voices ceased. Good God, what kind of mind could think up such a devilish defence? And how many more were there behind the closed shutter on Dionysìou Street?
She walked into the next room and found herself in another passageway intensely permeated with the smell of freshly baked bread. She raised her eyes to the ceiling and saw that there were air vents evidently somehow in communication with the oven of the basement bakery at number 15. So number 17 must be more or less directly above her. And that was where the booklet that had robbed Michel of his sleep had been printed: ‘Hypothesis on the necromantic rite in the Odyssey, Book XI’.
There was a little wooden ladder at the end of the hall which gave access to a closed hatch in the ceiling. She approached and began to go up. As she got closer and closer to the hatch, she felt a distressful feeling of oppression and suffocation gripping her at the throat, as if she were entering the gates of hell.
CAPTAIN KARAMANLIS CONSIDERED the ladder leading back up to the surface and said to his men: ‘If I’m not mistaken, that’ll lead me right up to where my car is parked. You can go back to where we came in and get the hell out of here. Whoever is still on duty, go back to the station and resume your normal patrol. No reports and no talk about any of this, obviously.’
‘Yes, sir, Captain.’
Karamanlis went up the slippery, rusty iron ladder to the manhole, holding a lit torch in his hand. He pushed open the cover and stuck his head out, then hoisted up his body. He closed up the manhole again and switched off his torch. He had always had an excellent sense of direction: his car was parked fifty metres down the street, on the left. He strode towards it and inserted his key in the lock. Right at that moment, his old policeman’s sixth sense gave him the distinct impression that someone was behind him. A moment later, a voice that he would have never dreamed of hearing at that time and in that place confirmed that he hadn’t been wrong.
‘Hello, Captain Karamanlis.’ Karamanlis spun around, pale with surprise and fatigue.
‘So it’s Admiral Bogdanos himself. Fine. And the game is over.’ He was breathing hard. ‘You’ll follow me now to headquarters. I have some questions for you. And I’d like to see an ID.’
‘Don’t be an idiot. I’m here to save your life. Claudio Setti is alive.’
‘If that’s all you have to tell me, you can follow me to the police station. We can talk much more comfortably there.’
‘Claudio Setti is preparing to kill you and that awful beast that I’ve already saved once from sure death. He’s also prepared a fully documented report regarding the murder of Heleni Kaloudis and will be sending it to the Attorney-General. In the best of all hypotheses, you’ll spend the rest of your years rotting away in prison, and your friend will be quartered like a hog and hung up by the hocks. But he may well have the same fate in mind for you as well . . . the boy is unpredictable, you know.’
‘I don’t believe a word of what you’re saying. You are an impostor.’
‘Then look at this photograph. It was taken in Istanbul eight days ago. Take a look at the poster behind him advertising the Turkey–Spain game.’ Karamanlis looked at the picture – it was undoubtedly Claudio Setti, on a city street in Turkey. ‘Right now he’s in Greece. Under a false name.’
‘Where?’
‘At Ephira.’
‘Ephira.’ Karamanlis suddenly remembered the hoarse, taunting voice that he’d heard coming from the mouth of the kallikàntharos on Mount Peristeri.
‘That’s where you want me, isn’t it? Why? Why in that shithole of a place? Why can’t we just get it all over with here in Athens? There are plenty of nice places here in Athens . . .’
‘Stop this foolishness. Setti is in Ephira because he has a friend there, Aristotelis Malidis. I think he’s been helping him and protecting Setti all these years. But he won’t stay there long, if my information is correct. If we don’t succeed in hooking him now, we never will. And if we lose him, you’ll find him on your back. When you least expect it. He’s capable of lying low for years and then of striking out when everyone’s forgotten about him. Just
think of Roussos and Karagheorghis. Of that night in Portolagos.’
Karamanlis seemed shaken, despite himself: ‘But why would you do all this? You are not Admiral Bogdanos. Admiral Bogdanos lies in his family tomb in Volos. I don’t even know who you are.’
‘It’s better that you continue not to know, for the time being at least. In any case, you may not know who is actually buried in that tomb in Volos.’
‘You can’t make me believe that the man buried in the cemetery in Volos is the real impostor.’
‘I’ve given you all the information you need. I’m serving a man up into your very hands. Let’s hope you don’t let him get away again this time. And when this whole lamentable situation is over with, it won’t matter who I am anyway. You have to neutralize that young man as fast as you can, and then you’ll have all the explanations you want. These orders are coming from above, if the matter interests you.’
‘Won’t you sit in the car with me for a minute, Mr . . . I don’t know what to call you. I’m exhausted.’
‘According to the new documents my superiors have given me, I am now Commander Dimitrios Ritzos, Frigate Captain.’ He handed Karamanlis a regular navy identity card, perfectly in order. ‘A navy officer, once again. Why don’t you just call me “Commander”? It’s easier, less formal. I’m sorry, but I’d rather not get into the car. You stink, Karamanlis.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You see, Karamanlis, they used to call me “Commander” around Kastritza during the civil war, when I was fighting against General Tsolaglu’s security men.’
‘Kastritza. We were on opposite sides, then. “Commander”, huh? Wait, I remember hearing about you . . .’
‘Forget about it, Karamanlis. Water under the bridge. Now the good of our country demands that we cooperate. In any case, there’s not much more to say. Take Vlassos with you. He’s the perfect lure. Setti will lose control as soon as he sees him in circulation and he’s bound to commit some error.’