by Tom Harper
Reed licked his spoon. “I’ve been thinking about your cave. I wonder if it’s the one in the story of Philoctetes.”
“Who?”
“Philoctetes was a Greek archer during the Trojan war. Only he didn’t make it to Troy with the fleet. He upset one of the gods—always a hazard in those days—and the offended deity arranged for him to be bitten by a snake. The wound swelled up and festered: it smelled so awful that the Greeks refused to take him any further. They marooned him here on Lemnos. Poor chap lived in a cave for ten years—until the Greeks found out from an oracle that they’d never take Troy without Philoctetes’ bow and arrows. It was actually the bow of Heracles, you see, that he’d inherited. So Odysseus came back, no doubt pinching his nose, picked him up . . . and the rest is history.”
“Is it?” Grant threw another branch into the fire, watching the sparks spit up in the darkness. “I thought the Trojan war was just a legend.”
Reed chuckled. “Of course it is. The Mycenaeans were pirates, raiders—probably not much different from Vikings. All their stories would have involved sailing around plundering cities, the bloodier the better. Afterward, as later generations reworked the stories, they decided to tidy them up a bit: introduced the beautiful princess kidnapped by the wicked eastern lothario; made the hero a wronged husband trying to rescue his wife, rather than a warlord who no doubt raped his way the length and breadth of the Aegean. Magic armor, fantastical contraptions, sea nymphs—they turned it into a fairy tale.”
Grant picked up his empty stew can and tossed it into the darkness. It rolled over the cliff edge and tumbled down to the sea, clanging like a bell as it bounced on the rocks. “Let’s hope we’re not left here as long as Philoctetes.”
Grant woke with a start. The night was cold and his shoulders were stiff from the hard earth under his blanket. He lay there for a moment, letting his ears get used to the background noise: the scratching of insects, the surge of waves at the foot of the cliff, Reed’s gentle snoring. But none of those were what had woken him. He listened again, straining his ears. It was a low sound, further away but unmistakable: the idle throb of an engine. Then, suddenly, it cut out.
Grant pushed back the blanket, patting the ground until he felt the Webley. He got up and crept quietly to the edge of the cliff. The white surf shone with an almost phosphorescent glow in the moonlight, but there was no sign of any boat.
Probably just a fisherman putting out his nets, he told himself. He craned his neck round to his right, looking for the beach where they had landed that afternoon, but it was hidden behind the headland. He thought about waking Muir, but he could imagine his scorn. Marina? He glanced back to the fire. Her blankets, like his, were thrown back into a flat heap. Where was she?
He made his way slowly away from the terraces, over the hill and down the goat track toward the cove. He heard the men coming up the path before he saw them. First the crunch of loose stones under hard boots; then a snatched curse, perhaps as someone blundered into one of the spiky bushes. Grant glanced around desperately. Away to his left, a few yards off the path, he could see the silhouette of a humped boulder. With two strides he was behind it, biting his lip against the thorns that ripped into his calf.
“Shto eta?”
Suddenly Grant was back in the war, crouched in the darkness with only the Webley for company, listening to an enemy patrol and praying they hadn’t heard him. But that war was over: now the enemies spoke Russian.
Another voice muttered something in reply. The footsteps paused; Grant crouched lower behind the rock, feeling the spines dig into the seat of his trousers.
“Shto eta bila?” A third voice. Now Grant was beginning to worry. The three men held a brief discussion, while Grant squeezed the Webley’s trigger guard so hard he thought he might snap it.
The footsteps started up the path again. Grant saw them a moment later, wending their way up the hill knee deep in scrub. His heart sank as he counted them off—five—all with guns in their hands. He didn’t dare move—if they looked back now they would surely see him.
They didn’t. Grant waited until they had crested the ridge, then tiptoed to the path and followed. He knew he should be thinking of a plan, but he needed all his wits just to keep quiet on the loose path. Beyond that, all he could think of was a simple equation: five men, six bullets. He was pretty sure Muir must be armed, but whether he could warn him in time . . . Even then, they weren’t good odds.
