Darcy said: 'Watch him!' and hurried back inside. A moment later he was back with a heavy, razor-honed, long-bladed cleaver, also from Harry's suitcase. Manolis saw its silvery gleam and said:

'What?' His upper lip at the left drew back from his teeth in a nervous grimace.

'The stake, the sword, and the fire!' Darcy answered.

'Decapitation?'

'And right now. His vampire is already healing him. See, no blood. In an ordinary man your bullets - any one of them - might have killed him with shock, let alone damage. But he's taken six and he isn't even bleeding! Two bolts in him, one right through the heart, and his hands are still working. His eyes, too... and his ears!'

He was right: Armstrong had heard their conversation, and the loathsome orb of his left eye had swivelled to gaze upon the cleaver in Darcy's hand. He began gurgling anew, his body vibrating against the earth, the heel of his right foot hammering robotically into the dry soil of the garden.

Darcy got down on one knee beside him and Armstrong tried to take hold of him with a spastic right hand. But he couldn't reach him, couldn't make his limbs work properly. Froth, phlegm and blood welled up in the vampire's throat. His right hand scuttled a little way towards Darcy like a spider, until the arm it dragged got too heavy for it. He tried a third time, then abruptly fell back and lay still.

Darcy gritted his teeth, raised the cleaver -- And the membrane in the back of the cavity of Armstrong's right eye bulged and erupted, and a finger, blue-grey and pulsating, wriggled out onto his cheek!

'Jesus!' Darcy fell back, almost fainted, and Manolis took over. He fired at Armstrong's face, pulling the trigger of his silenced gun until the nightmare finger and face both were so much pulp. And when his magazine was empty, then he took the cleaver from Darcy's rigid fingers, and took Armstrong's head, too.

Darcy had turned away and was throwing up, but between each bout he gasped, 'Now we ... we have to burn the ... the ugly bastard!'

Manolis was up to that, too. The lamps in the villa weren't just ornamental after all. They contained oil, and there was a spare can of fuel in the kitchen. By the time Darcy could take control of his heaving stomach, the remains of Armstrong were burning. Manolis stood watching, until Darcy got hold of his arm and took him off to a safe distance.

'You can never tell,' he said, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. 'There might be a lot more in him than just that godawful finger!'

But there wasn't...

'I hope you didn't leave it like that,' said Harry. 'The oil couldn't have burned all of him.'

'Manolis got a body-bag,' Darcy explained. 'We took him to an incinerator in the industrial part of town. Said he was a mangy dog that crawled into the garden to die.'

'The heat of that incinerator would calcine his bones down to powder,' Manolis added.

'So, we took second blood!' Harry growled, but with such uncharacteristic savagery that the others glanced at him in surprise. He saw their looks and turned his face away. But not before Darcy noted that his eyes were more soulful - or soulless - than ever. And of course he knew why.

'Harry, about Sandra,' he started to explain yet again.

But Harry cut him off. 'It wasn't your fault,' he said. 'If anyone's it was my fault. I should have made sure personally that she was out of this. But we can't think about her now, and I mustn't think about her - not if I want to be able to think about anything else. Manolis, did the information you were waiting for come in?'

'A great deal of information,' said the other. 'Almost everything, except that which is the most important.'

Manolis was driving his car, with Harry and Darcy in the back seat. They were approaching the centre of Rhodes New Town where Manolis was quartered. It wasn't yet 6:00 p.m. but already some tourists were out in their evening finery. 'Look at them,' said Harry, his voice cold. "They're happy; they laugh and dress up; they've had a blue sky all day and a blue sea to swim in, and the world looks fine. They don't know there are scarlet threads among all that blue. And they wouldn't believe it if you told them.' And to Manolis, abruptly: 'Tell me everything you've learned.'

'Lazarides is a very successful archaeologist,' Manolis began. 'He came into prominence, oh, four years ago, with several important finds on Crete, Lesbos and Skiros. Before that... we don't have much on him. But he does have Greek nationality, and Romanian! This is very odd, if not unique. The authorities in Athens are looking into it, but -' he shrugged,' - this is Greece. Everything takes time. And this Lazarides, he has the friends in high places. Perhaps he purchased his nationality, eh? Certainly he would have the monies for it if the rumours are correct. Rumours? They abound! It is said that he keeps - or sells to unscrupulous collectors - at least half of the treasures he excavates; also that he is the - how do you say? - the Midas! Everything he touches turns to gold. He only has to look at an island to know if any treasure is hidden there. Why, even now men of his are digging in an old Crusader castle on Halki!'

Harry nodded. 'I understand all of that, and I'll tell you about it later. Go on.'

Manolis turned left off a busy street into an alley, then left again into a tiny private car park behind his hotel. 'We'll talk inside,' he said.

He had good spacious rooms; apparently the proprietor owed the local police a few favours, and Manolis was collecting; as he talked he prepared cool drinks, but low in alcohol. For a Greek he was sweating profusely. Darcy mentioned it and again Manolis shrugged.

'I am the criminals,' he explained. 'Pardon: a criminal. I am a murderer, and it concerns me.'

'Armstrong?' said Harry. 'You never performed a more worthy act in your entire life!'

'Still, I did it, and I am hiding it, and it bothers me.'

'Forget it!' Harry insisted. 'You may be doing it again, and sooner than you think. Tell me more about Lazarides.'

Manolis nodded. 'He is purchasing an island. Well, a rock, in the Dodecanese off Sirna. Amazing! I mean, what is that for an island? One small beach and a fang of rock jutting from the sea? But he plans a house there, on a great ledge on the rock. Again, there was once a Crusader tower there, a pharos. What he will do there is anybody's guesses. There is no water; everything will have to be brought in by boat; he will be one very lonely creature up there!'

'An aerie,' said Harry, 'or the next best thing. He still desires to be Wamphyri!'

'Eh?'

'Forget it. Goon.'

Again Manolis's shrug. 'He keeps a small private aeroplane, a Skyvan, on Karpathos. There is a runway there now. He uses the plane for trips to Athens, Crete, elsewhere. Maybe even to Romania, eh? Which means that sometimes his boat may be found off Karpathos. Don't worry, I have a man on it. Every day tourists fly out to Karpathos from Rhodes. They, too, use a Skyvan. It is the flying matchbox! But very, very safe. The pilot will look for Lazarides's boat. I expect his call any time...'

'Anything else?' Harry was still very cool, very pale. He didn't seem to have been touched by the sun.

'About Armstrong,' said Manolis. 'Five and a half years ago he and some American friends went on a trip somewhere in Europe... that's all I know about it, somewhere in Europe. There was an accident, a fall in the mountains or some such, and some people were killed. Armstrong survived but he didn't go back to America. Instead he ended up here, in Greece, and applied for the Greek citizenship. The next thing we know, he's working for Lazarides.'

'And that's it?' Harry's gaunt, almost vacant expression hadn't changed.

That's it,' said Manolis. And: 'Oh, one other thing. I now have the authorization to chase this Vrykoulakas dog to hell, if I can find him!'