“He is not even supposed to be here,” Fotis snapped. “Those troops are borrowed. He came for a trade, not a fight. Anyway, your men will know to scatter if there is trouble.”
“Who did you leave in charge?”
“The one you picked, Giorgios. What happened at the church?” Fotis finally asked.
“I’ll tell you later,” Elias answered. Two could play the game. Besides, it would not do to say he wasn’t precisely certain what had happened. “Are you sure this one has the icon?”
“You have another idea?”
“I only wonder how a man could escape that inferno. Or a painting. It may have simply burned.”
“I don’t think so. I think this bastard lit the fire behind him to cover his tracks.”
“You said he came out during the fire.”
“He lit it in front to keep Muller out. Then he escaped another way.”
“How did he know Muller was coming?”
Fotis fixed him with a rare expression: incredulity bordering on disgust.
“How else? His son. Your trained dog, Kosta.”
Of course. This conspiracy was not newly hatched; father and son had been in communication all along. Kosta had been with Elias when he told Muller the plan, and again when Elias gave Stefano the message that would flush Mikalis from the church and keep him from harm while Muller took the icon. Kosta, his most trusted man. The Snake saw understanding transform the captain’s face.
“You were deceived, my friend. The boy was the old man’s spy in your camp.”
“You knew?”
“I just realized it tonight. And so have you, don’t deny it.”
A shout from the table startled them both.
“Damn it all to hell,” Stamatis cried, tearing the page lengthwise. “Damn you both, I won’t do it. I won’t confess to what I haven’t done.” He tore the page to pieces.
Fotis moved quickly to the table, and the merchant threw the paper in his face, then sprang for the knife on the table. Dragoumis grabbed wildly and nearly caught the blade with his hand, then managed to snag the older man’s wrist before the knife could find his throat. The table leaned and the guttering flame threw wild shadows about the room as the men struggled.
Elias first reached for his pistol, but that would make too much noise. Instead, he grabbed the rope and pulled it around the merchant’s neck, yanking him back into the chair.
“Release the knife.”
It clattered to the table, and Fotis quickly snatched it up, his wide eyes narrowing in rage.
“That’s enough. Tie him there, with one hand free. We’ll have answers now.”
The captain had seen this before. Communists, collaborators, once even a German corporal, tied to a chair while Fotis worked on them with the knife. Torture had its uses. Time was wasting, and the fat thief was a likely candidate to break quickly. Still, Elias hesitated.
“Tie him,” Dragoumis demanded, his composure gone, his face flushed with blood.
A hard rap at the door, followed quickly by two more. Fotis went to the window.
“It’s Marko.”
They covered the light again, and a thickset young man slipped in. He nodded to Elias who ignored him. Marko had a way of appearing when there was dirty work to do. He was a baker’s son from a few villages away, but not with the captain’s andartes. He worked directly for Dragoumis. Fotis had shaped him, or perhaps nature had. Nothing unsettled the boy, no order was too grim. Elias believed that he had found such a one in Kosta, but Marko was the genuine item. Perhaps a lack of cleverness was the key. Kosta was clever, damn him.
“What’s happening out there?”
“They’re gathering people in the square,” Marko replied.
“They started with the old men, but now they’re grabbing anyone, even some women. I guess there aren’t enough men left. I was lucky they didn’t take me.”
“Did you kill any Germans at the church?” Fotis asked.
“One,” Elias answered.
“That’s forty they’ll shoot at sunrise. You’ll be lucky if they don’t burn the place.”
“Bastards,” said Marko.
Elias had let his grip relax, and Mavroudas slipped the noose, but only to fall like a heavy sack at the guerrilla leader’s feet.
“Captain, for the love of Christ, spare me from these beasts. You’re not like them, you’re a good man, everyone respects you.”
“Get up.”
“No, please, I beg you. Show mercy, it is in your hands.”
The merchant’s face was damp with tears, his eyes wild. Elias knew that his terror was genuine, yet there was also a staged quality to the outburst. Stamatis seized the captain’s right hand between his own in a prayerlike fashion, and fixed him with a meaningful stare. Even as he struggled to pull his hand free, Elias felt a scrap of paper being pressed against his palm.
The room’s dynamics shifted invisibly. The old thief had made his choice; the rest was up to Elias. He felt the other men’s eyes upon him and knew that Fotis rarely missed a trick.
“Let go of me, you pig.”
“No, listen, I don’t know where the boy is, I don’t-”
He clouted the merchant across the face with his left hand, rotating his body in rhythm with the blow, stuffing the paper into his pocket while his right hand was obscured from view.
“You have no friends here, Mavroudas,” Fotis said quietly, his calm restored. “Marko, put him in the chair and tie him, one hand free. Which hand do you want to lose first, Mavroudas, left or right? You see, you still have some choices.”
Marko worked swiftly. Stamatis, his last card played, nothing to distract him from the horror to come, stared stony-faced at the wall, a whimper escaping him as the knots secured him in place. Elias would not watch. It was one thing to kill strangers in a fight, quite another to slowly drain the life from a man you had known since childhood. Yet the merchant’s actions had caused Mikalis’ death. It was right he should die. So let him; Elias had other work. He headed to the door as Fotis took up the knife.
“Where are you going?”
“To find my men on the north hill.”
“Yes, good. If you must move, the old monastery, not the cave.”
“I know my business,” snapped Elias.
“Of course. Otherwise, stay on the hill and I will find you there.”
“What is the plan if he talks?”
Fotis smiled unpleasantly. “He will talk. We will discuss it when I find you. Take care, my boy.” The last words spoken in that urgent hush which convinced you of their sincerity.
Stamatis’ whimpering reached a higher pitch, almost a scream, as Elias slipped out into the night. “Put something in his mouth” were the last words he heard.
