He started to beg, dropping to his knees, which made it easier for me to slide the blade slowly into his mouth and upwards into his brain.

That was the end of the real war for me. I fought on, robot-like, but I remember few details. I was always the first to charge forward, the first to volunteer for suicidal missions, the last to turn tail when the great Soviet advance commenced. I expected every day to be my last, but I survived. It was as if I was under the protection of some jealous god. Eventually I could refuse promotions no longer and did what I could to protect the ever-younger, doe-eyed recruits from the inevitable. I was even given medals, which I accepted on behalf of my men. My unit was finally cut to pieces in western Poland and I dropped my decorations into the River Oder as the last of the great expedition staggered back into our homeland.

After the war I was still in some parallel world, passing through camps and offices until I was declared clean of the stain of Nazism and free to remake my life. Which I did, after I met Hildegard.

But my heart had never left Crete and I returned as soon as I could to live out my days near the places where the dark-haired woman and I had saved each other’s lives; and where I had failed to give her death from a compassionate hand.

When Mavros got further into the room, he saw there were two more balaclava-clad men behind the one with the knife. The latter pushed him backwards so he landed on the sofa. Then he went behind it and held the edge of the knife against Mavros’s throat. The shorter of the others sat down in the armchair on the other side of the coffee table, while the third stood alongside him. None of them were wearing Cretan boots or other garb.

‘You move, you lose your Adam’s apple,’ said the seated man, in Greek.

Mavros didn’t recognize the voice, but the accent was definitely Cretan.

He decided that moving his tongue and lips was an unnecessary risk.

‘You’re in luck, you know,’ the man opposite continued. The bared teeth in the balaclava’s slit suggested he was smiling. ‘I mean, you could already be dead. A vendetta isn’t something you Athenian ponces should take lightly. So we’re here to teach you a lesson.’ He paused for effect. ‘Cut his throat.’

Mavros was instantly drenched in cold sweat, his heart thundering. The knife blade was moved round his throat, nicking the skin. Then he felt warm drops on his forearms. He was about to duck out of the position, even though he knew such a movement would only bring death more quickly, when he thought of his father. Spyros was looking at him steadily, dark-blue eyes willing him to hold his nerve. Mavros stayed still and got his breathing under control, as the knife continued its light pressure round his neck.

‘Enough,’ the man in the armchair ordered, a hint of disappointment in his voice. ‘You’re a cool one, Mavro. But this is your last warning. Go back to Athens by tonight or next time you’ll be drinking your own blood.’ He came over, then took a wide roll of duct tape from his pocket, pulled off a length and held it up for the man with the knife to cut. A moment later, the tape was over Mavros’s mouth. Then the rest of the roll was wrapped round his body, binding his arms to his sides and pressing his legs together.

‘You’d better hope you never see us again,’ the leader said, as one of the others checked the corridor through the spyhole in the door.

They left, closing the door softly behind them.

Spyros had faded from view and now Mavros did begin to panic, unaware how deep the cut in his throat was but feeling pain. How long would it take for him to bleed out?

Mikis was standing by the Jeep in the hotel car park. Mavros had asked him to hang around while he made some calls. The sun was sinking over the high ground to the west and bats were flitting about the oleanders and palm trees. Despite the Kornaria vendetta, Mikis was at peace with the world. His father would sort those idiot mountain men out one way or another and, if it came to another fight, he was ready. He hadn’t told Mavros that this wasn’t the first vendetta his family had been involved in, even though they were much rarer than they used to be. An uncle on his mother’s side had been accused of stealing the woman who became his wife from a village on Mount Psiloritis. Shots had been fired, including some by the seventeen-year-old Mikis; nobody had been badly hurt and money had exchanged hands. He didn’t think the Kornariates would be so open to compromise.

Mikis thought about Mavros. He was different, to put it mildly, and not just because of his long hair and weird eye. He was subtle and understated, perhaps from his Scottish genes, but he didn’t give up, and he was decisive when he had to be — as when he’d hit the shotgun-wielding hard man on the head with that rock. But he was secretive as well, something which wasn’t a good idea when armed men were after you. Mikis knew there were aspects to the Maria Kondos case the detective hadn’t shared, and he suspected the same applied to Rudolf Kersten.

Then he saw them — three men in black shirts and trousers coming out of the hotel. Their pockets were bulging and one of them had failed to conceal the haft of a knife up his sleeve. All three had hair cut almost to their scalps and he recognized the shortest of them. He took out his mobile and called Mavros. No answer. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the large red pickup they were getting into and noted its registration number. Then he ran like hell for the hotel.

Mavros heard the pounding on his door from the floor, where he had managed to slide from the sofa. He tried to shout through the duct tape, but all that came out was a stifled moan.

Then he heard Mikis’s voice, saying he was going to get help. While he was waiting, he tried to wriggle across the floor, but the blood on the tiles scared him and he rolled on to his back to reduce the flow.

Eventually — though it couldn’t have been long — he heard voices in the hall and a key card slip into the slot above the handle. Mikis pushed past the hulking figure of Renzo Capaldi and knelt down beside him.

‘Jesus Christ, Alex,’ he said, bending over. ‘Are you all right? This is going to hurt.’ He picked off a corner of the tape and then ripped it from Mavros’s mouth.

‘Fuck!’

‘Told you.’ Mikis looked over his shoulder. ‘Find a knife or some scissors.’ Capaldi went to the desk against the wall and came back with a pair of the latter.

‘You’ve lost a lot of blood,’ the Cretan said.

Capaldi, who was cutting through the tape on Mavros’s chest, shook his head. ‘Throat wounds look worse than they are, as long as the jugular veins aren’t affected, and his are OK.’

‘And you know this how?’ Mikis asked, easing Mavros into a sitting position.

‘Ten years in the Fifth Alpini.’ The Italian smiled. ‘Elite mountain regiment.’

‘Really?’ Mikis said, unimpressed. ‘How do you feel, Alex?’

‘I’m. . I’m all right apart from my throat. Can you get a cloth or something?’

Mikis came back from the bathroom with a pile of luxurious white towels. Capaldi raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.

‘We’re going to the clinic,’ Mikis said, helping Mavros to his feet.

Capaldi followed them out and closed the room door. ‘Anything else I can do?’

‘Yes,’ Mavros said. ‘Call Rosie Yellenberg and get her to advise the West Crete Clinic to expect us.’ He had an afterthought. ‘And don’t tell Mrs Kersten about this.’

‘Didn’t you see three men in black come in?’ Mikis demanded, as they reached the lift. ‘Three arseholes with “bad man” written all over their shaven heads?’

Capaldi shook his head. ‘I can check the gate cameras.’

‘Forget it,’ the Cretan said. ‘I’ll handle it.’

‘So masterful,’ Mavros said, as they went out into the evening.

‘Don’t talk,’ Mikis ordered, getting him into the Jeep and then heading for the gate at speed. ‘Here’s what I saw.’ He told Mavros about the three men as they pulled away past a line of cars — the press pack was present in even greater strength. ‘Unfortunately I didn’t see them go in or I’d have been on their tails in a flash.’