but just at that moment he wasn’t interested. The car had disappeared into the village’s tightly packed streets. Maybe it was just a local bigwig showing off his wealth, or an official from Heraklion come to impress the populace, he told himself.
“Do you get many motor cars around here?”
“Yorgos up the valley has a Ford.”
A few hundred yards away a black snout inched its way through the narrow lane, on to the track between the apple orchards.
Grant touched the Webley tucked into his waistband. “Were there any bullets in that ammo box?”
“Just the book. I used the bullets on the Germans.” More curious than exasperated now, she looked up. “Why?”
The car halted outside the front gate. The engine throbbed for a moment, then abruptly died away. Two men in dark hats and overcoats got out; one went round to the boot and pulled out a long, snub-nosed package wrapped in brown paper.
“Because we’ve got visitors.”
Grant squeezed through the small window at the back of the house and dropped to the ground. Round the corner he could hear the iron clop of hobnailed boots stamping up the path to the front door. Whoever they were, they weren’t worried about being heard. Grant wasn’t sure if that was good or not.
The footsteps stopped at the door and a fist thudded against it—the clumsy sound, Grant thought, of a heavy man trying to be casual. Another thud, and the tap-tap of the boots shifting impatiently.
“Maybe it’s just the man from the Pru,” Grant whispered.
A sharp crack ripped through the garden, followed by the tearing of wood and a bang as the door flew in—probably under the impact of a hobnailed boot, Grant guessed. A few moments later came the rumble of furniture being overturned and the clatter of drawers being tipped out over the floor. Next to Grant, Marina’s face was drawn in fury and he grabbed her arm, digging his nails into her wrist.
“Is there a window at the other end of the house?”
She shook her head.
“Good. Let’s go.”
Shielded by the house, they ran across the broken ground, vaulted a tumbledown stone wall and slid into a shallow gully in the hillside. Loose stones and gravel crunched underfoot, but the men in the house were making a thorough business of tearing it apart, and their noise drowned out anything Grant and Marina did. He could hear angry shouts from inside, though muffled by the walls he couldn’t make out the language. Was it English?
Lying on their bellies, they wriggled up the gully. When Grant judged they’d gone far enough he waved Marina to stop. The noon sun blazed down and his shirt was dampfrom the effort of crawling up the slope. Gripping the Webley, Grant inched himself up and peered over the lip of the gully.
The house had fallen silent. From where Grant lay, the front door and the car parked beyond were hidden, but through the living-room window, framed in the curtains, he could see a dark figure standing in the middle of the room. From the way he moved and gesticulated, Grant guessed some sort of discussion was under way. He turned to Marina. “Still got the book?”
She half lifted it to show him. A few more grazes had scuffed the worn leather binding, but otherwise it was unharmed. “Is that why they came?”
“I don’t think it was for the pleasure of your conversation.”
“Who are they?”
Grant had a fair guess, but he hid it behind a bland shrug. “No one we want to meet.”
He looked back down the hill. The dark figure had vanished. On the far side of the house an engine coughed into life and a few moments later he saw the car pull away down the road toward the village. It squeezed down the narrow lane between the houses and disappeared. Marina started to rise, but in an instant Grant’s hand was on her wrist and dragging her back down, so quick she almost fell on top of him. She rolled away with a growl of fury—as she came back up, Grant saw that a small knife had appeared from nowhere in her
“Do you get many motor cars around here?”
“Yorgos up the valley has a Ford.”
A few hundred yards away a black snout inched its way through the narrow lane, on to the track between the apple orchards.
Grant touched the Webley tucked into his waistband. “Were there any bullets in that ammo box?”
“Just the book. I used the bullets on the Germans.” More curious than exasperated now, she looked up. “Why?”
The car halted outside the front gate. The engine throbbed for a moment, then abruptly died away. Two men in dark hats and overcoats got out; one went round to the boot and pulled out a long, snub-nosed package wrapped in brown paper.
“Because we’ve got visitors.”
Grant squeezed through the small window at the back of the house and dropped to the ground. Round the corner he could hear the iron clop of hobnailed boots stamping up the path to the front door. Whoever they were, they weren’t worried about being heard. Grant wasn’t sure if that was good or not.
The footsteps stopped at the door and a fist thudded against it—the clumsy sound, Grant thought, of a heavy man trying to be casual. Another thud, and the tap-tap of the boots shifting impatiently.
“Maybe it’s just the man from the Pru,” Grant whispered.
A sharp crack ripped through the garden, followed by the tearing of wood and a bang as the door flew in—probably under the impact of a hobnailed boot, Grant guessed. A few moments later came the rumble of furniture being overturned and the clatter of drawers being tipped out over the floor. Next to Grant, Marina’s face was drawn in fury and he grabbed her arm, digging his nails into her wrist.
“Is there a window at the other end of the house?”
She shook her head.
“Good. Let’s go.”
Shielded by the house, they ran across the broken ground, vaulted a tumbledown stone wall and slid into a shallow gully in the hillside. Loose stones and gravel crunched underfoot, but the men in the house were making a thorough business of tearing it apart, and their noise drowned out anything Grant and Marina did. He could hear angry shouts from inside, though muffled by the walls he couldn’t make out the language. Was it English?
Lying on their bellies, they wriggled up the gully. When Grant judged they’d gone far enough he waved Marina to stop. The noon sun blazed down and his shirt was dampfrom the effort of crawling up the slope. Gripping the Webley, Grant inched himself up and peered over the lip of the gully.
The house had fallen silent. From where Grant lay, the front door and the car parked beyond were hidden, but through the living-room window, framed in the curtains, he could see a dark figure standing in the middle of the room. From the way he moved and gesticulated, Grant guessed some sort of discussion was under way. He turned to Marina. “Still got the book?”
She half lifted it to show him. A few more grazes had scuffed the worn leather binding, but otherwise it was unharmed. “Is that why they came?”
“I don’t think it was for the pleasure of your conversation.”
“Who are they?”
Grant had a fair guess, but he hid it behind a bland shrug. “No one we want to meet.”
He looked back down the hill. The dark figure had vanished. On the far side of the house an engine coughed into life and a few moments later he saw the car pull away down the road toward the village. It squeezed down the narrow lane between the houses and disappeared. Marina started to rise, but in an instant Grant’s hand was on her wrist and dragging her back down, so quick she almost fell on top of him. She rolled away with a growl of fury—as she came back up, Grant saw that a small knife had appeared from nowhere in her
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