I felt my hollow belly somersault — not because I’d spared the woman, but because the idea of killing civilians, even those opposing us, was utterly repellent to me. Having been led to understand that the Cretans would welcome us with open arms, I had never thought that I might have to kill them. Wachter wouldn’t have either, but for him it didn’t matter. His fellow soldiers were in danger, so the opposition merited the magazines he had emptied into them.

‘Did you, Private?’ Blatter asked, his grey eyes locking on to mine.

I hesitated, and then nodded. ‘Yes, Captain.’

He slapped me hard on the back. ‘Good man! You set a fine example.’

Then he turned away and started talking about tactics with Lieutenant Horsmann and the sergeant.

Wachter and I drank deeply. He ate some bread, but I couldn’t have forced anything solid down. I was thinking about the woman who charged me — the hatred and harshness in her eyes and expression, even when she was on the ground and helpless. She reminded me of the woman in Delacroix’s painting Liberty Leading the People, which had been a favourite of my history teacher, even though her black clothes had not slipped down her shoulders. I suppose there was something sexual in the way I thought of her, despite her clear abhorrence of me and all I stood for, but I could no more have raped her than I could have killed her. I knew she was a worthier human being than I was, a better person than all the men around me.

‘Very well, paratroopers,’ Captain Blatter called. ‘We move on the airfield. Radio contact has not been established, but I hope to join up with other units on the way. Even if not, there are enough of us to clear the skulking British out of their positions.’ He looked around us, his eyes bright in the early summer sun. ‘Remember, the landing strip at Maleme is the key to this part of the assault on Crete. Take it and there will be thousands of our comrades on the island in hours.’

We made ready to move off, heavily laden with weapons and ammunition, but the captain hadn’t finished.

‘Remember this also,’ he said firmly. ‘This is a battle. There is no place for mercy when the stakes are so high. Until further orders, no prisoners will be taken. Scouts, move out!’

I watched as lightly armed men headed towards the bridge. Glancing around, I saw that none of the others seemed unduly affected by Blatter’s penultimate order. Was I the only one who found the sudden cancellation of one of our commandments sickening?

As it turned out, I wasn’t, but that made no difference at all.

Mavros was walking across the wide reception area when another elderly man accosted him. Unlike Kersten, he was of scarcely medium height and heavily built, walking at a brisk pace over the marble.

‘David Waggoner,’ he said, extending a hand. The accent was Queen’s English and the words clipped.

Mavros took it, feeling strong pressure, and introduced himself.

‘You’re wondering who I am, old chap. Come over to that sofa and all will be revealed.’ Waggoner smiled beneath a tidy pepper-and-salt moustache. His hair, which was considerably whiter, was short at the back and sides.

Mavros followed him, noting perfectly polished brown shoes, cream cavalry twill trousers and a dark-blue jacket. The old man had obviously been in the services.

‘I hear you’re looking for Maria Kondos,’ Waggoner said, after they’d sat down together. ‘Gin and tonic,’ he called to a passing waiter. ‘Join me?’

Mavros shook his head. ‘Too early for me. Water, please.’ He paused. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, how do you know what I’m doing?’

‘My dear boy, everyone on the crew knows why you’re here.’

Great, thought Mavros — though maybe he could turn that to his advantage. ‘So you’re on the crew?’

‘Indeed I am,’ the old man said proudly. ‘Allied forces consultant. I was in the Hussars here during the battle, and then came back with SOE. The Special-’

‘Operations Executive,’ Mavros completed.

‘Smart fellow. Do you have British blood?’

The tone of the question irritated Mavros and he was tempted to play the well-educated Greek. He restrained himself, needing to keep Waggoner cooperative.

Perhaps he had information about the missing woman to pass on.

‘My mother,’ he said.

‘Ah, I see.’ The former military man’s eyes were slightly clouded, perhaps from incipient cataracts. Their softness was in marked contrast to his hand movements, which were rapid and percussive. ‘Thank you, my man,’ he said, signing the bill and rewarding the waiter with a five-euro tip before taking a heavy pull from his drink. ‘I can use the film production’s tab,’ he explained.

‘I take it you know Mr Kersten,’ Mavros said, before he had finished drinking. That provoked the abrupt removal of the glass from Waggoner’s lips.

‘ OberleutnantRudolf Kersten? Winner of the Iron Cross, First Class? Indeed I do, Mr Mavros. In fact, he’s the reason I wanted to have this little chat.’

‘Really?’ Mavros tried to keep the pricking up of his ears metaphorical. ‘How so?’

‘Don’t trust him,’ David Waggoner said, the words a clear order.

Mavros’s glanced down at the old soldier’s tie, regimental with a very tight knot, before rising again to meet the hazy blue eyes. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Exactly what I say.’ Waggoner took another slug of gin and tonic.

‘Would you care to elaborate?’ Mavros asked, suddenly aware that he was unintentionally copying his interlocutor’s formal English. ‘Does this have anything to do with Maria Kondos’s disappearance?’

‘Oh, I don’t think so, but anything’s possible.’

‘Did you know Ms Kondos?’

‘By sight, yes. I deal with the production assistants and the scriptwriters most of the time, but I saw her on location with the big star.’

Mavros picked up on the sarcasm. ‘You don’t like Cara Parks?’

‘Fine-looking young woman, but not my idea of a Cretan peasant girl.’ Waggoner twitched his head. ‘Then again, this film doesn’t greatly concern itself with historical accuracy.’

‘That must be frustrating for a veteran like you,’ Mavros said. ‘And for Mr Kersten.’

David Waggoner’s lips twisted. ‘That old fraud has never cared for historical accuracy, I can assure you. He’s never cared for anything or anyone except himself.’

Mavros waited for more, but the volcano seemed to have exhausted itself.

‘Anyway, I wanted to make your acquaintance,’ the old soldier said, getting up and handing over a card. ‘Feel free to ring me if you need any help on the island. I gather you’re an Athenian. You’ll find things are rather different down here. I built up a lot of contacts during the war and I live here year round.’

Mavros watched David Waggoner march away across the hall — another one to be checked out.

After eating a sandwich in one of the Heavenly Blue’s numerous bars, Mavros spent the afternoon following up leads. He was called by the hotel’s security manager, one Renzo Capaldi, and told that Maria Kondos had not left in any of the hire car company’s vehicles. He went back to room 243 and checked the mobile phone. Although it was an advanced model, the messaging service hadn’t been activated, which seemed odd — unless she never turned it off and answered every call. There were no texts in either the in- or out-box, which also struck Mavros as unusual, though, again, maybe she always spoke rather than wrote. The possibility that someone — perhaps the missing woman herself — had deleted texts couldn’t be discounted, though the fact that none had been received recently suggested it wasn’t a mode she employed much.

Then he got somewhere. There was a missed call, timed at 9.21 on Sunday evening. He checked the code with the switchboard — it was that of a village called Kornaria, about thirty kilometres away in the foothills of the White Mountains, he was told. He came up with a cover story and pressed ‘Call Back’ on Maria Kondos’s mobile.