Karamanlis gave up: ‘Charrier was interrogated until he revealed the names of his accomplices. We sent him to France with a travel order. He left on the 4 p.m. Air France flight yesterday.’
Bogdanos reacted angrily, nervously punching his left hand: ‘Damn it! This will set off a scandal. The French government will be up in arms; we’ll never hear the end of it.’
‘The boy won’t say a thing. He’s the first to want this story buried.’
‘What about the Italian?’
‘He’s . . . dying.’
‘An interrogation, I presume?’
Karamanlis nodded.
‘I imagined as much. Turn him over to me now. If he dies, we have to simulate an accident and invent an explanation for his relatives and the Italian press.’
‘I’m taking care of it, Admiral.’
‘Goddamn you, do as I say or you’ll have to explain all this to a military court, I swear it. I don’t trust you. I’ll take care of this matter personally.’
Karamanlis hesitated a moment: ‘Follow me, then,’ he said, walking towards the hall. They went out of a side door which led on to a little courtyard at the back of headquarters. A car with two officers aboard was just about to go through the gate.
‘Stop!’ shouted Karamanlis. The car jerked to a halt. He took the keys from the man at the wheel and opened the trunk. A tangle of bloody bodies appeared: a young man and a young woman.
‘So this is Heleni Kaloudis,’ said Bogdanos. Karamanlis was startled. He never would have imagined that the secret services were keeping him under such strict surveillance.
‘She was already half dead when she got here. She had been wounded at the Polytechnic. I tried to get her to tell us what she knew. She was already nearly dead . . .’
They suddenly heard a moan from something moving in the trunk.
‘Christ, he’s still alive. I’m holding you accountable for this, Captain. I should have you arrested. Don’t leave the station, and wait for orders from the Military Staff Office.’ The admiral turned to one of the policemen: ‘Go to the front courtyard and have my car brought round to the back, immediately.’
The officer looked at Karamanlis for approval.
‘Do as he says.’
The admiral had Claudio Setti, still unconscious, transferred to the back seat of the vehicle.
‘Bury that body,’ he ordered, indicating Heleni’s corpse curled up in the trunk, and staring at Karamanlis with disgust. ‘This whole story has been handled horribly. The army should never have dirtied their hands with it; that’s what the police are for.’
It had become dark. The car with Heleni’s body in it took off fast heading north, and the blue car holding Admiral Bogdanos followed it through traffic, taking the opposite direction at the first roundabout.
CLAUDIO WAS RACKED with pain as he regained consciousness; coloured lights whirled above him and he heard a deep, hoarse voice. How long would it be before they finished him off? He prayed it would be soon. He couldn’t imagine living with the memory of what he had seen.
‘Now turn right,’ said the voice, ‘and pull over under those trees.’ The driver did so and turned off the engine. ‘Flash your headlights twice, then switch them off.’
Claudio realized that he was inside a car, lying on the back seat, arms and legs free of constraints. There was an officer wearing a navy uniform in the front passenger’s seat. He pulled himself up slowly until he could see out of the bottom of the window. A man was approaching the car, walking quickly in the shadows of the tree-lined street. He stopped a few metres away and the street lamp lit his face. It was Ari! The custodian at the National Museum who had let them into the basement and then sent them to the doctor. Was it he who had betrayed them?
The man sitting in front opened the door and Ari came closer. Ari’s eyes filled with astonishment as he recognized him: ‘You? Holy Mother in heaven! But . . . the uniform . . .’
‘Don’t ask questions, there’s no time. The police could be here at any second. The Italian boy is safe: he’s here in the car, but he’s been beaten to a pulp . . . inside and out. See if you can do something for him. His French friend was sent back to his country, expelled. Probably with a travel order. The girl’s dead, I’m afraid. I got there too late.’ He gestured to the driver, who opened the back door and helped Claudio out.
‘You brought a car, I hope.’
