Read Online The Oracle by Valerio Massimo Manfredi - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Valerio Massimo Manfredi
Ads: Link
morning. His black hair and beard were streaked with white, his dark skin furrowed by deep wrinkles. He looked to be about fifty, more or less.
‘But you aren’t Stàvros Kouras,’ said Ari uncertainly.
‘Sit down,’ said the man, as if giving an order which could not be disobeyed. Ari did, and the man took a long drag on his cigarette.
‘Now listen,’ he said. ‘There’s no time to waste. Stàvros Kouras doesn’t exist; it’s only a name. That letter was written by Periklis Harvatis, wasn’t it?’
Ari felt a knot in his throat. ‘Periklis Harvatis is dead,’ he said.
The man fell silent for a few moments, without betraying any emotion.
‘Was he your friend? Did you know him?’ insisted Ari.
The man lowered his gaze: ‘We were working on a project together . . . an important project. That’s why you absolutely have to give me that letter. I must read it.’
Ari took it out of his pocket and looked deeply into the stranger’s eyes. ‘But who are you?’ It was difficult to meet his gaze for any length of time.
‘I’m the man that letter is meant for. If that weren’t the case, why would you have found me at that address, at that very moment? And how would I know who had written it? Give it to me. It’s the one thing you have left to do.’ He spoke as if saying obvious, unquestionable truths. Ari held it out. The man took it, practically tearing it from him. He opened it, ripping the envelope, and read it rapidly. Ari watched his forehead under the brim of the hat. Not a quiver. No emotion, smooth as stone.
‘Harvatis brought something with him. You know what I’m speaking about. Where is it?’
‘Locked up, in the basement of the National Archaeological Museum.’
‘Did you . . . see it?’
‘Yes.’
‘No one else?’
Ari felt embarrassed, as if he had to justify his actions to this man whose name he didn’t even know.
‘A few young people saw it . . . university students who . . .’ The man stiffened, and a flash of rage darkened his features. ‘Oh, mother of God, you know what happened last night, don’t you? You were out, I saw you. They were students escaping from the Polytechnic. There was a girl, she was wounded . . . I know them, nearly all of them. They’re students from the foreign archaeology schools. What else could I do? The storehouse in the basement was the only safe place. Then what happened was that . . .’
‘Where are they now?’
‘I don’t know. I gave them an address of a doctor who was willing to treat the girl without reporting her to the police. I don’t know anything else, I haven’t heard from them.’
‘Then the police have them. They’ve surely been caught.’ He got up, leaving a twenty-drachma coin on the table. ‘Who are they? Tell me who they are.’
‘Why, what do you want to do?’
‘If you don’t tell me who they are, they have no hope.’
‘The one I know best is Michel Charrier, a boy studying at the French school of archaeology. The other two are called Claudio Setti and Norman . . . something. The wounded girl’s name is Heleni Kaloudis. That’s all I know.’
The man nodded and walked towards the exit.
‘Wait, tell me your name at least, how can I get in touch with you again? . . .’ Ari followed him, pushing at the glass door that had already closed behind him, and walked out onto the pavement. The trucks passing were full of soldiers and screaming sirens tore through every corner of the city.
The man had disappeared.
4
Athens, police headquarters, 18 November, 7.30 a.m.
S ERGEANT V LASSOS WALKED up the hall with short, rapid steps, sticking the toe of his foot forward and moving his small, fat hands rhythmically over his hips. He was heavy and thickset and his shirt looked as if it was about to tear over the huge, hard belly which protruded well over his belt. He wore his hair very short to disguise his incipient baldness, but he always had a two-day-old beard, black and stiff on his milk-white
‘But you aren’t Stàvros Kouras,’ said Ari uncertainly.
‘Sit down,’ said the man, as if giving an order which could not be disobeyed. Ari did, and the man took a long drag on his cigarette.
‘Now listen,’ he said. ‘There’s no time to waste. Stàvros Kouras doesn’t exist; it’s only a name. That letter was written by Periklis Harvatis, wasn’t it?’
Ari felt a knot in his throat. ‘Periklis Harvatis is dead,’ he said.
The man fell silent for a few moments, without betraying any emotion.
‘Was he your friend? Did you know him?’ insisted Ari.
The man lowered his gaze: ‘We were working on a project together . . . an important project. That’s why you absolutely have to give me that letter. I must read it.’
Ari took it out of his pocket and looked deeply into the stranger’s eyes. ‘But who are you?’ It was difficult to meet his gaze for any length of time.
‘I’m the man that letter is meant for. If that weren’t the case, why would you have found me at that address, at that very moment? And how would I know who had written it? Give it to me. It’s the one thing you have left to do.’ He spoke as if saying obvious, unquestionable truths. Ari held it out. The man took it, practically tearing it from him. He opened it, ripping the envelope, and read it rapidly. Ari watched his forehead under the brim of the hat. Not a quiver. No emotion, smooth as stone.
‘Harvatis brought something with him. You know what I’m speaking about. Where is it?’
‘Locked up, in the basement of the National Archaeological Museum.’
‘Did you . . . see it?’
‘Yes.’
‘No one else?’
Ari felt embarrassed, as if he had to justify his actions to this man whose name he didn’t even know.
‘A few young people saw it . . . university students who . . .’ The man stiffened, and a flash of rage darkened his features. ‘Oh, mother of God, you know what happened last night, don’t you? You were out, I saw you. They were students escaping from the Polytechnic. There was a girl, she was wounded . . . I know them, nearly all of them. They’re students from the foreign archaeology schools. What else could I do? The storehouse in the basement was the only safe place. Then what happened was that . . .’
‘Where are they now?’
‘I don’t know. I gave them an address of a doctor who was willing to treat the girl without reporting her to the police. I don’t know anything else, I haven’t heard from them.’
‘Then the police have them. They’ve surely been caught.’ He got up, leaving a twenty-drachma coin on the table. ‘Who are they? Tell me who they are.’
‘Why, what do you want to do?’
‘If you don’t tell me who they are, they have no hope.’
‘The one I know best is Michel Charrier, a boy studying at the French school of archaeology. The other two are called Claudio Setti and Norman . . . something. The wounded girl’s name is Heleni Kaloudis. That’s all I know.’
The man nodded and walked towards the exit.
‘Wait, tell me your name at least, how can I get in touch with you again? . . .’ Ari followed him, pushing at the glass door that had already closed behind him, and walked out onto the pavement. The trucks passing were full of soldiers and screaming sirens tore through every corner of the city.
The man had disappeared.
4
Athens, police headquarters, 18 November, 7.30 a.m.
S ERGEANT V LASSOS WALKED up the hall with short, rapid steps, sticking the toe of his foot forward and moving his small, fat hands rhythmically over his hips. He was heavy and thickset and his shirt looked as if it was about to tear over the huge, hard belly which protruded well over his belt. He wore his hair very short to disguise his incipient baldness, but he always had a two-day-old beard, black and stiff on his milk-white
Similar Books
