‘Thanks for the words of encouragement,’ Tom says. As he jumps down with his rucksack, an RAF plane, a twin-engined Beaufighter, roars over them flying low and slow, and begins to circle the Acropolis. Sandbags and concertina wire guard the approaches to where the Hotel Grand Bretagne spells out its name across its roof. More concertina wire, and a line of armoured cars parked along the front. I’m here, he tells himself. I’m here with her, and we’re breathing the same air again. He sees a cafe further down the street and starts towards it, crunching through the broken glass which lies everywhere, jaggedly reflecting the blue sky and the graffiti-covered walls: ZHTΩ H EΘNIKH ENOTHTA! Long live national unity, he translates, thinking of the verger’s wife on Moscow Road, how patient she was with him as he puzzled through her children’s books. He needs to sit and think, surrounded by Greek voices. He crosses the wide, deserted road, but as he steps onto the pavement on the other side in front of the hotel, a military policeman runs over to him. He looks Tom up and down, noting his paratrooper’s smock and beret, his rucksack and his lack of a sidearm. But he salutes smartly enough.

‘Sorry, Major,’ he says apologetically. ‘There’s a sniper about. You wouldn’t mind stepping inside for a minute while he’s dealt with, would you?’

‘I’m going over there,’ Tom says, pointing to the cafe, but just then there is a whine and a sharp crack, and the MP winces.

‘Honestly, sir. For your own good.’

‘Pretty dreadful shooting,’ Tom observes, but he catches a look of pain in the MP’s face. The poor sod will have me on his balance sheet if I catch one, he thinks, and relents. ‘All right, Corporal. I’ll just go in and have a quick cup of tea.’

‘Very good, sir,’ the MP says, with obvious relief, and heads for the doors of the hotel, Tom following him more sedately. There is a surge of gunfire from several streets away. ‘Sure those aren’t just spent rounds?’ Tom asks, but the MP shakes his head.