'Anton. Tell us what you found in England. Make it brief.'
'There is a lonely area called Exmoor. Also a place like here called the Doone Valley. The three men who went with Andreas on a commando raid to Siros – Barrymore, Kearns and Robson – live close together on that moor. Which is strange. They are not related…'
'Tell them about the places where they live,' Petros prodded.
'Each house is well defended. Like small castles expecting an invasion. One has television cameras watching all approaches. Another is guarded by a fierce dog called Wolf. The third has tall walls topped with barbed wire and a single separate wire. I was suspicious. I scaled a wall carrying a cat. I dropped the cat on the single wire. There was a flash. It screamed, died. Electrified. They are afraid – after all this time…'
'How did you find these three men?' asked Dimitrios.
'Christina went to England and used a newspaper advertisement which attracted the attention of a Harry Masterson…'
'That's enough,' Petros interrupted, eyes wide open. 'No need to give details. But which of the three is guilty, has our blood on his hands? Or were all three involved in both murders?'
'I don't know.' Anton made a resigned gesture with his manicured hands – hands which contrasted with the roughness of his nephews' who, Petros reflected, were poles apart. 'I made discreet enquiries in the pubs on Exmoor,' Anton continued. 'The three men meet twice every week – for lunch in one place, for dinner in another.' His manner changed, became more nervous as he talked more quickly. 'Then there was the strange incident of the murder of the Englishman, Partridge, on the moor.'
'Partridge, did you say?' asked Dimitrios, quick to sense Anton's change of mood. 'We know an Englishman of that name was poking round Athens, asking questions. That he later visited Siros.'
Anton looked at Petros before replying. The old patriarch nodded agreement for him to continue. 'It was the same man. There was an old picture of him in a newspaper reporting the murder. It is worrying – the report said he was a detective for most of his life with Scotland Yard. The Homicide Branch.'
'There was a man of that name in Cairo when Stephen was killed,' Petros reminded him. 'We found out later. He was one of the military detectives who supposedly investigated Stephen's death. Very young, he was. Is Partridge a common English name?'
'Not as far as I know,' Anton replied. He hurried on. That is why I returned here quickly. They were hunting for the killer.'
'And why should they think it was you?' demanded Dimitrios.
Anton hesitated again, looking at Petros. The old man frowned. It was a good question. 'Answer Dimitrios,' he ordered.
'I happened to be riding on a different part of the moor when he was killed,' Anton replied. 'Watching the homes of the three men who were the commandos.'
'I see.' Petros frowned and Anton shuffled his feet.
The old man turned on the two brothers, determined to humiliate them, to exert his authority. 'Now, tell us what a mess you made of things on Siros today. Describe in detail. Anton should know what fools his nephews can be…'
Petros sat staring into the distance while Dimitrios recalled the day's events. It was when he came to describe their visit to the home of Sarantis, the archaeologist, that he transferred his gaze to Dimitrios who seemed uncomfortable.
'Constantine,' he broke in suddenly, 'do you agree with all that Dimitrios has said?'
'Yes.' The more passive brother paused. 'We tried to make him talk, to tell us what he knew about where Andreas died. We broke his wrist, then his arm. The old fool slipped on the polished floor, fell over backwards and cracked his skull on the tiles.'
'Go on.'
'We decided to leave quickly aboard the chopper. We knew you would not want us to be tangled up with a police investigation…'
'So, you leave in the kitchen the cutlery and things you used to eat a quick meal. With your fingerprints on them, of course.'
'No, Petros! We wiped everything clean. Knives, the glasses. We would have put them away but we were afraid someone would arrive.'
'You ate when you first questioned him, then took him into the living room to apply more pressure?'
That is how it happened.'
'I wonder whether to believe you.' He was silent for a moment. 'And these two Englishmen Christina reported on – Newman and Marler. You fouled that up as well. No information from Sarantis.' He raised his voice to a shout. 'Do I have to be everywhere to make sure you do the right thing? All of you, get out of my sight. No, wait!
Christina has disappeared. Last seen with those English.' His tone was venomous. 'Tomorrow you go to Athens, find her. Do not let her see you. Follow her and tell me what she does, where she goes. Later I decide what to do about her. Now, go! Prepare the meal. If you can do that properly…'
Petros sat alone on the veranda, a grim smile of satisfaction on his lined face. Frequently it was necessary to crack the whip to remind his family who was the chief. He looked up as Anton appeared and spoke, his voice low.
'While I have been away. Papa, has anyone been seen near the silver mine?'
'No.' He smiled bleakly. 'You worry too much. Leave me alone. I have to think.'
Despite the mild rebuke, Petros approved: it showed Anton was using his brain. At least one of the litter had turned out well. Odd it should be his second wife's only son. The wife who had died from overwork like the first - driven on by Petros' insistence they run the farm. Early in Anton's childhood Petros had realized he was the bright one. How he had scrimped and saved to educate the boy.
While Dimitrios and Constantine had worked in the fields, Anton had been sent to a select school near Berne in Switzerland – away from the fleshpots of Athens. A school where discipline was strong, where he had learned to speak English and German.
But Petros had taken the precaution of bringing him home during the holidays for Petros' own kind of discipline. He had hammered into the boy's head that his half-brothers, Andreas and Stephen, had been murdered'- that the family must take their revenge. A cloud of poisonous hatred hung over Devil's Valley.
It had been a long struggle. First the Civil War from 1946 to 1949 between the Communists and the anti- Communists. Breaking out soon after World War Two had ended, it had gone on until the Communist guerrillas were defeated. So many wasted years,
Only recently had Petros been able to devote all his efforts to his vendetta. He had reached the stage where he was quite unable to realize it had become an obsession, filling his every waking moment, A stray thought crossed his mind. The Communists.
Why – after all these years – had the Russian, Oleg Savinkov, reappeared in Athens? He was one of the old school, a Stalinist. And the new man, Gorbachev, was a very different leader, they said. Savinkov, once called The Executioner, did not fit the new pattern Petros heard about in the cafes of the village he visited. To play checkers, to listen to the gossip. Above all to get the first hint of a farmer in trouble. Someone whose land or stock he might buy for a pittance.
Why had Savinkov changed his name to Florakis? The Russian did speak Greek fluently. And he had bought a small farm adjacent to Petros on the coast. But why had. he made a point of meeting him when Petros was sitting alone in a cafe? The Russian had handed him an envelope crammed with drachmae. A large sum – so large Petros, greedy for money, had not accepted at once.
'What do you expect me to do for this?' he had asked bluntly.
'Only one thing – which fits in with your own purposes. You make sure no Englishmen visit the island of Siros and poke around up near Mount Ida.'
'You expect me to kill them?' Petros had demanded.
'It is up to you.' Savinkov had shrugged. 'Maybe you rough them up a bit. You could sabotage their car – the mountain roads are dangerous.'
'And how do I get in touch with you?' Petros had asked, testing Savinkov, 'Walk across to your farm?'
'Never. And you know me only as Florakis. That is why I am paying you…'
Since then Petros had kept the money inside the same envelope in his Athens bank. For Petros this was an
