He was woken by Manoli, who was shaking him hard.

“Wake up, John.”

“What time is it?” Lockhart yawned.

“It’s nearly midday.”

Lockhart looked to the mouth of the cave. It was a bright winter’s day, the type of day for a bracing cross-country run, about the only keen thing he ever did at Winchester. Other sports had held little appeal—he left those for his older brother, Richard. Richard. He had been killed in Tunisia last December, incinerated in his tank. Lockhart still hated the baldness of the telegram that left him as the only living member of the family. Mother had died in the flu epidemic of 1918 when he was five, and father was taken away by a heart attack in ’36. It was Richard’s death that had spurred him out of military intelligence in Whitehall over to SOE in its eccentric Baker Street flat. The transfer had been hard to obtain, as the department valued his languages, but Lockhart was adamant that he should fight.

He started to cough. The men had lit a fire, and the cave was filling up with smoke. They had no choice: a fire outside would mean instant detection. Even if the Germans did not spot it, they would have heard soon enough. There were plenty of villagers who were willing to collaborate.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got some breakfast going?”

“Indeed we do,” Manoli replied proudly. “Some of that delicious pudding you brought us.”

“But that’s for Christmas, you ignorant peasant!”

“We might not be around by then—I thought it best to enjoy it while we can. Besides, I was too intrigued.”

Manoli brought Lockhart a hunk of the pudding in a gray mess tin, and a cup of black coffee.

“Happy bloody Christmas,” Lockhart toasted, and tucked in with his fingers. It was the worst Christmas pudding he had ever tasted. Cairo must have made it out of camel dung. Still, the andartes seemed to be enjoying it.

After breakfast, Lockhart and Manoli sat at the back of the cave, out of earshot of the rest of the band.

“So what plans do you have for us?” Manoli asked.

“There’s not one big plan, I’m afraid. My orders are to have as much fun as possible. You’ve seen all those explosives I’ve brought. I’m sure we’ll be able to do some damage with that lot.”

Manoli chuckled. Lockhart thought his laugh rang hollow. It was not the same laugh as that of the lecherous young archaeologist from ten years ago. Manoli still remained a source of joy, but it was underpinned by grimness. His brother had been a victim of the German reprisals carried out a month after the invasion of May 1941. General Student’s paratroopers had expected to be welcomed with open arms by the Cretans: instead, many of them were shot as they were drifting down. Even the priests had joined in with the fighting, one of whom was Manoli’s brother. He had used his church in Rethimno to shelter resistance fighters, but he had been betrayed.