Mavros ripped the tape from Jannet’s mouth. ‘Sorry, did that hurt? Well, it’s a hard life being a criminal. If you’re lucky the FBI will take you home — you really don’t want to spend time in a Greek prison.’

Luke Jannet lowered his head. Then Maria Kondos came up to the American-Greek and slapped the side of his head hard.

‘Let him go!’ came a shrill voice from the centre of the square.

They all looked round and saw Rosie Yellenberg with her arm round Niki’s neck and a pistol jammed in her ribs. ‘Get over here, Luke!’ she screamed, dragging Niki to the last of the pickups.

Haris nodded and the director’s cuffs were loosed. He ran to his sister.

Mavros made to follow him, but Haris grabbed his arm.

‘Wait,’ the Cretan said.

They didn’t have to do so for long. As Rosie and Luke manoeuvred Niki to the vehicle, Eleni Tsifaki and Cara Parks appeared from behind it. The former smashed her elbow into Jannet’s face and flattened him with a punch from the other hand. Cara kicked the pistol out of Rosie’s hand and then swung round on her other foot before delivering a knockout blow to the producer’s jaw. Niki sank to her knees and wailed Mavros’s first name.

‘Excuse me,’ he said to Haris. ‘She’s been through a lot.’

‘Excuse me,’ the Cretan said, removing the detonator from the charges. ‘You don’t want to go up in a cloud of fireworks.’

‘I think that’s going to happen anyway,’ Mavros said, then ran to his beloved.

TWENTY-FIVE

There could never have been so many vehicles on the unmetalled road leading to Kornaria before: police cars, marked and unmarked, TV vans, press personnel on motorbikes and in 4 x 4s. They were forced to the side by the fire engines that rumbled up to deal with the blazes in the drug sheds and warehouses. By the time they got there, only smoking remains were left and the firemen busied themselves ensuring that the flames didn’t spread to the village or to the sparse shrubs on the surrounding slopes. A helicopter hovered above the village and eventually set down on an old threshing floor. One of the men who climbed out was police commander Nikos Kriaras.

‘You didn’t leave us much to do,’ he said sourly, as paramilitary policemen spread though the village.

Mavros shrugged. ‘We couldn’t wait. I didn’t set the press dogs loose — one of the villagers must have. Look, Niko, this place has been screwing the western end of the island for decades. Someone had to do something and I couldn’t wait.’

There were a few shots in the distance, but the crowd of disarmed male villagers in the square was growing by the minute. They were surrounded by armed police.

Kriaras glowered at him. ‘And that person had to be you, eh?’

‘They had Niki. Would you have left your wife to these lunatics?’

The look on the policeman’s face was inscrutable. Mavros reckoned he might have, but he kept that to himself.

‘What about Roufos? Did you get him?’

Kriaras looked away. ‘Not yet. He seems to have bribed an engineer on the ship for his uniform.’

‘See what I mean about having to do things myself?’ Mavros said, shaking his head. ‘The kafeneionowner. Go easy on him. He gave me the lead to the Kondoyannis family. Don’t know why, probably in a feud with them. And Maria Kondos — I’m not sure if she’s a victim or if she’s involved in the dope trade. Make sure you take her into custody.’ Then he had another thought: David Waggoner.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, going over to one of the local women who had gathered to support their men folk and asking where the Englishman’s house was. He followed her directions to the west.

‘Do you want us to come with you?’ Haris called. He was with his wife, while Niki was talking animatedly to Cara Parks. Maria Kondos was standing alone a few metres away.

‘I’ll be all right,’ Mavros answered, hurrying down the lane. Suddenly he had a bad feeling about Waggoner. How would he be reacting to the events in the village he’d lived in and helped for decades?

A narrow track led to a two-storey stone house a couple of hundred metres beyond the edge of the village. The blue shutters were open and the terrace was covered in floods of bougainvillea and oleander blossom.

‘Waggoner!’ Mavros shouted, as he approached. ‘Are you there?’

There was no reply. He climbed the steps and looked to each side. There were a table and chairs on his right, a tray containing a small coffee cup and a half-drunk glass of water on the former.

‘Waggoner!’ He stepped through the bead curtain and into the cool house. The living area to the right had dull-coloured floors and was sparsely furnished with antique dark-wood pieces. Animal heads and regimental shields hung on the walls.

‘The hands go up, fucker.’

He recognized the voice and turned to see the shaven-headed Petros Lagoudhakis, leader of the far-right Cretan Renaissance, shove David Waggoner into the room, a pistol pointing at Mavros.

‘Well, this is a pleasant surprise,’ the Cretan said. ‘Two shitbags instead of one.’

Mavros glanced at the Englishman. His face was pale and beaded with sweat and he looked diminished from the last time they’d met.

‘You realize the village is teeming with police?’ Mavros said.

‘Won’t take me long to finish you two.’

‘I suppose I’m in your sights because I made you dig your own grave the other night.’

Lagoudhakis glared at him. ‘You don’t get over something like that easily. Besides, I heard what you did to Mr Roufos.’

Mavros sighed. He was about to die because he hadn’t kept hold of the antiquities dealer. Phoning the Cretan from the ship would have been easy.

‘And him?’ he said, inclining his head towards Waggoner.

‘Him? He persecuted Herr Kersten for years, never mind all the Germans he killed in the war.’

Mavros stared at him. ‘Rudolf Kersten told you to kill him?’

‘Who else? Herr Kersten supported my organization in many ways.’

‘Was Oskar Mesner involved?’

‘Leave him out of it.’

Which meant ‘yes’, as far as Mavros was concerned.

Lagoudhakis raised the pistol towards Waggoner. ‘And let’s not forget that the British blocked the union of Crete for years in the nineteenth century and screwed up Cyprus permanently. This piece of shit was responsible for the death of several Cypriot freedom fighters. So go to meet them, murderer.’

Then Lagoudhakis went flying forward, smothered by a heavily-built figure with a bandage on his head. The weapon skittered across the floor as the neo-Nazi’s hand was smashed against the tiles.

‘Miki?’ Mavros said, his heart halfway towards his mouth. ‘What the-’

The Cretan dragged the now cowering Lagoudhakis to his feet and then planted a heavy fist in his belly. He hit the floor again and started writhing.

David Waggoner limped forwards and handed the pistol that he’d picked up to Mavros. He looked like he was already in another dimension.

‘What’s the matter?’ Mavros asked.

‘Pancreatic cancer. I’ve got a few weeks if I’m lucky.’ The former SOE man grimaced. ‘Or less — the pain is terrible.’ He looked at Mavros curiously. ‘Why did you come?’

‘I had a feeling you’d do something. . foolish.’

‘You were behind what’s happened to the village?’

‘Not on my own.’ Mavros glanced at Mikis. ‘What are you doing out of hospital?’

The driver grinned. ‘Watching your back.’

‘Thanks, but aren’t you supposed to be resting?’

‘Nah. Anyway, some fuckers from Dopetown took my Colt, remember? I want it back.’

Mavros smiled. ‘You might have a job talking the cops into handing it over.’

‘I have several friends in the police force.’

‘What a surprise.’ Mavros looked back at Waggoner. The old man was picking something up from his desk.

‘I was trying to protect you when I told. . told you to stay away.’