Activity in the square continued. Scattered pairs of Germans were everywhere, pounding on doors, looking for something or someone. Muller probably had a dozen false leads to pursue, fed to him by panicked villagers trying to save themselves. Elias kept within the darkest shadows, thankful for the lack of moonlight, and slipped street to street between houses, stopping at a bend in an alleyway. He found the box in his vest pocket, with only a precious few matches remaining. Drawing out the little scrap of paper with one hand, he struck a match against the cold stone wall with the other.
St. Gregori’s chapel. Spare the boy.
That was all. He touched the dying match to the paper, watched it flare brightly and vanish in ash. St. Gregori’s. A good choice. It was not in regular use, and the captain had a hard time remembering just where it was. To the north somewhere, but well off of any road. Spare the boy? How could he be serious? Did Stamatis not know what Kosta had done to Mikalis? Did he think that Elias was unaware? Why should his mercy be greater than the Snake’s, who had not lost a brother? The old thief had gone soft in his final minutes, but it did not matter.
How to proceed? He no longer trusted Fotis. It was best that he hadn’t mentioned Mikalis, for then Fotis would not trust him to act rationally. The most important thing was to get to the chapel quickly. With the icon he had bargaining power, he could still make some kind of deal. Stamatis would talk; Fotis would be directly on Elias’ heels.
The next few streets were clear of Germans, and this allowed freer movement. Stefano’s tavern was closed, no light visible inside. The Germans might have the barkeep, but Elias doubted it. Not for nothing did he trust messages to Stefano. The man was a collector of secrets but never spoke them unless the price was right, and he was skilled at arriving and departing unnoticed. Where would he be now? Not at home. The wife and child were dead; only the mother-in-law was in the house, and Stefano would not care what happened to her. He would not be walking the streets with a roundup in progress. No, Elias guessed that Stefano was sitting in the darkened tavern, waiting for the danger to pass. The captain went to the back door. There was a bolt on the inside, but Elias remembered that the bracing screws were loose. A polite knock was not going to serve. Without deliberation, he stepped back and threw his left shoulder against the door, which leaped on its hinges, making a terrible noise, but did not give. So much for surprise. The captain stepped back again, shifting his right shoulder forward and placing the bottom of his left foot on the wall behind. Killed by a nervous tavern owner, he mused in disgust; and I gave him that damn pistol! Then he sprang forward with all his strength.
The door gave, just, but the shock of the impact staggered Elias and he stumbled to the floor. He stayed prone for several seconds but spoke at once, to identify himself.
“Stefano, it’s me.”
The tavern keeper would not have willingly let him in, but would not shoot him now that he was. Empty chairs and tables loomed in the faint light from the windows. The bar stood by the kitchen entry, and Elias crawled that way. Peering around the edge, he made out a figure peering over the top. He placed his pistol against the man’s knee.
“I’m down here.”
The tavern owner jumped in surprise.
“Easy,” said the captain, rising to his feet. “Put your pistol down.” He had not actually seen a weapon, but he heard the thunk of it being released. “Light a lantern.”
“Who has oil, besides you and the Germans?”
“A candle, then.”
The low, flickering light revealed a swollen bruise around Stefano’s left eye, and his refusal to look at the captain made questions almost unnecessary, but Elias had to be certain.
“Did you deliver the message to Mikalis?” Elias asked.
“If you ask me, then you know I didn’t.”
“Who did that to your face?”
“Mavroudas. The old man.”
“To learn the message?”
“He already knew that. To persuade me not to go, to let him go in my place.”
“Beat you with one hand, paid you with the other.”
“What does it matter?”
“You’re very casual for a traitor.”
Stefano’s eye widened, the first sign of real alarm.
“I am no traitor. Did he not deliver the message?”
“You must have known that he intended more than that.”
“How am I to know what he has in mind? He threatened to kill me if I crossed him.”
“He delivered it. Then things went wrong. Mikalis is dead.”
“No.” The tavern keeper’s face collapsed, and tears welled up in his eyes. Did he think that Elias was about to execute him, or was it real grief for the life of the popular priest? Who could say? The captain wanted to strike him, but might knock him senseless, which would not serve his purposes. He stepped in close and put the pistol to Stefano’s throat.
“I should kill you, but I need you to do two things. You must not fail in either.”
Stefano nodded.
“You will go to the German major, Muller,” Elias continued.
“You’ll tell him that the business at the church was a mistake. The deal is still possible. I will bring him what he wants before sundown tomorrow, but he must not shoot anyone. If he does, everything is off. He must be alone when you tell him, and you must reach him before sunrise. Do you understand?”
Stefano paused only a moment, licking his dry lips.
“I will do it.”
Elias stepped away and put the pistol back in his belt.
“If you do, you will save many lives. But you must be swift, and you must convince him. No one can know of this, ever. It is your death if you speak.”
“Of course.”
The tavern owner’s eyes burned with sincerity, but that would pass. Such secrets got out. Someone would see Stefano and Muller together, maybe the communists would get hold of him. It was just the sort of story they wanted to hear, republicans and Germans in bed together. Stefano would say what he must to survive, or even sell the information. He was slippery, an unwise choice, but there was no one else. Kosta was gone. Elias’ other men didn’t know what he was doing, and they would never support it if they did. Every man in the village was compromised. Though who was he to judge, Elias wondered of himself; he, the most compromised man of all? All the good men were dead.
“After you see Muller, go to my father’s widow.” He would not call her his stepmother. “Tell her that her son’s body lies in the northwest corner of the crypt. She may send a man there to find him. Go yourself if she asks.”
Stefano seemed more daunted by this task than the previous one, but nodded his assent.
“Don’t fail me, Stefano. Don’t fail all of us.”
They left by separate doors. Back on the dark streets, Elias made all possible speed toward the north hill. It was low, not heavily wooded, but on this moonless night it was merely a looming shadow, and he could make out no sign of his men. He still did not know what they might have heard, or guessed. Would they welcome his arrival, or stand him against a tree and shoot him? Pressed for time, he rushed up the slope, content for them to discover him. They did. Halfway up, young Panayiotis emerged out of the shadows.
“You’re clumsy tonight, Captain. I almost thought you were a