Ari roused himself from the state of shock that had nearly paralysed him: ‘Yes . . . yes, there’s my car, it’s parked next to those trees.’
Claudio was transferred to the old Peugeot that had brought Periklis Harvatis to Athens just two days earlier, and lay down like a dog. He didn’t have the strength even to speak.
‘What do I have to do?’ asked Ari. ‘How can I find you if I need help?’
‘Take him far enough away that no one will recognize him.’
‘What about Professor Harvatis? The mission he entrusted me with?’
A gust of cold wind swept through the trees, strewing the ground with dead leaves. The man took a long breath and turned back towards the street as an old bus rattled by, jolting at each pothole and threatening to fall to pieces at any minute.
‘The . . . vase,’ he said, looking Ari in the eye again. ‘Is it still in the museum basement?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you haven’t said anything to anyone?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Take it away from there, now, tonight, and hide it. I’ll come to you when it is time. Now go.’
‘But please . . . tell me at least—’
‘Go, I said.’
‘But how will you find me? I don’t even know myself where I’m going.’
‘I’ll find you, don’t worry. It isn’t easy to escape me.’
Ari turned and walked towards his car. He started it up and took off.
‘Where are you bringing me?’ asked Claudio’s voice behind him.
‘Where no one can find you. And now lie back and sleep, if you can, my son.’
‘Let me die. You can’t imagine what I’ve seen . . . what I’ve suffered.’
‘You’ll resign yourself and you’ll go on living . . . to see that justice is done. Your time has not yet come, my boy, because you’ve been pulled alive from the maw of hell.’ Ari slowed down so he could turn off on to the road for Piraeus.
‘Wait,’ said Claudio. ‘Stop just a moment, please.’ Ari pulled over to the pavement and Claudio struggled to pull himself up into a sitting position. He lowered the window and leaned out to look back. Admiral Bogdanos’s blue car had vanished. At the edge of the street was a man, wearing a hat low over his eyes and wrapped in a dark coat, who was lifting his hand in the direction of the centre of the road. The old bus stopped, moaning and squeaking, to let him on. It left again, spitting out a great cloud of black dust that was instantly dispersed by the wind, now stronger and colder. Claudio rolled up the window and saw that Ari was looking back as well.
‘Who was that man who brought me here? Why did he do it?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Ari, turning the key again to start up the car. ‘I swear to you that I do not know, but I’m sure that we’ll see him again. Lie down now, we’ve got a long road ahead of us.’
Claudio curled up on the seat, pressing his knees against his cramp-ridden stomach. He suffocated his desperation and rage, his inconsolable pain, his infinite solitude, hands stuffed hard against his mouth.
An hour or two passed, or maybe just a few minutes, he couldn’t say: the car stopped and Ari came round to open the door and help him out.
‘We’re here, son. Come on, lean on me.’
THE RING OF the telephone interrupted the dark thoughts of Captain Karamanlis, who was sitting in his office in front of a barely nibbled sandwich and a glass of water. He lifted the receiver: ‘Central police headquarters, who is this?’
‘This is Dr Psarros from the municipal hospital of Kifissìa. I have a suspicious case to report.’
‘Captain Karamanlis here. Go ahead.’
‘Saturday night, a dying man was brought in. Periklis Harvatis, inspector of the Central Antiquities and Fine Arts Service, according to the ID in his pocket. He didn’t pull through, despite our efforts; time of death approximately one hour after admittance. The man who brought him into the hospital came back some time later and asked to see him. He was acting so strangely that I notified the district police, but by the time an officer got to the hospital he had disappeared without a trace. We were unable to ascertain under what circumstances the patient was reduced to such a precarious state.’
‘The man who brought him in – do you know who he was?’
‘The name he left at the front desk was Aristotelis Malidis, but it may have been a cover.’
‘Were you able to certify the cause of death?’
‘Cardiac arrest. We’ve asked for permission to perform an autopsy, but given the current situation, the medical examiner has been busy elsewhere.’
