'He has left for good?'Lazaros demanded.

I said: 'He'll never get another hall porter's job. Not at his age.'

Kapotas shrugged. 'He has not been paid for so long, so perhaps I cannot blame him, but… with a full partner coming in tomorrow from Harbome, Gough…'

Ken nodded at the ledgers. 'Maybe there's something in there' he's afraid the partner will spot.'

Kapotas glanced at the stack of books. 'No. I am a good accountant. I do not say I would want to be Sergeant Papa on Judgment Day when those books learn to speak, but now they are dumb. However he cheated, he kept it small and regular… That is also good advice, if you want to juggle account books.' He took a long sip at his whisky.

Lazaroslooked stern. 'You should have told me he called you.'

Kapotas shrugged again. Ken asked: 'What did you want him for?'

'Don't you think he listened to that call to Jerusalem?'

'Yees… Bruno didn't speak much Arabic… I suppose Gadulla would speak English, running a shop like that…'

I said: 'Don't you know where Papa lives, then? '

Lazarosnodded. 'He owns a… a guest house just by Ky-renia. He makes his old mother be the housekeeper there.' That sounded like our Papa's well-known way with women, all right.

Lazaroslit another cigarette and stared at his beer. Ken asked: 'But why resign? – he may not have been paid, but he was still making money here.'

I said: 'Maybe his dear old mum finally got the staggers and he has to run the place himself.'

'Maybe he had a big inheritance,' said Kapotas gloomily. 'With his luck, he might.'

Ken looked at him sharply.

Then Lazaros said: 'Damn, I shall drive over and see him. Now.' He stood up.

'Why not ring him?' I suggested.

His long face tightened into something like a sneer. 'To give him time to invent some good lies, perhaps?' And he went out. We heard the glass front doors swing shut.

Ken took a deep breath, seemed about to say something, then didn't. Kapotas finished his whisky, collected the account books and stood up. 'I will just see that everything is secure and the cooks have not stolen the breakfast.'

'Are you staying the night?' Ken asked.

Kapotas nodded sadly. 'Without Sergeant Papa…'

'Can I make a phone call?'

'Help yourself. You will, anyway.' He went out.

'Who to?' I said quietly. 'Papa?'

He nodded. 'There must be some staff book with their private numbers.' He went and began routing under the counter in front of the switchboard.

I carefully poured the last of Lazaros's beer into my own glass, which seemed to need it, and started lighting a pipe. It still wasn't much past 9.30 and the sandwiches had mopped up most of my weariness.

I was still only on my third match when Ken came back in, looking thoughtful. I asked: 'Did you get him?'

'Yes, but… something odd. He sounded a bit strained, like. I don't think he was alone. I didn't say what it was about, but I said the Inspector was coming… rather wish I hadn't. Hell,' he shook his head in a mind-clearing gesture. 'Let's get over there. We can use Kapotas's car.'

'What can we do that Lazaros can't?'

'Get there first. He's got to go the long way round. Kapotas!' he shouted.

I'd forgotten that aspect of the routes to Kyrenia. On the map, it's on the sea about fifteen miles due north along an easy road that runs over a pass in the coastal range. But from Nicosia to the pass is all Turkish-Cypriot territory: no Greeks wanted today, thank you. So Lazaros would have to take a forty-mile swing out west, around the end of the range through Myrtou or Larnaka, and back in on the coast road.

We went north. It took us a while to untangle from the Saturday night traffic, but then we were out in the dark, with big notices saying we were welcome tofree Cyprus skimming past at the fringe of the headlights. On a clear straight road, the Escort station wagon got the wind up her tail. From the mile-ometer I'd guess she was only just run in, which might account for some of Kapotas's reluctance in lending her – but either we were getting faster at talking him into things or he was getting defeatist by now. Anyway, I reckon that if a car will do sixty on that sort of road then itshould do sixty.

After a while, I said: 'When you say "scramble" I'm old enough not to ask why – but nowd'y ou mind telling me why?'

'Sure. I've just been admiring your driving.' He sounded just a little breathless.

'Thank you. Do you think the Prof really said something in that call to Jerusalem?'

'I'm bloody sure he didn't. Bruno wouldn't even give his right name on an open line to a Jerusalem Arab.'

'D'you think the Israelis would-?'

'It doesn't matter what they would; it's just a risk he wouldn't take.'

'So…?'

'So the phone call was just to make sure Gadulla was still there, or something like that. So there had to be a letter to follow it up.'

'Two letters. Damn. And I only got one off Papa. Sorry.'

The station wagon hit a rut on a bend and its unladen rear end got slightly airborne. I twitched the wheel here and there and we got back to straight-and-level. I let the speed drift down to fifty.

Ken said:'Thank you… I suppose Papa would choose the Jerusalem letter because it related to the phone call. Bruno may have dropped some sort of hint – and anyway, if the call was in English the letter would be, too.'

The road began to climb, then hooked right, riding up the shoulder of the hills. Raw rock and splashes of sand glowed in our lights. We'd done over ten miles by now; just over the pass and we'd be in sight of Kyrenia itself.

Suddenly, almost too suddenly, we were at the Turkish 'frontier', just a sentry box and an armed Turkish National Guard waving us down sharply. I suppose we were a bit suspicious, at that speed and at that time and in a car that didn't look as if it belonged to a tourist.

A dark wary face with a big moustache peered in at me.

I said: 'Evening. We're a bit late for a party in Kyrenia. D'you want to see my passport?" It didn't matter much what I said: I just wanted him to get my pure English accent.

He grunted and flashed a torch past me at Ken, who was already holding up his passport. 'Is your car?'

'No, our hire car broke down and the hotel lent us this one.'

He swung the torch and searched the back of the car, then grinned vividly. 'Hokay. Have good party.' He waved us on with the Thompson – without a magazine in, thank God.

I steamed off at a gentler speed. Now we were in a sort of no-man's-land, theoretically patrolled by the United Nations when they weren't throwing punches at me in the Atlantis Bar and Grill. Tonight, we didn't see a thing, and probably wouldn't until almost Kyrenia; the Greeks don't usually bother to man their own roadblocks.

I asked: 'Any idea where Papa's house is?'

'Out west, a bit up the coast.' He picked a road map off the plaited cloth atop the dashboard and turned it over to look at the town plans. 'Go in as far as the Town Hall and turn left for Lapithos.'

We came over the crest and started down in gentle swirling curves towards the twinkling lights of the coastline. No lights nearer than a mile, maybe- -except the lights of a parked car. Instinctively, I braked. Our own headlights swung across a bright blue Volkswagen.

Ken said: 'I've seen one like that parked by the hotel.' Maybe I had myself; I braked down to a stop and slipped the lever into neutral. A gun flashed and cracked in the Volkswagen.

Then we were out on the road, rolling and scrabbling for the back of the Escort. Another shot. We huddled in cover, Ken untangling the Smith from his inside pocket. Without any fuss, the Escort began to roll gently away from us. On hands and knees, we scuttled after it, heading towards but past the Volkswagen.