“And bleed to death on those six strands of barbed wire,” Miller interrupted. “Lould says they’re the biggest barbs he’s ever seen.”
“We’ll use the tent for padding,” Mallory said soothingly.
“I have a very delicate skin, boss,” Miller complained. “Nothin’ short of a spring mattress–”
“Well, you’ve only an hour to find one,” Mallory said indifferently. Louki had estimated that it would be at least an hour before the search party would clear the northern part of the town, give himself and Andrea a chance to begin a diversion. “Come on, let’s cache this stuff and get out of here. We’ll shove the rucksacks in this corner and cover ’em with earth. Take the rope out first, though; we’ll have no time to start undoing packs when we get back here.”
Miller dropped to his knees, hands fumbling with straps, then exclaimed in sudden annoyance.
“This can’t be the pack,” he muttered in disgust. Abruptly his voice changed. “Here, wait a minute, though.”
“What’s up, Dusty?”
Miller didn’t answer immediately. For a few seconds his hands explored the contents of the pack, then he straightened.
“The slow-burnin’ fuse, boss.” His voice was blurred with anger, with a vicious anger that astonished Mallory. “It’s gone!”
“What!” Mallory stooped, began to search through the pack. “It can’t be, Dusty, it just _can’t!_ Dammit to hell, man, you packed the stuff yourself!”
“Sure I did, boss,” Miller grated. “And then some crawlin’ bastard comes along behind my back and unpacks it again.”
“Impossible!” Mallory protested. “It’s just downright impossible, Dusty. _You_ closed that rucksack–I saw you do it in the grove this morning–and Louki has had it all the time since then. And I’d trust Louki with my life.”
“So would I, boss.”
“Maybe we’re both wrong,” Mallory went on quietly. “Maybe you did miss it out. We’re both helluva tired, Dusty.”
Miller looked at him queerly, said nothing for a moment, then began to swear again. “It’s my own fault, boss, my own gawddamned fault.”
“What do you mean, your own fault? Heavens above man, I was there when . . .” Mallory broke off, rose quickly to his feet and stared through the darkness at the south side of the square. A single shot had rung out there, the whiplash crack of a carbine followed the thin, high whine of a ricochet, and then silence.
Mallory stood quite still, hands clenched by his sides. Over ten minutes had passed since he and Miller had left Panayis to guide Andrea and Brown to the Castle Vygos–they should have been well away from the square by this time. And almost certainly Louki wouldn’t be down there. Mallory’s instructions to him had been explicit–to hide the remainder of the T.N.T. blocks in the roof and then wait there to lead himself and Miller to the keep. But something could have gone wrong, something could always go wrong. Or a trap, maybe, a ruse. But what kind of trap?
The sudden, off-beat stammering of a heavy machine-gun stilled his thoughts, and for a moment or two he was all eyes and straining ears. And then another, and lighter machine-gun cut in, just for a few seconds: as abruptly as they had started, both guns died away, together. Mallory waited no longer.
“Get the stuff together again,” he whispered urgently. “We’re taking it with us. Something’s gone wrong.” Within thirty seconds they had ropes and explosives back in their knapsacks, had strapped them on their backs and were on their way.
Bent almost double, careful to make no noise whatsoever, they ran across the roof-tops towards the old house where they had hidden earlier in the evening, where they were now to rendezvous with Louki. Still running, they were only feet away from the house when they saw his shadowy figure rise up, only it wasn’t Louki, Mallory realised at once, it was far too tall for Louki, and without breaking step he catapulted the horizontal driving weight of his 180 pounds at the unknown figure in a homicidal tackle, his shoulder catching the man just below the breast-bone, emptying every last particle of air from the man’s lungs with an explosive, agonised _whoosh_. A second later both of Miller’s sinewy hands were clamped round the man’s neck, slowly choking him to death.
And he would have choked to death, neither of the two men were in any mind for half-measures, had not Mallory, prompted by some fugitive intuition, stooped low over the contorted face, the staring, protruding eyes, choked back a cry of sudden horror.