Karamanlis wrote down the name in a notebook. ‘Malidis, you said. I’ll see what I can find out about him. I’ll call you back if I need more information. But why not the Kifissìa district police?’
‘I don’t imagine they’ll be able to take the case. The chief of police is being investigated for his position regarding the . . . evacuation of the Polytechnic. That’s why I’ve called you.’
‘You did the right thing, Doctor. Thank you. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight to you, Captain.’
Karamanlis buzzed the switchboard immediately. ‘Get me the Head of the Antiquities and Fine Arts Service. It’s at Kleomenis Ikonomou.’
‘Captain, the offices will have closed hours ago.’
‘Then look for him at home, dammit! Get his name from the Minister of Education. Do I have to tell you how to blow your nose?’
‘But there won’t be anyone left at the Ministry of Education except for custodians.’
‘Get the director-general out of bed, dammit, and see what he knows about an inspector named Harvatis. Yeah, that’s right, Periklis Harvatis. And a guy named Aristotelis Malidis. No, I have no idea whether he worked for them. That’s it, good boy. Call me back when you’ve found out something.’
Karamanlis grabbed his sandwich and started chewing again in no better a mood, downing it with a little mineral water. He felt somehow that this weird story might get him out of some trouble. Goddamned meddler, that Bogdanos, and dangerous to boot. He wanted to find out more about him, discreetly, as soon as this mess blew over. He had some friends at the Ministry of Defence. The telephone rang again: ‘Well, what did you find out?’
‘No, nothing yet, Captain. I’m calling about something else. There’s a young man here, a foreigner, who insists in speaking with the headquarters chief. He says it’s urgent and extremely important.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘He says it’s Norman Shields.’
‘Shields, you said? S-H-I-E-L-D-S?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Let him through. I’ll see him immediately.’
‘FOLLOW ME, MR SHIELDS. Colonel Norton is waiting for you in his office.’ The official led him down the deserted halls of the United States embassy until they reached a door marked ‘Cultural Attaché’. He knocked.
‘Come in!’ said a voice from inside.
‘Mr James Henry Shields for you, Colonel.’
‘Come right in, Shields, sit down. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again. So, how did things go?’
‘Goddamn it, Colonel, this was not our agreement! You’ve cornered me into a horrible position. I won’t have it. There’s a limit to everything – certain principles must be respected, blast it. We are not criminals. How could you ever have thought of working with that swine Karamanlis!’
Colonel Norton abruptly changed the cordial expression with which he had welcomed his guest. ‘Shields. Careful what you say or I’ll have my men throw you out of here, no questions asked. You agreed to collaborate with us, and we needed certain information. If you have that information, you can give it to me and get the fuck out of here. I’m sick of your whining. If you don’t like this job, go join the boy scouts and stop exasperating me.’
Shields regained his customary composure: ‘Fine, Colonel, then you’d like to know how things went? First of all, Karamanlis got absolutely nowhere and knows as much now as he did before. In return, he committed such a monstrosity that if it leaks we are all fucked to hell, you and me included. And now I hope you have the balls to listen to what happened, because I threw up my guts before coming here to make this report.’
Norton lowered his gaze, embarrassed and at a loss to imagine what had so disturbed a man like James Henry Shields, former SAS officer and British Intelligence agent, detached to Greece during the civil war and later to Vietnam and Cambodia during the worst years of guerrilla warfare.
‘I’M CAPTAIN KARAMANLIS. Please sit down. What can I do for you?’
Norman Shields’s eyes were puffy and rimmed with black circles, as if he hadn’t slept in days. The shirt he was wearing was filthy at the collar and cuffs and his trousers were crumpled and baggy at the knees. He had a hard time talking, as if his search for just the right words was a hopeless endeavour.
‘Captain, sir,’ he said, ‘listen to me well, because I’m offering you the chance to become fabulously rich in just one hour’s time.’
