‘Mind if I join you?’ he asks Tom. ‘Earl McCall – Mac. Pleased to meet you, again.’ He is young-ish, dressed in a loose brown tweed suit, Clark Gable moustache and eyebrows grafted uneasily onto an angular, knowing face. The waiter comes over with a shot glass and puts it in front of the writer, who picks it up and studies it blearily. To Tom it looks like the eye of some large reptile: an orange orb suspended in hazy golden liquid.

‘This creature is an Amber Moon,’ says the writer. ‘Turns out one of you Brits was holding out on us, hiding a case of Johnny Walker up in his room. The Fortress People’s Court decreed that he donate half of it to the bar.’ He tips the contents of the glass down his throat and shakes his head like a wet dog. ‘Ever had one? Prairie oyster with whisky. Damn functional.’

‘No,’ Tom says, laughing despite himself. ‘Never tried that. The coffee’s functional enough for me. And equally disgusting. Where are you from, McCall? You told me last night, but I’ve forgotten.’

‘Originally? From Kansas City, Missouri.’

‘Home of the Kansas City Blue Devils.’

‘That’s the Oklahoma City Blue Devils, buddy. But yeah, we got jazz. Last thing I did, before I shipped overseas, was go see Jay McShann at the Reno.’

So the conversation turns to music, and then to life stories. McCall has been in Athens since October. Before that: Italy, Normandy, the South Pacific. The other correspondents Tom has known have all worn military uniform, usually a little over-tailored, and Tom asks him about his tweeds.

‘ELAS don’t shoot at Yanks,’ McCall says. ‘They love us. It’s you guys they’re after. I got a big Stars and Stripes on my jeep, and I look like a college professor. Snipers blow me kisses.’

An idea forces itself through Tom’s hangover. ‘Been down to Piraeus recently?’

‘Sure. Day before yesterday. One of your Indian regiments did an amphibious assault across the harbour – I got myself a ringside seat.’

‘What about the outskirts? The refugee settlements?’

‘Like Drapetsona? That was where the assault went in.’

‘Like Kokkinia.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘About two – two and a half miles north of the harbour. On the slopes of the mountains.’

‘Kokkinia … wait a second. You mean Little Moscow?’ McCall pronounces it moss-cow. ‘That’s the Badlands, chum.’

‘Little Moscow …’ Tom frowns.

‘That’s what the Rightists call it. Just next door to Little Stalingrad. Yeah, I know where it is.’

‘Do you think you could get me in, with your Yankee charm?’

‘Powerful stuff, that old charm. Hmm. What’s your interest, anyway? Professional?’