“Dusty!” he whispered hoarsely. “For God’s sake, stop! Let him go! It’s Panayis!”
Miller didn’t hear him. In the gloom his face was like stone, his head sunk farther and farther between hunching shoulders as he tightened his grip, strangling the Greek in a weird and savage silence.
“It’s Panayis, you bloody fool, Panayis!” Mallory’s mouth was at the American’s ear, his hands clamped round the other’s wrists as he tried to drag him off Panayis’s throat. He could hear the muffled drumming of Panayis’s heels on the turf of the roof, tore at Miller’s wrists with all his strength: twice before he had heard that sound as a man had died under Andrea’s great hands, and he knew with sudden certainty that Panayis would go the same way, and soon, if he didn’t make Miller understand. But all at once Miller understood, relaxed heavily, straightened up, still kneeling, hands hanging limply by his sides. Breathing deeply he stared down in silence at the man at his feet.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Mallory demanded softly. “Deaf or blind or both?”
“Just one of these things, I guess.” Miller rubbed the back of a hand across his forehead, his face empty of expression. “Sorry, boss, sorry.”
“Why the hell apologise to me?” Mallory looked away from him, looked down at Panayis: the Greek was sitting up now, hands massaging his bruised throat, sucking in long draughts of air in great, whooping gasps. “But maybe Panayis here might appreciate–”
“Apologies can wait,” Miller interrupted brusquely. “Ask him what’s happened to Louki.”
Mallory looked at him for a moment, made to reply, changed his mind, translated the question. He listened to Panayis’s halting answer–it obviously hurt him even to try to speak–and his mouth tightened in a hard, bitter line. Miller watched the fractional slump of the New Zealander’s shoulders, felt he could wait no longer.
“Well, what is it, boss? Somethin’s happened to Louki, is that it?”
“Yes,” Mallory said tonelessly. “They’d only got as far as the lane at the back when they found a small German patrol blocking their way. Louki tried to draw them off and the machine-gunner got him through the chest. Andrea got the machine-gunner and took Louki away. Panayis says he’ll die for sure.”
CHAPTER 14
Wednesday Night
1915–2000
The three men cleared the town without any difficulty, striking out directly across country for the Castle Vygos and avoiding the main road. It was beginning to rain now, heavily, persistently and the ground was mired and sodden, the few ploughed fields they crossed almost impassable. They had just struggled their way through one of these and could just see the dim outline of the keep–less than a cross-country mile from the town instead of Louki’s exaggerated estimate–when they passed by an abandoned earthen house and Miller spoke for the first time since they had left the town square of Navarone.
“I’m bushed, boss.” His head was sunk on his chest, and his breathing was laboured. “01′ man Miller’s on the downward path, I reckon, and the legs are gone. Couldn’t we squat inside here for a couple of minutes, boss, and have a smoke?”
Mallory looked at him in surprise, thought how desperately weary his own legs felt and nodded in reluctant agreement. Miller wasn’t the man to complain unless he was near exhaustion.
“Okay, Dusty, I don’t suppose a minute or two will harm.” He translated quickly into Greek and led the way inside, Miller at his heels complaining at length about his advancing age. Once inside, Mallory felt his way across to the inevitable wooden bunk, sat down gratefully, lit a cigarette, then looked up in puzzlement. Miller was still on his feet, walking slowly round the hut, tapping the walls as he went.
“Why don’t you sit down?” Mallory asked irritably. “That was why you came in here in the first place, wasn’t it?”
“No, boss, not really.” The drawl was very pronounced. “Just a low-down trick to get us inside. Twothree very special things I want to show you.”
“Very special. What the devil are you trying to tell me?”
“Bear with me, Captain Mallory,” Miller requested formally. “Bear with me just a few minutes. I’m not wastin’ your time. You have my word, Captain Mallory.”
“Very well.” Mallory was mystified, but his confidence in Miller remained unshaken. “As you wish. Only don’t be too long about it.”
“Thanks, boss.” The strain of formality was too much for Miller. “It won’t take long. There’ll be a lamp or candles in here–you said the islanders never leave an abandoned house without ’em?”