Karamanlis glanced up with a quizzical expression, as though he doubted that the person he had before him was in his right mind. Norman read his thoughts.
‘I can prove what I’m about to say. You can check on it while I wait here.’
‘And what have I done to deserve such a magnificent opportunity?’
Norman continued his speech as though he’d rehearsed it, paying no attention to Karamanlis. ‘Saturday night a priceless Mycenaean vase of pure gold was hidden in a secret place here in Athens. The object does not appear in any publication, and no one knows of its existence. It was certainly unearthed during a recent excavation, but that’s all I can say.’
Karamanlis was suddenly intent: ‘Continue. I’m listening.’
‘Free my friends – Claudio Setti, Heleni Kaloudis and Michel Charrier as well, if he’s here – and I’ll tell you where you can find it. You can remove it easily from where it is, and I’ll arrange to get it to Sotheby’s in London for you. You can make a million dollars. Seems like a fair exchange.’
Karamanlis started at the mention of such a sum, but assumed his best expression of honest civil servant, although his unshaven beard and bristly moustache must have hinted at his unsettled state of mind. ‘I will ignore the implications of what you have just said, for the moment. What does interest me is turning this archaeological treasure which belongs to the past of our country over to the Antiquities and Fine Arts Service. As far as your friends are concerned, I do not have the power to liberate anyone, especially anyone who still has to account to the law, but if I remember well,’ he continued, pretending to consult a file, ‘they were brought in for a simple check, and I’m sure they’ll be released quite soon.’
‘I want them out now or I won’t tell you a thing.’
‘Watch what you say; I could have you arrested.’
‘Just you try. The British embassy knows I’m here,’ Norman lied. ‘My father is in charge of diplomatic affairs.’
‘The only thing I can guarantee is that we will cut through the red tape and have them out by, let’s say, tomorrow. Naturally, if you refuse to give me the information you are in possession of, I may be forced to prolong the term of precautionary imprisonment . . .’
‘You’re mistaken if you think I’ll give you any information without precise guarantees.’
‘I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to trust me. You tell me where that object is and tomorrow morning you’ll see your friends. I can guarantee it.’
‘Tomorrow morning?’
‘That’s right.’
‘The vase is a
t the National Archaeological Museum.’
‘What a good hiding place. You see, in this case your problems are solved. The museum is protected by an alarm system and no one can get in until tomorrow morning. If you don’t see your friends by then, you can advise the director and have him take the vase, if you have qualms about me.’
‘Then I’ll tell you where it is tomorrow morning.’
‘Impossible. I’ll be leaving the city for several days. You have to tell me now.’
‘All right. But don’t you dare try to screw me, or I’ll find a way to make you pay for it.’
Karamanlis didn’t reply to his provocation.
‘The vase is hidden in the corner cabinet of the storehouse, the second door on the left of the basement corridor. It’s in a drum of sawdust. Remember, Karamanlis, that if you don’t keep up your end of the deal, you’ll be sorry.’ He got up and went to the door.
‘I don’t believe a word of your intentions to turn it over to the Fine Arts,’ he said before leaving. ‘In any case, I’ll keep my promise. If you let my friends out I’ll arrange for you to sell the piece and make the amount I’ve mentioned. If you want to handle it yourself, I have nothing against that. I’ll be around for a few days; you can find me at the British school of archaeology. After that I’m leaving, and I’ll never set foot in this wretched country again.’
He raced out to the street, stopped the first taxi he saw and jumped in.
‘Where to?’ asked the driver. Norman gave him his address and, as the cab took off, looked back towards police headquarters. He imagined his friends being held prisoner in some dark corner of that gloomy building. If he’d played his cards right, their suffering would soon be over. And yet a doubt began to take seed, becoming more of a conviction with each passing hour. How could the police have got wind of Claudio’s apartment in the Plaka, when no one but he knew they were there? And what had happened to Michel? There was only one explanation for his disappearance. The police had arrested him and forced him to talk. Poor Michel.