The Silver Stain

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 kafeneion owner 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.

Dhrakakis was staring at him. Mavros had done what he could to change his voice from the one that the mayor had heard on the phone, but even if he had succeeded in fooling him on that count, all bets were off now he had heard what could be the vital name.

‘Perhaps I made a mistake,’ he said, looking at Mikis. ‘Are there any villages with a similar name?’

It wasn’t much of an escape plan, but Mikis did what he could.

‘Well, there’s Koulouridhiana and. . Kambanos and Koudhouriana. .’

Mavros asked for the last one to be repeated. ‘I don’t know, maybe that was what Grandpa said. He was quite vague in his last years.’

Mikis got up and extended his hand. ‘I’m very sorry to have brought this man to your village under false pretences.’ He was being deliberately over-respectful, which impressed Mavros. The young Cretan was turning out to be a useful associate.

Dhrakakis regarded Mavros with ill-disguised contempt. ‘The English today have become women,’ he said. ‘Take him to a barber, young Tsifaki.’

Mikis smiled. ‘I will.’

The appropriate farewells were made and they made it back to the Jeep. One of the mayor’s henchmen was already speaking on a walkie-talkie, alerting the guards to let them pass, Mavros hoped.

‘I hope you think that was worth it,’ Mikis said, as he drove out of the village.

‘It was. I have a name I can work with — Kondoyannis.’

‘May it bring you much joy.’ Mikis waved at the men in the pickup. ‘Christ and the Holy Mother, that was nerve-wracking. And it’s all right for you, back in Athens shortly. They can find me easily enough.’

‘Sorry about that. Anyway, there’s no reason they should come after you.’

‘Is that right? What if Dhrakakis describes the English visitor to David Waggoner?’

Mavros looked out at the sparsely covered terrain. The sea and the thick tranche of cultivated land alongside it were visible in the distance.

‘You’re right,’ he agreed. ‘That would not be ideal. Let’s hope that Waggoner’s too busy with the film to come up to the village for a while.’

‘It only takes a phone call.’

Mavros was getting irritated by Mikis being right all the time. ‘For your information, I’m not an Englishman. I’m half-Scottish.’

Mikis shook his head. ‘As if that makes any difference.’

In the context of heavily armed Cretan dope-producers, Mavros had to admit he was right. Now didn’t seem the right time to ask how often vendettas occurred on the Great Island these days.

About ten minutes out of the village, the track took a bend round a large rock. There was a line of ancient olive trees, their trunks as wrinkled as a dinosaur’s legs and their pale leaves almost touching the ground. It was then that Mavros saw the woman, stepping quickly down the hill.

‘Stop!’ he shouted, opening his door before Mikis brought the Jeep to a halt. He ran through the treeline and towards the woman, whose black hair flew out behind her as she started to stumble on more quickly. ‘Stop!’ he repeated, in English.

As he got closer, he realized her feet were bare and bleeding. She was wearing a soiled white blouse and a pair of black jeans that were badly stained with earth or something worse. Although he had caught only glimpses of her face, he was sure who she was.

‘My name’s Mavros, Maria,’ he called. ‘Cara Parks sent me to look for you.’

The woman slowed and then stopped completely, dropping to her knees and starting to sob.

Mavros reduced his own pace and approached with caution. ‘Cara’s been very worried about you.’

She turned to him, her face soaked with tears and her eyes wide. There was no doubt about her identity from the photograph he had been given, but she was thinner and there were heavy lines on her forehead and around her eyes. He managed to catch her before she toppled forward.

‘Steady,’ he said, holding her head to his chest. ‘You’re safe now.’ He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Mikis had driven the Jeep as close as he could. They needed to get Maria into the car and away from the stony hillside at speed.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘there’s transport waiting.’

She tried to pull away from him, whimpering.

‘Don’t worry, we’re not going back to Kornaria,’ he said. ‘Is that where you’ve come from?’

The woman’s entire body was shaking and she didn’t seem to be able to speak.

Mikis arrived. ‘Is it her?’ he said, in Greek.

Mavros nodded, unsure whether she understood the language. ‘She’s in a bad way. Where’s the nearest hospital?’

‘There are clinics in the larger villages, but the best thing would be to get her to Chania.’

‘OK. You realize that we may be pursued. It looks like she’s been held captive — she has no shoes or belt — and somehow got free. Dhrakakis had her after all.’

‘Whatever you say. We need to move.’

They got the woman into the Jeep, Mavros keeping his arm round her when they were inside. She was shivering, but she seemed to be less terrified. She wouldn’t answer any of his questions, only gulping water from a bottle and chewing biscuits that the Cretan produced from beneath his seat.

Mavros was looking at the map. ‘There seems to be a choice of three roads at Karies.’

‘One of them’s only fit for goats and suicidal bikers.’

‘So which one’s quicker?’

‘The right turn that takes us down below Theriso.’ Mikis glanced at him. ‘The sensible thing to do would be to hole up somewhere and see if any tough guys come past.’

Mavros looked at Maria Kondos. She was shaking violently again and her breath was coming in rapid gasps. ‘No, this woman needs medical care. You’ll have to drive like the wind.’

The driver grinned. ‘That can happen. You’d better put your belts on.’ He did the same and then upped the