Grant came to the top of the ridge. In front of him the ground leveled out a little, then dipped down to the sanctuary terrace. In the far corner he could just make out the faint glow of embers and the dark outlines of the blankets spread around the fire. Muir and Reed would be fast asleep, completely oblivious to their danger. Two of the Russians were already on the terrace, creeping slowly toward them. Grant’s gaze swept across the scene. Where were the other Russians? A shadow moved on the rock wall above the terrace, just visible against the broken ground behind. Three. Something coughed at the foot of the slope and Grant saw the glint of moonlight on steel. Four. That still left one unaccounted for.
But there was no time. The two men on the terrace had almost reached the blankets. One hung back, while the other moved purposefully toward Reed. They know what they’re looking for, he thought. He craned around again. Where was the fifth man?
Never start a fight if you don’t know where your enemy is. It was a lesson he’d learned long before they taught it at SOE. But they’d also taught him: Never hesitate. The Russian was almost beside Reed. There was only one way to warn him. Keeping one eye shut to protect his night vision, Grant trained the Webley on the nearer of the two Russians and pulled the trigger.
After two thousand years, smoke and fire and hot metal filled the sanctuary of the Kabyri again. Grant saw his target drop, caught square between the shoulder blades. Surprise gave him time for another shot, he reckoned, so he turned left, sighted on the man on the hillside and fired again. Then he dived to his right, rolling down the hillside as a bullet dug up the ground where he’d just been standing. They were fast—faster than he’d expected. He twisted round. The first man he’d shot was still down, possibly permanently; the second, on the hill above, he couldn’t see. Meanwhile, at the far end of the sanctuary, he could see three figures struggling with each other. The shots must have woken Reed and Muir. That’s good, he thought. It would be hard for the Russians to shoot with one of their men tangled in with their targets. Though that meant they could only aim at . . .
A volley of bullets punctuated the thought before he finished it—closer, this time. But in the dark they couldn’t shoot without revealing themselves. Grant registered the muzzle flares—one from the hill, one from the edge of the courtyard. He aimed at the nearer one and fired. A howl of pain told him he’d aimed well—though not well enough if the man was able to shout about it. And now it was their move. Grant didn’t wait; he flung himself headlong down the hill, rolled the last few yards and came to rest behind a large block of masonry. Had they lost him? More shots and a shower of stone splinters from above said no, but at least he was behind cover now. Three bullets left. Would they try to outflank him?
He scrabbled in the earth until he found a loose rock, small enough to throw, big enough to make a noise. He lobbed it to his right. It made a gratifyingly loud rattle as it landed—but then, nothing.
Either they’ve lost interest, or they’ve wised up. At the far end of the terrace, not so far away now, he could still hear the frantic sounds of struggle. He edged round the chiselled block, trying to keep in its cover. In the dark, with only the moon for light, the wrestling shadows blended together to make a three-headed monster that writhed and roared on the ancient terrace. Then one figure split off, sprawling off-balance. That seemed to change things. The remaining two began to move—still struggling, but less viciously. One seemed to have the other locked in a grip and was dragging him across the courtyard. Grant lifted the Webley—but whom was he supposed to shoot?
> The man who had been left behind got to his feet and began to run after the others. Grant swung the gun toward him, then checked himself. Even as a blur in the dark, there was something unmistakable about him. Muir.
Two flashes—and for two instants Grant saw everything in the courtyard captured like photographs. In the first, two men were stumbling across the terrace, one dragging the other by his hair, while Muir pursued them. In the second flash Muir was down. Grant didn’t see who had fired, but he saw where the shots had come from. He fired back—twice—then, when nothing happened, once more. A heavy object toppled through the bushes and dropped on to the sanctuary floor. Grant leaped out from behind the rock, forgetting caution, and sprinted to Muir’s side. The pool of blood was black in the moonlight.
“Don’t waste your time,” Muir groaned. “They’ve got Reed.”
