only one who can scent danger? You go tonight…'
So they had climbed to the summit of the ridge close to where the mine reared up like a hideous eyeless monument. Constantine peered over the edge to where he could see stretches of the track as it mounted up to a point a quarter of a mile from where they waited.
Parts of the track were dearly illuminated by the moon; other parts were obscured by overhangs of rock, by the blackest of shadows. He could see nothing. From his ragged jacket pocket he pulled the bottle of ouzo. He handed it towards Dimitrios as he sneered at his brother.
'Drink some. It will steady the nerves of an old woman…'
'You talk to me like that and I break your scrawny neck, wring it like a chicken's.'
But Dimitrios snatched the bottle, tore out the cork and upended it. The liquid gurgled down his throat. That was better. He recorked the bottle, looked at Constantine and stiffened.
'What is it, cretin?'
'There is someone down there now coming up the track – a man with a rifle. A well-built man used to rough country.'
'Where?'
Dimitrios peered over the edge, saw nothing – only the wending track which came and went. Into the moonlight. Back into the shadows. He leaned over further, his mouth a thin slit, shoved the bottle into his own jacket, rested both hands on the rock, still staring down.
'Now you see ghosts.' He glanced at his brother. 'What are you doing?'
Constantine, always the quieter, the calmer of the two brothers, was checking his shotgun. He nodded with satisfaction. Then looked at Dimitrios.
'Inside ten minutes he will appear at the top of the track. We move now to that point. That is where we prepare the ambush.'
'And we drop the body down the mine…'
Marler had taken a short cut from the hotel site where Nick was waiting with the parked cars. He had scaled the almost sheer face of the mountain, working his way up a chimney hollowed out of the limestone. The map had shown him he would reach the pass far more quickly than by following the route Newman and Christina had taken.
Now he heaved himself over the top and the pass was thirty feet below. He descended rapidly, reached the entrance to the pass, stopped, head cocked to one side. The rope was again looped over one shoulder, the rifle over the other. Someone was coming. He heard the stealthy movement of feet padding among the bed of pebbles. A thick needle-shaped column of rock rose up near the track. He slipped behind it.
Christina was in a cold fury. Her jaw was sore, but that was nothing. When she regained consciousness she had found the note tucked inside the top of her slacks. Its message was clear- to the point. Christina, this expedition is too dangerous for me to take you any further. Sorry for the tap on the chin. Go straight back to Nick. I'll join you there. Later. Bob.
The stupid swine. She could have helped him find the mine, showed him where to veer off the track so he reached it more quickly. She knew the country. He didn't. And her sharp eyes could have spotted any shepherd guards lurking…
The arm came round the back of her neck, lifted her off her feet. She used her elbows to thud into the midriff of her attacker, her feet to kick back at his shins. She wriggled like a snake and the pressure on her throat increased. The voice whispered in her ear.
'Don't want to strangle you. Relax. Go limp. I'll let you go. Be quiet. There may be others about. Ready?'
Marler's voice. She stopped struggling. He released her. She turned round. His expression was bleak. She swung her right hand with the speed of a striking snake. The flat of her hand slapped hard into the side of his face. His head didn't move.
'Make you feel better? Jezebel…'
'Why call me that, you bastard?'
'Because you've just led Newman into another trap -the way you did with Masterson…'
'You bloody idiot!' She waved Newman's note at him. 'Better read that. He socked me one, left me behind because he was worried about me
…'
'Worried you'd betray him,..'
'Read the bloody note.'
He shrugged, took the note, read it, then looked at her. 'OK. Tell me where he's gone.'
To the silver mine. The crazy idiot. He's a suicide case.'
'Hardly. At least I hope not. Care to tell me exactly where this mine is?'
'You can see it from the end of the pass. I'll show you…'
Her long legs covered the ground in minutes. Marler had collected the rifle and rope he had left behind the needle of rock and hurried to catch up with her. At the end of the pass again she pointed, indicating the position of the silver mine. Marler frowned, then turned to her. She waited, hands on her hips, her expression contemptuous, eyes flashing. He lifted a hand and his slim fingers closed round her chin. She gritted her teeth, determined not to wince. The gentle way he handled her was a surprise. He turned her chin to examine it by the light of the moon.
'Sorry. I was checking to see how hard he'd hit you. Scarcely a bruise. Just enough to put you out. How long ago do you think he left you?'
She looked at her watch. 'I checked it. just before we got here. I must have been out cold ten minutes. No more than fifteen.'
'Then I have to hurry. Anything you can tell me to help?'
She repeated what she had told Newman. She pointed out where the track ran up to the mine. But this time she tried to show where Marler could veer off three-quarters of the way up, cutting across direct to a point just below the mine.
'Got it,' Marler said. 'Do me a favour. Go back to Nick. I think I can make it faster on my own. And I don't want to have to worry about you,'
'I'm popular with the men tonight, aren't I? Marler, why are you waiting? Get there fast…'
Newman had caught the faintest hint of movement high up and out of the corner of his eye. Imagination? He remembered the man he'd only known as Sarge. The time when he'd trained with the SAS – the Special Air Service – Britain's elite strike force, so he could write a series of articles on them. Sarge had put him through the full course. And he'd survived it. Just.
If you even suspect you've seen something, heard something, smelt something – assume the worst. You've been seen. Sarge, the toughest man Newman had ever known, the sergeant who'd put him through his paces, had said something else. Get inside the enemy's mind. Sit in his chair. What would you do if you were him? Out-think the bastard. ..
Newman moved into the shadows out of the moonlight. He paused, took out the compact pair of night glasses he'd bought in Athens. His mouth was parched with thirst, with fear. His boots, his clothes, were coated with limestone dust from his journey up the track. Slinging the glasses from his neck, he took the opportunity to relieve himself against a rock. Then he took a swig from the small bottle of mineral water in his pocket. Now…
He leant against the side of the rock and raised the glasses, aiming them where he thought he'd seen something move at the top of the ridge to the right of the track. He moved the glasses slowly, scanning the whole ridge. He stopped. Silhouetted against the night sky was the outline of a man, a man peering over a rock parapet. Got you. He held the glasses very still. No doubt about it. One of the shepherd guards. And he held the high ground. Time to rethink.
Assume the worst. He'd been spotted. Coming up the track. So what would the enemy do? Wait for him where the track emerged at the top. The solution? Get off the track. Move up to the left. However rough the going. Head diagonally straight for the mine. He put the glasses back into his pocket. Began climbing higher, so long as he kept in the shadow. He nearly missed the defile spiralling up to his left.
It looked pretty steep, but rock projections formed a kind of ladder. He entered the defile, felt safe from observation. It was exactly like climbing a ladder. He placed his boots on each projection, hauled himself higher and
