Suddenly, his face was suffused with passion. His mouth opened as if he wanted to speak, but the words refused to come and he raised his stick blindly.
Lomax managed to ward the blow off and moved in close, pinning Pavlo’s arms to his sides. Behind him, a chair went over with a crash and Yanni screamed a warning from the door.
As he released Pavlo and started to turn, a brawny arm slid around his neck, half-choking him. He tried to raise his arms, but they were seized and he was dragged backwards.
The four men who had been sitting together held him in a vice half-way across thek table. Papademos got to his feet and started for the door, but the man who had been playing the bouzouki shook his head gently and the captain sat down again.
The bouzouki player propped his instrument carefully against the wall and came forward. He looked down at Lomax for a moment, his expression perfectly calm, and then slapped him heavily in the face.
Lomax tried to struggle, but it was no use, and Pavlo pushed the bouzouki player out of the way. “No, Dimitri, he is mine. Lift up his head so that I can look at him properly.
Dimitri grabbed Lomax by the hair, pulling him upright and Pavlo looked into his face and nodded. “The years have treated you kindly, Captain Lomax. You look well-very well.”
The little man with the scarred face and eye-patch had come from behind the bar and stood beside Pavlo and looked down at Lomax. Suddenly, he leaned forward and spat on him.
Lomax felt the cold slime on his face and anger boiled inside him. “For God’s sake, Alexias. What’s all this about?”
“It’s really quite simple,” Pavlo said. “It’s about my crippled leg and Nikoli’s face here. If you prefer it, there’s always Dimitri’s father and twenty-three other men and women who died in the concentration camp at Fonchi.”
And then it all began to make some kind of crazy sense. “You think I was responsible for that?” Lomax said incredulously.
“You were judged and condemned a long time ago,” Pavlo told him. “It only remains for the sentence to be carried out.”
He looked at the bouzouki player, his face like stone. “Give me your gutting knife, Dimitri.”
Dimitri took a large clasp-knife from his hip pocket and passed it across. Pavlo pressed a button at one end and a six-inch blade, honed like a razor, sprang into view.
Lomax kicked out wildly, panic rising inside him. He made a last desperate effort and managed to tear one arm free. He swung round, dashing his fist into the nearest face, but in a moment, he was pinioned again.
The hand that held the knife trembled a little, but there was cold purpose in Pavlo’s eyes. He took one pace forward, the knife coming up, and a voice said from the doorway, “Drop it, Alexias!”
Everyone turned and Lomax felt the grasp on his arms slacken. Standing just inside the door was a police sergeant in shabby sun-bleached khaki uniform, and Yanni peered under his arm.
“Stay out of this, Kytros,” Pavlo said.
“I believe I told you to drop the knife,” Kytros replied calmly. “I would not like to have to ask you again.”
“But you don’t understand,” Pavlo told him. “This is the Englishman who was here during the war. The one who betrayed us to the Germans.”
“So you would murder him now and in cold blood?” Kytros said.
Little Nikoli made an impassioned gesture with both hands. “It is not murder-it is justice.”
“We obviously have different points of view.” Kytros looked straight at Lomax. “Mr. Lomax, please come with me.”
Lomax took a step forward and Dimitri grabbed his arm. “No, he stays here!” he said harshly.
Kytros unbuttoned the flap of his holster and took out his automatic. When he spoke there was iron in his voice. “Mr. Lomax is leaving with me now. I would be obliged, Alexias, if you would not make it necessary for me to shoot one of your friends.”
Pavlo’s face was contorted in anger and he half turned and drove the blade of the knife into the wooden table in a single violent gesture.