Grant looked around. The Russian and Reed had already vanished off the terrace, presumably somewhere in the scrub making for the cove. How many of them had he got now? Three, maybe four? For a moment he considered going back to reload the Webley—but that would take time he didn’t have. Hoping there wasn’t a Russian with his sights set on him, Grant ran across the terrace, up the far slope and down the other side. The hill dipped, rose again and spread out down to the cove. There was the boat, bobbing in the water just off the beach—and there were the men, dark shadows against the silver sand. The Russian was struggling to get Reed into the boat: standing knee deep in water, he had to cover the professor with a pistol in one hand while trying to pull the engine’s choke cord with the other.
The engine coughed into life—there was his chance. He jumped down the sandy embankment on to the beach and sprinted toward the Russian. His footsteps were soft in the yielding sand, silenced by the noise of the engine. And the Russian was still distracted with Reed. He jabbed his gun furiously, but the professor refused to move. In fact, he was slowly edging backward out of the water. The Russian fired; Grant’s heart almost stopped, but it was only a warning. The bullet burrowed harmlessly into the sand. It had the desired effect, though. Reed halted, trembling.
The Russian strode out of the sea toward Reed—just as Grant covered the last few yards. Even in the darkness the Russian must have noticed something. He half turned, but too late. Grant crashed into him. The gun flew from his hand, skidded down the beach and spun into the surf. The two men grappled at the water’s edge. Grant swung a punch that didn’t quite connect; he tried to get a hand to the Russian’s throat, but the man held him too close. Salt water splashed in his face as they rolled in the water: he was underneath now, choking as the Russian held him down.
But the tide had turned; now time was against the Russian. With a last jab to Grant’s kidneys, he let go and began wading out toward the boat. Grant got up and spat out a mouthful of seawater. Behind him, Reed was shouting something almost unintelligible.
“Stop him! He’s got the tablet.”
The Russian had reached the boat and was trying to haul himself inboard. Bruised and winded, Grant summoned the strength for one more effort. A few feet away, wet metal gleamed in the moonlight where the surf rippled over the Russian’s gun. Grant picked it up and aimed.
“Stop,” he shouted.
The Russian turned, still gripping the boat for balance. His other hand was sliding inside his jacket.
“Stop!”
Three shots rang out. The Russian screamed once, then let go the boat and slid silently into the waves. Grant spun round. Marina was standing on the beach behind him, her bare legs slightly apart, both hands holding a pistol. Though she must have run to get there, her breathing was calm and controlled.
“Why the hell did you do that?”
“He was reaching for a gun.”
“I had him covered.” Grant splashed out to where the dead Russian floated in the water and dragged him back to shore. He hauled him out of the water and laid him on the sand. A startled crab scuttled away.
“Anyway, where did you go? And what brought you here just in the nick of time?”
She looked down at the sand. “I couldn’t sleep; I went for a walk. When I heard the shots I came back and found Muir.”
“It would have been nice if you’d come earlier. They almost killed us up there.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“And the gun?”
“I took it from Muir. He wasn’t going to use it.”
Grant shook his head and looked down at the dead man. He was squat and solid, with wide cheekbones and a now permanently downturned mouth. Grant rifled quickly through his sodden pockets. There was no wallet or identification, just a penknife, a few drachma coins, and a sodden wad of brown cardboard that had once been a pack of cigarettes.
“What could they want with us?”
“Maybe this.” Grant reached into the last pocket and felt his fingers close round the hard clay slab. It was lucky Marina hadn’t shattered it when she shot the man. He pulled it out, brushed it off and handed it to Reed. “Whatever they wanted, they knew exactly where to find it.”
CHAPTER 9
Myrina, Lemnos. Next evening
Grant stood on the hotel balcony and breathed the night air. The harbor lights twinkled before him, crisp as stars, each one twinned with a flat reflected smear on the water. At that moment Grant felt like a man trying to navigate by the reflections alone.
“What do we do now?”
