Stretched full length on his back in the hollow, Andrea fished out a steel mirror from his breast pocket and held it gingerly above his head. At first he could see nothing, for the darkness was deeper below and the mirror misted from the warmth of his body. And then the film vanished in the chill mountain air and he could see two, three and then half a dozen men breaking cover, heading at a clumsy run straight up the face of the hill–and two of them had come from the extreme right of the line. Andrea lowered the mirror and relaxed with a long sigh of relief, eyes crinkling in a smile. He looked up at the sky, blinked as the first feathery flakes of falling snow melted on his eyelids and smiled again. Almost lazily he brought out another charger for the Mauser, fed more shells into the magazine.
“Boss?” Miller’s voice was plaintive.
“Yes? What is it?” Mallory brushed some snow off his face and the collar of his smock and peered into the white darkness ahead.
“Boss, when you were in school did you ever read any stories about folks gettin’ lost in a snowstorm and wanderin’ round and round in circles for days?”
“We had exactly the same book in Queenstown,” Mallory conceded.
“Wanderin’ round and round until they died?” Miller persisted.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Mallory said impatiently. His feet, even in Stevens’s roomy boots, hurt abominably. “How can we be wandering in circles if we’re going downhill all the time? What do you think we’re on–a bloody spiral staircase?”
Miller walked on in hurt silence, Mallory beside him, both men ankle-deep in the wet, clinging snow that had been falling so silently, so persistently, for the past three hours since Andrea had drawn off the Jaeger search party. Even in mid-winter in the White Mountains in Crete Mallory could recall no snowfall so heavy and continuous. So much for the Isles of Greece and the eternal sunshine that gilds them yet, he thought bitterly. He hadn’t reckoned on this when he’d planned on going down to Margaritha for food and fuel, but even so it wouldn’t have made any difference in his decision. Although in less pain now, Stevens was becoming steadily weaker, and the need was desperate.
With moon and stars blanketed by the heavy snowclouds–visibility, indeed, was hardly more than ten feet in any direction–the loss of their compasses had assumed a crippling importance. He didn’t doubt his ability to find the vifiage–it was simply a matter of walking downhill till they came to the stream that ran through the valley, then following that north till they came to Margaritha–but if the snow didn’t let up their chances of locating that tiny cave again in the vast sweep of the hillsides . . .
Mallory smothered an exclamation as Miller’s hand closed round his upper arm, dragged him down to his knees in the snow. Even in that moment of unknown danger he could feel a slow stirring of anger against himself, for his attention had been wandering along with his thoughts. . . . He lifted his hand as vizor against the snow, peered out narrowly through the wet, velvety curtain of white that swirled and eddied out of the darkness before him. Suddenly he had it–a – dark, squat shape only feet away. They had all but walked straight into it.
“It’s the hut,” he said softly in Miller’s ear. He had seen it early in the afternoon, half-way between their cave and Margaritha, and almost in a line with both. He was conscious of relief, an increase in confidence: they would be in the vifiage in less than half an hour. “Elementary navigation, my dear Corporal,” he murmured. “Lost and wandering in circles, my foot! Just put your faith . . .”
He broke off as Miller’s fingers dug viciously into his arm, as Miller’s head came close to his own. –
“I heard voices, boss.” The words wer.e a mere breath of sound.
“Are you sure?” Miller’s silenced gun, Mallory noticed, was still in his pocket.
Miller hesitated.
“Dammit to hell, boss, I’m sure of nothin’,” he whispered irritably. “I’ve been imaginin’ every damn’ thing possible in the past hour!” He pulled the snow hood off his head, the better to listen, bent forward for a few seconds, then sank back again. “Anyway, I’m sure I _thought_ I heard somethin’.”
“Come on. Let’s take a look-see.” Mallory was on his feet again. “I think you’re mistaken. Can’t be the Jaeger boys–they were half-way back across Mount Kostos when we saw them last. And the shepherds only use these places in the summer months.” He slipped the safety catch of his Colt .455, walked slowly, at a halfcrouch, towards the nearest wall of the hut, Miller at his shoulder. –
They reached the hut, put their ears against the frail, tarpaper walls. Then seconds passed, twenty, half a minute, then Mallory relaxed.
“Nobody at home. Or if they are, they’re keeping mighty quiet. But no chances, Dusty. You go that way. I’ll go this. Meet at the door–that’ll be on the opposite side, facing into the valley. . . . Walk wide at the corners–never fails to baffle the unwary.”
A minute later both men were inside the hut, the door shut behind them. The hooded beam of Mallory’s torch probed into every corner of the ramshackle cabin. It was quite empty–an earthen floor, a rough wooden bunk, a dilapidated stove with a rusty lantern standing on it, and that was all. No table, no chair, no chimney, not even a window.
Mallory walked over to the stove, picked up the lamp and sniffed it.
“Hasn’t been used for weeks. Still full of kerosene, though. Very useful in that damn’ dungeon up there–if we can ever find the place. . . .”
He froze into a sudden listening Immobility, eyes unfocused and head cocked slightly to one side. Gently, ever so gently, he set the lamp down, walked leisurely across to Miller.
“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.”
CHAPTER 8
Tuesday
1900–0015
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.