‘I wouldn’t want you free to get your hands on the machine gun,’ Warboys explained loudly to Leonidas. ‘This is just a precaution.’
‘Not necessary.’ The terrorist sounded scornful. ‘I promised. I gave my word.’
‘I often give my word, but I have found that there are promises . . . and promises. I’m sure that you understand. I have also promised.’
‘To do what?’
‘To release you unharmed when we are finished . . . now, get in.’
Pete pushed him down on one of the mattresses, and had him lie there. I wished the wagon had been larger because he smelt terrible. As we pulled away through the village onto a track which descended into a shallow upland valley I turned to look at him.
He must have read my face, because he said, ‘Your soldiers chase me from cave to cave, and tree to tree for a year. I stink because I have nowhere to wash. What did you expect, an old-fashioned brigand chieftain in silks?’
He did not need to direct us, for the track led to only one farmstead – a low house with a Roman-tiled roof, a muddy yard and a couple of long, low barns. Warboys repeated the trick with the Humber. He drove it into the yard, made a circle and came to a halt with us facing our exit, and the machine gun facing the farm. I don’t know how the others felt, but I was ready to fill my trousers. I felt naked, and exposed to any madman with a gun. Leonidas told me, ‘Tell him to switch off the engine.’
I relayed that to Warboys through the small open window between me and the cab.
‘Why?’
Leonidas heard him, and replied, ‘I will call to them. They will come out for me. They are too scared to come out for you – British soldiers have been this way before.’
Warboys let the engine run for about three minutes before he turned it off. I ran another of Julie’s songs in my head: ‘Why Can’t We Just Be Friends?’ It seemed appropriate. I could hear Pete breathing deeply through his nose. He always did that if he thought he’d have to pull the trigger. Into the silence, and it was a silence – even the birds and the beasts had shut down – Leonidas spat out a few loud sentences in fast colloquial Greek. Even if I had known anything of the language he would have spoken too quickly for me.
I tried Julie London again: ‘Calendar Girl’ this time. Then the door of the farmhouse creaked open, and another small girl in a dirty, shapeless dress came out to face us. Bravery is a characteristic that manifests itself early in Greek Cypriot women. Like her predecessor she was carrying a large stick which had a grubby piece of white cloth tied to the top . . . someone had obviously rehearsed them. Then an old woman in formal black weeds followed her out into the open. She had reached that ageless stage for Mediterranean working women when she could have been anything from eighty to four hundred and forty years old. Her voice sounded strong. Commanding and harsh. I asked Leonidas what she had said. He struggled to sit up, with his hands still cuffed behind him.
‘She asked if you have come to take away the she-devil.’
‘Tell her yes.’
The old woman gave him a couple of sentences. An even older man – in his six hundreds maybe – came out and stood behind her. He walked with a stick, and his face showed pain with every step. I asked our tamed terrorist, ‘What did the woman say?’
‘She asked if I was Leonidas, and then went on to complain that my father still owed them a debt from two years ago. How could I be a famous bandit if my family cannot pay its debts?’
I heard Warboys snort, ‘How much?’
‘A few hundred mils, probably, Lion – maybe two pounds sterling, no more.’
Then the old man began to shout and wave his stick, so I asked, ‘What’s all this about? Where’s the girl?’
‘They are bringing her. The old man says she has ruined them. His sons have fallen out, and refuse to work. His daughter has run away to another farm.’
The old man hobbled closer. Pete tensed and cocked the .5 with a loud mechanical click. Leonidas said, ‘You are in no danger. Not if I am here.’
When he had approached close enough for his purpose, the old fellow pulled up his trouser leg to show a livid red and purple bruise on his shin. I noticed that he had marks on his face, and maybe the makings of another bruise. He looked as if he had been in a barney.
‘Some of my people sold the girl to this family,’ Leonidas explained. ‘She is young and strong, and spirited. Once she was broken they thought she would make a good wife for their youngest son. Instead she hurt the old man – you can see. She marked anyone who went near her uninvited. He wants his money back.’
‘How much money?’ I asked him.
Leonidas shrugged. ‘Not much.’
Now one of the barn doors swung open, and Pete moved the machine gun to cover it. Leonidas said impatiently, ‘I told you that you wouldn’t need that!’
‘And I’m the Queen of Siam.’ That was Pete. He spoke pleasantly. Pete was always at his most dangerous when he was being nice.
Two younger men emerged. A young woman dressed in the respectable married woman’s black shroud walked between them. Even though she kept her head down I could see that she was pretty – and blonde. Maybe that had been the trouble; natural blondes have often been highly prized in Greece. One of the young men had deep and recent parallel scratches on his