Grant turned round. The shutters were pulled back and the room behind him, bathed in a nicotine-yellow light, was framed like a painting. Reed sat on a chair by the dresser, apparently hypnotized by the ceiling fan, while Marina perched on the end of the bed and darned the sleeve of a blouse. Muir lay propped up against the pillows behind her, a cigarette jammed into his scowl. One trouser leg was rolled up to the knee to fit the fat bandage that wrapped his calf and shin—though the doctor who had seen him claimed the bullet had missed anything that mattered.
The question hung unanswered in the smoky air. They hadn’t spoken much that day. No one had slept after the gun battle: they had sat up through the night, twitching at every rustling branch and breaking wave. At first light they had gathered the Russians’ corpses and sunk them in their boat in the bay, weighed down with stones. Then they had sat down to wait for the fisherman. Much to Grant’s surprise, he had come.
Muir flicked ash into the ashtray beside his bed. “I want to know why the fucking Russians were there in the first place.”
“They wanted the tablet. They almost got it.” Grant pointed to the dresser, where the tablet lay on a lace mat bathed in lamplight. “Whatever it is, your Element 61, they’re after it too. Which makes me wonder: what’s so special that both the Yanks and the Soviets are so eager to have it?”
Muir stared him down. “I told you: I’m just the bag man. The real question you should be asking is, how did they find us?”
Grant poured more wine from the half-empty bottle on the balcony and threw it down his throat. “There’s a civil war going on in this country. Soviet military advisers crawling all over the place. Half the population supports the EAM.”
“Those bodies we sank weren’t a bunch of military attachés who got lost in the dark. They knew what they wanted—as you said—and they knew where we were. Even we didn’t know where we’d be two days ago. Someone told them. And you don’t have to look too hard for the bloody fifth column in this room.”
The hard silence that followed was broken by a flash and a flat bang echoing off the harbor. Grant spun round, his hand instinctively going to his hip. But it was only a firework, a prelude to the bombardment that would be let off when midnight struck on Easter Sunday.
“It’s funny how these traditions rub on with Christianity,” said Reed. “It’s such an ancient idea, trying to drive away evil spirits with loud noises.”
He had spoken to nobody in particular and nobody paid him any attention. Marina was staring at Muir, with much the same look on her face as when she shot the Russian on the beach. Though t
his time Muir had wisely kept his gun close to him. “What are you saying?” she hissed through bared teeth.
“I’m saying it’s a queer business how you went for a walk just as the Soviets turned up on our doorstep. Queerer still how you finished off that last chap before he could tell us anything. And let’s not forget the small matter of your dear departed brother.”
“He wasn’t a Communist,” spat Marina. “He was a hero.”
“He was thick as thieves with the Communist Party of Greece.”
“Because they were the only people willing to organize the resistance against the Germans when all the politicians just wanted to crawl into their pockets. Alexei didn’t care about Stalin or the dictatorship of the proletariat—he just wanted to fight the Nazis.”
“And when they were gone? Who was going to take over?”
“Did it matter?” Marina’s face burned with hatred. “Stalin or Truman or General Scobie—what’s the difference? You all just wanted to take Greece for yourselves.” She made a half-turn round the room, fixing Grant, Muir and Reed with a smoldering glare. “You know, there’s a legend that once upon a time the women of Lemnos got together and killed all the men on the island in one swoop. Maybe they had the right idea.” She stormed out of the door and slammed it behind her. For a moment the echo drowned out the fireworks in the harbor.
Muir rasped a match against the box. “Good fucking riddance.”
Grant looked at him in disgust. “You know her brother wasn’t a Communist.”
“As far as she’s concerned he was. And she’s hiding something.”
“She’s angry as hell because of what happened to her brother.”
“Then why don’t you tell her the truth about it? Is there any more wine in that bottle?”
Grant picked up the bottle of Moschato. It was unlabelled and covered in dust from the hotel owner’s cellar. He jammed in the cork and lobbed it across the room to Muir. Muir winced as he stretched to catch it.
