«Remind me to apologise at some future date,» he murmured. «We have company. Give me your gun and keep talking.»

«Castelrosso again,» Miller complained loudly. He hadn't even raised an eyebrow. «This is downright monotonous. A Chinaman — I'll bet it's a Chinaman this time.» But he was already talking to himself.

The silenced automatic balanced at his waist, Mallory walked noiselessly round the hut, four feet out from the walls. He had passed two corners, was just rounding the third when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a vague figure behind him rising up swiftly from the ground and lunging out with upraised arm. Mallory stepped back quickly under the blow, spun round, swung his balled fist viciously and backwards into the stomach of his attacker. There was a sudden explosive gasp of agony as the man doubled up, moaned and crumpled silently to the ground. Barely in time Mallory arrested the downward clubbing swipe of his reversed automatic.

Gun reversed again, the butt settled securely in his palm, Mallory stared down unblinkingly at the huddled figure, at the primitive wooden baton still clutched in the gloved right hand, at the unmilitary looking knapsack strapped to his back. He kept his gun lined up on the fallen body, waiting: this had been just too easy, too suspicious. Thirty seconds passed and still the figure on the ground hadn't stirred. Mallory took a short step forward and carefully, deliberately and none too gently kicked the man on the outside of the right knee. It was an old trick, and he'd never known it to fail — the pain was brief, but agonisung. But there was no movement, no sound at all.

Quickly Mallory stooped, hooked his free hand round the knapsack shoulder straps, straightened and made for the door, half-carrying, half-dragging his captive. The man was no weight at all. With a proportionately much heavier garrison than even in Crete, there would be that much less food for the islanders, Mallory mused compassionately. There would be very little indeed. He wished he hadn't hit him so hard.

Miller met him at the open door, stooped wordlessly, caught the unconscious man by the ankles and helped Mallory dump him unceremoniously on the bunk in the far corner of the hut.

«Nice goin,' boss,» he complimented. «Never heard a thing. Who's the heavyweight champ?»

«No idea.» Mallory shook his head in the darkness. «Just skin and bones, that's all, just skin and bones. Shut the door, Dusty, and let's have a look at what we've got.»

A minute passed, two, then the little man stirred, moaned and pushed himself to a sitting position. Mallory held his arm to steady him, while he shook his bent head, eyes screwed tightly shut as he concentrated on clearing the muzziness away. Finally he looked up slowly, glanced from Mallory to Miller and back at Mallory again in the feeble light of the newly-lit, shuttered lantern. Even as the men watched, they could see the colour returning to the swarthy cheeks, the indignant bristling of the heavy, dark moustache, the darkening anger in the eyes. Suddenly the man reached up, tore Mallory's hand away from his arm.

«Who are you?» He spoke in English, clear, precise, with hardly a trace of accent.

«Sorry, but the less you know the better.» Mallory smiled, deliberately to rob the words of offence. «I mean that for your own sake. How are you feeling now?»

Tenderly the little man massaged his midriff, flexed his leg with a grimace of pain.

«You hit me very hard.»

«I had to.» Mallory reached behind him and picked up the cudgel the man had been carrying. «You tried to hit me with this. What did you expect me to do — take my hat off so you could have a better swipe at me?»

«You are very amusing.» Again he bent his leg, experimentally, looked up at Mallory in hostile suspicion. «My knee hurts me,» he said accusingly.

«First things first. Why the club?»

«I meant to knock you down and have a look at you,» he explained impatiently. «It was the only safe way. You might have been one of the W.G.B.… Why is my knee--?»

«You had an awkward fall,» Mallory said shamelessly. «What are you doing here?»

«Who are you?» the little man countered.

Miller coughed, looked ostentatiously at his watch.

«This is all very entertainin', boss—»

«True for you, Dusty. We haven't all night.» Quickly Mallory reached behind him, picked up the man's rucksack, tossed it across to Miller. «See what's in there, will you?» Strangely, the little man made no move to protest.

«Food?» Miller said reverently. «Wonderful, wonderful food. Cooked meat, bread, cheese — and wine.» Reluctantly Miller closed the bag and looked curiously at their prisoner. «Helluva funny time for a picnic.»

«So! An American, a Yankee.» The little man smiled to himself. «Better and better!» -

«What do you mean?» Miller asked suspiciously.

«See for yourself,» the man said pleasantly. He nodded casually to the far corner of the room. «Look there.»

Mallory spun round, realised in a moment that he had been tricked, jerked back again. Carefully he leaned forward and touched Miller's arm.

«Don't look round too quickly, Dusty. And don't touch your gun. It seems our friend was not alone.» Mallory tightened his lips, mentally cursed himself for his obtuseness. Voices — Dusty had said there had been voices. Must be even more tired than he had thought… .

A tall, lean man blocked the entrance to the doorway. His face was shadowed under an enveloping snow-hood, but there was no mistaking the gun in his hand. A short Lee Enfleld rifle, Mallory noted dispassionately.

«Do not shoot!» The little man spoke rapidly in Greek. «I am almost sure that they are those whom we seek, Panayis.»

Panayis! Mallory felt the wave of relief wash over him. That was one of the names Eugene Viachos had given him,. back in Alexandria.

«The tables turned, are they not?» The little man smiled at Mallory, the tired eyes crinkling, the heavy black moustache lifting engagingly at one corner. «I ask you again, who are you?» -

«S.O.E.,» Mallory answered unhesitatingly.

The man nodded in satisfaction. «Captain Jensen sent you?»

Mallory sank back on the bunk and sighed in long relief.

«We are among friends, Dusty.» He looked at the little man before him. «You must be Louki — the first plane tree in the square in Margaritha?»

The little man beamed. He bowed, stretched out his hand.

«Louki. At your service, sir.»

«And this, of course, is Panayis?»

The tall man in the doorway, dark, saturnine, unsmiling, inclined his head briefly but said nothing.

«You have us right!» The little man was beaming with delight. «Louki and Panayis. They know about us in Alexandria and Cairo, then?» he asked proudly.

«Of course!» Mallory smothered a smile. «They spoke highly of you. You have been of great help to the Allies before.»

«And we will again,» Louki said briskly. «Come, we are wasting time. The Germans are on the hills. What help can we give you?»

«Food, Louki. We need food — we need it badly.»

«We have it!» Proudly, Louki gestured at the rucksacks. «We were on our way up with it.»

«You were on your way… .» Mallory was astonished. «How did you know where we were — or even that we were on the island?»

Louki waved a deprecating hand.

«It was easy. Since first light German troops have been moving south through Margaritha up into the hills. All morning they combed the east col of Kostos. We knew someone must have landed, and that the Germans had blocked the cliff path on the south coast, at both ends. So you must have come over the west col. They would not expect that — you fooled them. So we came to find you.» -