‘Ask him again.’

Mikis went through the process of asking Mavros in halting English for the name of the man whose writings had led him to visit Kornaria.

‘Waggoner,’ Mavros said.

‘O Lambis,’ hissed the bearded man to his sidekick.

Mavros presumed that was the cover-name Waggoner had used when he was on Crete during the war. He cursed himself for not asking the Fat Man to do those searches overnight. Outwitting Oskar Mesner had distracted him from the main case.

He nodded. ‘Lambis, that’s right,’ he said, in English.

There was a hurried conversation between the men in the first pickup and another who had come up from the one behind the Jeep.

‘All right,’ the bearded man said to Mikis. ‘You can go up to the village.’ He frowned. ‘Keep your tourist under control and don’t go beyond the houses.’

Mikis raised his shoulders. ‘It’s a dead end anyway, isn’t it?’

‘It’s certainly been that for all the invaders who tried to take us,’ the other man said, his eyes unwavering.

The pickup was manoeuvred out of the way and Mikis drove on.

‘I hope you enjoyed that demonstration of mountain hospitality,’ he said.

Mavros grunted. ‘Friendly types, aren’t they?’

‘Still sure you want to go through with this? I won’t be able to step in like I did last night. There are dozens of guys like those ones in Kornaria.’

‘I’ll keep my questions to a minimum.’

The track led down into a wide valley and ahead of them lay a surprisingly large patch of flat land covered in sheds, with a cluster of white houses in the centre. The air was clear and tinged by the chill of the snow on the peaks. It struck Mavros that this would be a very harsh place in winter.

‘See those sheds?’ Mikis asked.

‘Not for mushrooms?’

‘Correct. Don’t even think of taking photographs.’

‘Never crossed my mind.’ The only camera he had with him was in his mobile and it wouldn’t pick up much from such a distance. ‘Anyway, I don’t give a shit about them growing dope.’

Mikis glanced at him, then steered round a large pothole. ‘You say that, but it isn’t the way things work. Everything that goes on in Kornaria has some connection to the core business. And that business extends far beyond the village.’

Mavros thought about that. David Waggoner had a house up here — could the old soldier have anything to do with the narcotics trade? The mayor, Vasilios Dhrakakis, would obviously be in the business up to his neck. And what about Maria Kondos? Was the missing woman linked to it in some way too? Had she been driving Cara Parks’ car after all when the drugs gang member was killed?

They drove past a few abandoned buildings and into the village proper. It was spotless, the white houses on each side of the concrete road gleaming in the sunlight, their wooden shutters and fences freshly painted. There was obviously no shortage of water, as the bougainvilleas and oleanders were tall and healthy. Old women in black peered at the Jeep and its occupants curiously, while young women in jeans played with chubby children.

The road ended in a wide square with a large tree in the centre. It was very quiet — the men presumably in the cultivation sheds or playing cowboy in their pickups. Metal tables and chairs with wicker seats were arrayed outside a solitary kafeneion.

‘Give them a few moments,’ Mikis said. ‘They’ll have been told we were on the way.’

Sure enough, a trio of barrel-chested men in traditional garb and boots came towards the Jeep. They weren’t armed, but they hardly needed to be. Mavros had the feeling that they were being closely watched from the open windows of surrounding houses, each of which no doubt had a well-stocked gun cabinet.

‘Welcome,’ the man in the middle said, in Greek. He wore a moustache that extended horizontally across his cheeks. ‘I am the mayor, Dhrakakis is my name.’

Mikis introduced himself — he had no choice about using his real name since ‘Tsifakis’ was all over the Jeep. ‘I have brought an Englishman whose grandfather was here in the war.’

Mavros bowed extravagantly. ‘Arthur Smith,’ he said, with a tentative smile. ‘Very pleased to meet you.’

Dhrakakis eyed him diffidently and then extended a horny hand. ‘Kornaria welcomes the offspring of the brave man who fought for Crete’s freedom.’

Mikis translated for form’s sake.

The mayor turned on his heel and walked over to the kafeneion. He stopped at the most shaded table and extended his arms. ‘Please, accept our hospitality.’

Mavros nodded and smiled frequently, trying to look as foreign as possible. As he sat down, he realized what a dangerous game he was playing. These men had their code of honour and it wasn’t long since the vendetta had become less common — for all he knew, it might still be flourishing in Kornaria. Deceiving them might be very costly. Then again, he’d be off the island as soon as he found Maria Kondos and he didn’t think their reach would extend to Athens.

After glasses of rakihad been consumed — Mavros pretending to choke — and coffee provided, along with slices of a dark, nutty cake, the mayor turned to him.

‘Your grandfather, what did he tell you about Kornaria?’

Mavros explained via Mikis that Ralph Smith had been a wireless operator in the mountains, spending weeks with only a pair of guards, but that he had always spoken with great pleasure of the days when they came down to Kornaria to replenish their food supplies. The villagers had been most generous, slaughtering sheep and chickens and opening casks of aged wine.

Dhrakakis nodded throughout Mikis’s presentation, a slack smile on his lips.

‘And he was part of Lambis’s group?’ he asked.

Mavros smiled broadly.

‘Ou-anggoner,’ Dhrakakis said, struggling with the English ‘w’ and ‘gg’ sounds.

‘David Waggoner,’ Mavros said, nodding vigorously. ‘I have read about him, but my grandfather didn’t say if he was attached to his unit.’

The mayor raised a shaggy eyebrow. ‘Lambis was in command of all the British in this area,’ he said firmly.

‘Well, then, my grandfather was with him,’ Mavros relayed back.

‘How was he called, your grandfather? He still lives?’

Mavros shook his head. ‘He died last year.’

Mikis’s translation brought exclamations of grief and sympathy. Again, Mavros felt bad about deceiving them. Then he remembered Dhrakakis’s voice on the telephone — he definitely knew Maria Kondos and had been concerned by mention of her name.

‘How was he called?’ the mayor repeated.

Mavros looked confused and then gave the impression of understanding. ‘Ah, you mean his cover-name? Yes, he told me it was Panos.’

Dhrakakis, who looked like he was in his late fifties, shook his head. ‘I have learned from the old ones of all the British and New Zealand fighters. No one ever mentioned any Panos.’

A heavy silence fell. Mavros considered and then decided to take another risk.

‘My grandfather mentioned a family he stayed with, they were very good to him. I can’t quite remember the name. . Kond. . there were more letters. . Kondo-something. .’

Mikis translated, with a dubious look on his face.

The three men in black leaned together and started talking in low voices. Mavros glanced at Mikis and then looked around the square, as if enchanted by the picture of rustic simplicity.

‘There was the Kondoyannis family,’ the kafeneionowner said, from the doorway. ‘They moved to America in the Fifties. There are none of them left here.’ He was given very heavy stares from his co-villagers.

‘How sad,’ Mavros said, realizing a hot piece of information had dropped into his lap and dissembling as best he could. ‘Do none of them ever come back?’ The return of Greeks who had made good abroad was a feature of Greek popular culture — they made elementary mistakes with the language, wore expensive clothes and threw money at their dirt-poor relatives as if it were feeding time at the zoo.