He turned cold and a thrill of elemental fear moved inside him. Here on top of this mountain, standing amid the ruins of an ancient race, he was faced with the silence of eternity and the realisation of his own insignificance in the general scheme of things. Whatever a man did came to nothing in the final analysis.
That being so, he could only do what had to be done and hope for the best. He crossed the plateau and started down towards the other side of the island.
A Fine Night for Dying
The moon was rising as he went down the hill through the olive trees and he could taste the salt on the wind. The farm was shrouded in the darkness of the hollow, still and quiet with no light showing anywhere, and he ducked under a fence and moved cautiously across the yard.
An old and battered pick-up truck, relic of the war years, was parked by the porch. The radiator was still warm when he touched it and he stood for a moment, a slight frown on his face, and then mounted the steps to the porch and opened the door.
There was a slight eerie creaking from the hinges, but no other sound. He moved into the kitchen, eyes probing the darkness, and paused suddenly, aware with complete certainty that he was not alone.
A foot scraped on a flagstone and Dimitri Paros said from the shadows, “Come right in, Mr. Lomax. We hoped you’d call.”
Lomax took a quick step backwards and something exploded in the pit of his stomach, doubling him over. He sank to his knees and keeled slowly over on to one side.
A lamp was turned on, flooding the room with light, and he lay with his knees drawn up, fighting for breath while his wrists were tied behind his back.
He was aware of voices speaking together in Greek and the sound of laughter and then someone grabbed him by the lapels and hauled him to his feet.
There were two others besides Dimitri and stamped in the same mould, young fishermen in shabby reefer jackets and patched jeans. One of them was shaking with excitement and the other kept wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
Dimitri’s head was heavily bandaged, his face drawn with pain. “You’re going to die, Englishman,” he said, and his eyes were like stone. “For making a fool of me in front of my friends with your dirty tricks and for sending my father to his death in Fonchi camp.”
Lomax was managing to draw ah- into his tortured lungs once more, but his mouth was so parched that he found difficulty in speaking. He moistened dry lips and croaked, “I didn’t send your father to his death, or anyone else. He was a brave man for whom I had only respect.”
Dimitri struck him back-handed across the face. “You are not fit to speak of him.” He turned to the other two. “Get him into the truck.”
They ran Lomax out through the door, bundled him into the cab of the old truck and pushed him down on the floor. One of them climbed behind the wheel and Dimitri and the other walked round to the far side.
Lomax twisted on to his front and as the headlights were switched on, found himself looking straight at Dimitri. The bouzouki player produced a Beretta automatic of the type issued to Italian officers during the war and handed it to the other man.
“If he gives you any trouble between here and town, shoot him.”
“What do we do when we’ve got rid of him?” his companion said.
“Come straight back to the farm. I’ll be waiting to hear the good news.” Dimitri turned to Lomax. “Sorry I can’t be in at the kill, but I’ve got other business to attend to. Riki here and Nikita will look after you just fine.
They’ve got almost as good a reason for hating you as I have.”
“You’ll never get away with this,” Lomax said.
Dmitri spat full in his face. “That’s for luck, Englishman. You’re going to need it.”
He stepped back as Riki clambered up into the passenger seat and the truck moved away over the uneven surface of the yard. As they turned on to the track, Nikita moved into top gear and the roar of the engine filled the small cab.