Jake Cazalet switched off the Codex, and Teddy said, “Well?”

So the President told him.

Ferguson sat there thinking about it for a while and then called a number in Corfu. A woman answered the phone and spoke in Greek.

“Yes, who is it?”

“Brigadier Ferguson,” he said in English. “Is that you, Anna?”

“It is, Brigadier. Good to hear from you.”

“I need that good-for-nothing rogue of a husband of yours, Constantine.”

“Not tonight, Brigadier, he’s working.”

“I know what that means. When will he be back?”

“Maybe four hours.”

“Tell him I’ll call, and make sure he’s there, Anna. A big payday.”

He put the phone down, went to the sideboard and poured a Scotch, and stood at the window savoring it. “Right, you bastard, we’re coming to get you,” he said.

At that moment, Constantine Aleko was at the wheel of his fishing boat, the Cretan Lover, halfway between the coast of Corfu and Albania, his head apparently disembodied in the light of the binnacle. It was raining slightly and there was a slight wind from the sea.

Aleko was fifty years of age. Once a lieutenant commander in the Greek Navy, he had ended a reasonably distinguished career by punching a captain in a drunken fight over a woman in a Piraeus bar.

So, he had come home to Corfu to the little port of Vitari, had used his compensation money as a down payment on the Cretan Lover, a supposed fishing boat that had the kind of engines that could take her to twenty-five knots.

Backed by his beloved wife, Anna, he had worked the smuggling trade for all it was worth, using the extensive knowledge of the Albanian coast that he had gained in the Greek Navy to his own advantage. The cigarette trade was particularly lucrative. The Albanians would pay almost anything for British and American brands.

Of course they were tricky bastards and needed watching, which was why he had his two nephews, Dimitri and Yanni, on his side, and his wife’s cousin, old Stavros. It was Stavros who brought him coffee now, as rain streamed against the wheelhouse window.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this. That Albanian bastard, Bolo, I don’t trust him an inch. I mean, he tried to do us down last time on that cargo of Scotch whiskey.”

“It’s taken care of, you old worrier, believe me. I know how to handle scum like Bolo.” Constantine drank the coffee. “Excellent. Here, take the wheel for me. I want a word with the boys.”

Stavros took over and Aleko crossed the deck, passing the draped nets, the baskets of fish, and went down the companionway. In the main saloon, Dimitri and Yanni were pulling on diving suits. There were two Uzi submachine guns on the table.

“Hey, Uncle,” Yanni said. “You think these Albanian apes will try and take us?”

“Of course he does, stupid,” Dimitri said. “Otherwise why would we be bothering?”

“Bolo owes me five thousand American dollars for this cargo of Marlboro cigarettes,” Aleko said. “I’ve good reason to think he’ll try to take them for nothing. So – you know what to do. You don’t need tanks. Just go over at the right time and swim to the other side of his boat and don’t forget these.”

He lifted one of the Uzis, and Dimitri said, “How far do we go?”

“They try to shoot you, you shoot them.”

He left them to it and went back on deck. When he went into the wheelhouse, he lit two cigarettes and gave one to Stavros.

“A good night for it.”

“It better be,” Stavros told him, “because if I’m not much mistaken, there they are now.”

The other boat was rather similar, nets draped from the mast to the deckhouse. There were a couple of men working in the stern deck, apparently sorting fish in the sickly yellow light of a lamp that hung from one corner of the wheelhouse. There was a man at the wheel, someone Aleko hadn’t seen before, and Bolo was standing beside him, smoking a cigarette. He was forty-five, a large man, shoulders huge in the reefer coat he wore, and the face beneath the peaked cap had the kind of reckless charm possessed only by the truly insincere. He came out on deck.

“Hey, my good friend Constantine. What have you got for me this time?”

“What you asked for, Marlboro cigarettes, for which you will pay me five thousand American dollars with your usual reluctance.”

“But, Constantine, I’m your friend.” Bolo took a bundle of notes from his pocket bound with a rubber band. “Here, check it for yourself. It’s all there.” He tossed it across. “Where are my cigarettes?”

“Under the nets here. Show them, Stavros.”

As Aleko quickly counted the money, Stavros removed the nets, revealing several cardboard packing cases. Bolo’s two deckhands joined him and manhandled them across. When they were finished, they stepped back over the rail.

Aleko looked up. “So, it’s all here. Amazing.”

“Yes, isn’t it, and now I’ll have it back.”

Bolo reached inside the wheelhouse and produced a Second World War machine pistol, the German variety known as the Schmeisser and much favored by Italian partisans. His two deckhands took out revolvers.

“I might have known,” Aleko said. “The leopard doesn’t change its spots.”

“I’m afraid not. Now give me the money back or I’ll kill the lot of you and sink your damn boat.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

Dimitri and Yanni, black-cowled figures in their rubber suits, were sliding under the rail on the other side of the Albanian boat. They stood up holding the Uzis ready, menacing figures.

Yanni said, “Good evening, Captain Bolo.”

The Albanian turned in alarm and Yanni fired a short burst that caught Bolo in the right arm and tore the Schmeisser from his grasp. Dimitri had already taken careful aim and loosed off a single shot that took one of the deckhands in the back of the leg. He went down and the other dropped his gun and raised his hands.

“I enjoyed that,” Aleko said. “Back on board, boys, and cast off.”

As the gap widened, Bolo stood clutching his blood-soaked sleeve, his face twisted with pain. “Damn you, Constantine.”

“You’re only a beginner.” Aleko waved. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other for a while.”

The boys went below to change, and Stavros made coffee while Aleko took the wheel. When the old man returned, he put the mug of coffee on the chart table and said, “One thing I don’t understand. Why didn’t we take back the cigarettes?”

“A bargain is a bargain.” Aleko grinned. “But I just called up the gunboat working the channel tonight. Lieutenant Kitros in command. He once served under me in the navy. I’ve given him their position, but it wouldn’t be much good without hard evidence.”

“The cigarettes?”

“Exactly.”

“You wonderful bastard.”

“Yes, I know. Now let’s get back home to Vitari.”

Vitari was a small fishing port on the northeast coast of Corfu, and home was a taverna on a hill overlooking the harbor. Anna was in sole charge, a handsome, heavily tanned woman who wore a headscarf and a traditional peasant dress in black. She was devoted to her husband, her only regret the fact that she’d been unable to bear him children.

There were a dozen fishermen in the bar, a young local girl seeing to their wants, and greetings were exchanged when the crew of the Cretan Lover entered.

“You three get a drink,” Aleko said. “I’ll be in the kitchen with Anna.”

She was at the stove, stirring lamb stew in a black pot, and turned, smiling. “A successful night?”

He kissed her on the forehead, poured himself a glass of red wine from a jug on the table, and sat down. “Bolo tried to take us.”

Her face darkened. “What happened?” He told her, and when he was finished she said, “The swine. I hope Kitros finds him. He should get five years.”

“Oh, Kitros will get him all right. I trained that young man myself.”