with Greece – between Athens and Exmoor. So, during World War Two Florakis would have been about twenty. Old enough to be in the Resistance. Which one? The instinct which had made him one of the world's best foreign correspondents was working again.
He took out his handkerchief, wiped the mouth of the bottle, turned as though to say something to Christina, and wiped the rest of the bottle clean. He turned round and smiled.
'Nick, I think we ought to apologize for trespassing on Mr Florakis' land.' He began to walk towards the Greek, holding the bottle by the neck, still smiling. 'It's thirsty weather. As a token of our regret I'd like to offer him a drink. Translate for me.'
Nothing in Florakis' neutral expression showed he'd understood every word Newman had said. He listened patiently as Nick spoke in Greek. Florakis was nervous: all these people appearing, seeing him out and about at dawn. The last thing he wanted was any talk of his nocturnal activities to reach Athens.
Newman extended the bottle, holding it by the neck. Florakis was also bone dry: he had forgotten to bring his water bottle. He nodded his thanks, grasped the bottle, took a good long drink, handed it back to Newman, who again grasped it by the neck and wandered back to the car.
'Nick,' he called over his shoulder as he reached the car, 'let him know we're leaving now. That if we come this way again we'll park elsewhere.'
While Nick translated Newman leaned in the window. 'Christina,' he whispered, 'give me that paper bag the bottle came in.' He slid the bottle inside the bag, holding it by the neck, then he pressed the top of the paper bag inside the neck and capped it. He now had Florakis' fingerprints.
'What was all that business about the bottle?' asked Christina as Nick drove them at speed back along the coast road to Athens.
Newman sat beside her in the rear of the Mercedes while Marler followed close behind in his own car. Newman was staring out of the window as the sun came up from behind the mountains and bathed the Mediterranean in its fierce light. The sea was now a smooth sheet of pure mother-of-pearl. An amazing country.
'Just fooling around,' he replied.
'And how was the fooling around in Devil's Valley? Marler did find you. Did you find the mine? And thanks for the sock on the jaw. I love you too.'
'Quiz time,' Newman said jocularly. 'So many questions.' He looked at her chin. 'No sign of a bruise. Just a gentle tap. Marvellous, isn't it? You save a girl from what could be a death-trap and she hates your guts.'
She looped her arm inside his, nestled against him so he could feel the firmness of her breast pressing into his body. 'Don't remember saying anything about hating your guts. And you evaded answering my questions.'
'I do believe I did.'
He looked out of the window again. They were covering the distance to Athens, seventy kilometres from Cape Sounion, in record time. They passed a hotel at the edge of the shore and tourists were walking the beach, swimming in the placid water.
'They make use of every minute,' he called out to Nick.
'They know what they do,' he replied. 'Later in the morning no feet will be able to touch that beach. The sand will be so hot it will burn them like a red-hot stove. They'll retire to their rooms, lie on their beds and sweat it out with nothing on.'
'What a lovely idea,' Christina whispered. 'Maybe we could lie on my bed at the Hilton with nothing on, sweat it out?'
'I'm dumping you there,' Newman said abruptly. 'Nick, make for the Hilton. Then have breakfast with Christina. When she goes to her room would you please sit in the lobby outside to guard her till I get back? A large tip will be my thanks.'
'Forget the tip, I take care of her.'
Thanks a lot,' Christina snapped, her eyes flashing. She pulled away from him and stared oat of her window.
'I have business to attend to, an editor to keep quiet,' Newman told her. 'And you may be in even greater danger now after what has happened. And don't ask me what.'
'Did you tell Christina about the skeleton?' Marler asked as he drove away from the Hilton.
'Nary a word. Nor about the mine…'
'Which means you're getting smart. You don't trust her.'
'Can it, Marler. Information like that is dangerous. You do realize who that skeleton is?'
'I think so. You veil me.'
'The missing Andreas. My guess is Petros was on Siros when the commando raid took place. He took the body of his son. He's stark raving mad. He must have had it buried, then after the war the bones were removed to Devil's Valley. Wired together – hidden in the mine. You know Greece well. Tell me again about philotimo.'
'And you're sure this is a smart move – what we're doing now? Driving to police headquarters to see Chief Inspector Sarris?'
'I want Florakis' fingerprints checked against their records. Look, a sixty-year-old Greek, tough as they come, lugs a transceiver up a mountain. He's gaining altitude. That suggests long-distance transmission. Who is he contacting? So secretly? I've had this lucky break before as a correspondent. You are working on one thing, you stumble across something much bigger. Yes, I think it's a smart move.'
Very little traffic at seven in the morning. They were coming close to Alexandras Avenue below the soaring peak of Mount Lycabettus. Close to the new police headquarters.
' Philotimo,' Marler began, 'is the Greek code of ethics which rules family life. No one must dishonour the family. If they do, the disgrace must be wiped out. In extreme cases by killing the culprit. Even if it is a member of that family. Only then can the family have peace of mind. Petros is just the type of man to be soaked in the creed - in the crudest and most old-fashioned way. Just the man to go to extreme lengths.'
'Just the man to go right over the edge,' Newman commented. 'I think Petros is taking the attitude Andreas cannot be finally buried until his murderer is identified and executed. Petros is crazy as a coot. Revenge is the most self-destructive force that can take hold of a man.'
'And this is the main reason we're going to see friend Sarris?'
'No. I want the fingerprints on this bottle checked. We may have stumbled into something even more diabolical than Petros' desire for revenge.'
The Thin Man. The hawk-nosed, dark-haired Sarris sat listening behind his desk. His eyes never left Newman's.
He smoked one cigarette after another. But he listened without interruption.
'That's it,' Newman ended, his voice hoarse from talking, from his ordeal at the mine. 'The skeleton at the mine, the bottle on your desk with Florakis' fingerprints. The transceiver I saw Florakis carrying up the mountain.'
'Petros has committed no crime,' Sarris responded, stubbing a cigarette. 'Yet. Funny you should come to me with this news of a possible transceiver…'
'Possible?'
'You have no proof that was the object Florakis carried. But, as I say, it is funny you come to me at this moment. Have you ever noticed weeks, months, can go by with no clues in a case? Then, bingo! Within hours the clues pour in.'
'What are you talking about? I'm damned tired.'
'Have more coffee.' Sarris poured as he went on. 'A friend of mine is what you call in England… a radio ham. Is that right?'
'Yes. An amateur radio operator. Sometimes they're helpful – pick up Mayday calls over long distances. That sort of thing.'
'My friend picked up something strange on the airwaves. Someone transmitting a series of numbers – sounds like a coded signal. At the end there are a few words in English – from the man receiving the coded signal.' Sarris leaned forward. 'So maybe the operator sending the coded signal was transmitting to England.'
'A big assumption,' Newman objected. 'English is a universal language these days…'
'Judge for yourself. My friend has a tape recorder. He recorded the entire signal. You might like to hear it…'
