Hildegard Kirsten shivered. She had no idea why her husband had kept the fearsome Wehrmacht bayonet, nor why its blade was so brightly polished. Then she noticed something else in the drawer — a silver double axe head about ten centimetres across. She recognized it as a Minoan labrysand was aware that Rudi had donated several to museums of Crete and the mainland. She also knew that it had religious significance related to the moon and the mother goddess. But why had her husband kept this one? She was almost certain it was because of his obsession with the woman in the war. That made her feel small and insignificant.

Mavros and Mikis looked round the corner towards the Black Eagle. There were a few misguided tourists sitting outside the bar, but no skinheads.

‘Clear about what we’re going to do?’ Mavros asked, his mouth suddenly dry.

The Cretan nodded, the large pistol under his shirt, which hung loosely over his jeans.

‘All right. . action!’

They walked down the narrow street, keeping close to the walls on the same side as the Black Eagle. When they got to the edge of the bar, Mikis took a cautious look inside.

‘They’re here,’ he said. ‘All three of the bastards who wrapped you up plus that German tosser we took the coins from.’

‘Any other neo-Nazi types?’

‘Not as many as last time. Maybe ten.’

‘So it’s fourteen to two,’ Mavros said, his blood up. ‘Or rather three, including Mr Colt.’

‘Mr Colt has an eight-round clip,’ Mikis said, smiling wickedly.

‘Fourteen to ten, then. Piece of piss. Your move.’

The Cretan steeled himself, and then marched quickly into the bar. Mavros kept close behind him. The three men were seated round a metal table, bottles of lager in front of them. Mikis reached the shortest of them before anyone noticed and stuck the pistol’s muzzle in his ribs.

‘Outside,’ he shouted, above the din of the music. ‘Only you.’

The other two had started to get up, but they sat down again when they saw the Colt. Meanwhile, Mavros leaned over Oskar Mesner, who was at another table, and spoke into his ear loudly.

‘You see the pistol my friend’s holding on that fucker over there?’

Mesner nodded rapidly.

‘Well, I’ve got another one,’ Mavros said, patting his waist. ‘Get up and walk slowly to the street.’

The German obeyed, but as they reached the gaping French windows, he squealed for help in his own language. Mavros pushed him out, while Mikis turned back to the occupants of the Black Eagle, left arm wrapped round his captive’s neck.

‘Come on, if you’ve got the balls!’ he challenged, holding up the pistol.

One of the Greek skinheads stood up, shouting, ‘At them, boys, there are only two-’

The blast of the Colt was thunderous, despite the death metal that had been playing and which abruptly stopped. The skinhead looked at the large hole that had appeared in the plaster behind him and crashed back down on his chair.

‘Seven more rounds,’ Mikis said. ‘Anyone fancy his chances?’ He looked around at the cowed young men. ‘What a surprise. And don’t even think about coming after us.’

Mavros had stuffed a handkerchief into Mesner’s mouth as the tourists outside the Black Eagle scurried away down the street. He and Mikis, who had gagged the other man, went the other way. The Jeep had been left as close as possible and they were soon there, with no one on their tails.

‘Put your hands out,’ Mavros ordered the two men. ‘Remember this?’ he said to the Greek. He wrapped duct tape around the proffered wrists as Mikis did the same with Oskar Mesner. Then the two men were shoved into the back of the Jeep.

‘Here,’ Mikis said, handing the Colt to Mavros. ‘If they move, shoot them in the knee. At this range, they’ll lose a leg, but they’ll still have time to spill their guts.’

Mesner and the shaven-headed Cretan sat stiller than statues, even when Mikis went round corners. Ten minutes later they were out of the urban sprawl and in another ten were bumping over a rough track between lines of olive trees. Mikis stopped the Jeep in a small clearing and went to the back of the vehicle. He returned with two spades.

‘Out!’ he said, hauling the Greek from the back seat.

Mesner followed meekly, his eyes bulging.

Mikis led them into the beam of the headlights and cut the tape from their wrists, laughing as they winced when he ripped the strips off. Mavros was to the rear, covering them with the pistol. Mikis gave each of the captives a spade and stepped back.

‘Start digging,’ he ordered, and then made the appropriate movement to enlighten Mesner. ‘Don’t look so surprised,’ he said, in English. ‘Your fucking soldiers made resistance fighters and civilians do this often enough in the war.’

Mesner looked at Mavros for help, but all he got was a stony stare. He couldn’t speak as the gags were still in their mouths, but the sounds he made were piteous.

‘Dig!’ Mikis said, examining the clasp knife he had just opened. ‘Or I’ll cut your eyelids off.’

They dug, flinging up spadefuls of dusty earth and small stones. After ten minutes, Mavros nodded to Mikis, who told the skinhead to stop.

‘You keep going,’ he said to the German. ‘That grave isn’t nearly deep enough for two.’

A dark stain appeared in Mesner’s groin and he sobbed through the gag as he dug on, Mikis standing near him with the second spade in his hands.

‘On your knees,’ Mavros ordered the other man, lowering the pistol till it was pointed at his face. Then he leaned forward and pulled out the handkerchief.

‘Please,’ the Cretan gasped, ‘please, I’ll tell you. . anything you want to know.’

‘I have no doubt about that,’ Mavros said. ‘The question is, will it be enough to keep you out of that hole?’

The skinhead looked over his shoulder at Mesner, who was up to his knees in the earth. ‘Anything,’ he pleaded. ‘Ask me anything.’

‘Name?’

‘Petros Lagoudhakis.’

‘Who told you to cut me?’

The man’s head dropped. ‘They’ll kill me,’ he mumbled. ‘And then they’ll kill you.’

‘Wrong. I’llkill you and then take my chances.’ He paused and looked over at Mikis. ‘Actually, we won’t kill you.’

Relief flooded the skinhead’s face.

‘The weight of the sweet Cretan earth will.’

The man’s head dropped again. ‘Roufos,’ he muttered. ‘Tryfon Roufos.’

Mavros hadn’t been expecting the antiquities dealer to be so directly involved. ‘No one else?’ he asked, thinking of David Waggoner.

‘No.’

‘How did Roufos find you?’

‘He. . he’s involved in our organization. He gives money.’

That was less of a surprise. Tryfon Roufos was exactly the kind of slimeball who would use far-right crazies to do his dirty work — he probably agreed with their vile ideology as well.

‘And did he give you a reason?’

The skinhead looked up. ‘Didn’t need one. I was in the Black Eagle when you and your heavy caused chaos the other night. We’ve been looking for you ever since.’

‘Where’s Roufos staying?’

‘Don’t know.’ The defeated tone convinced Mavros he was telling the truth.

‘How does he contact you?’

‘From public phones.’

The sleazy Athenian knew how to handle himself, Mavros thought. Then he wondered about his captive’s background.

‘Where are you from?’

‘What?’

‘You heard me.’

‘Tavronitis.’

Mikis looked over. ‘It’s a village near Maleme.’

‘Know anyone from Kornaria?’

The man’s eyes widened. ‘You must be joking. I’ve never been near the place. Those people are fucking insane.’

‘Even by your standards, eh?’

‘Hey, they kill people.’

Mavros leaned close. ‘While what you do is get your goons to run a knife across my throat. Miki, this piece of shit is ready to start digging again. Bring the German over here.’

Mesner was dragged across and his gag removed, while the other sodden handkerchief was reinserted into the skinhead’s mouth.