The penalty was swift. The men found in the church were led into the town square to be hanged. Manoli’s brother had pleaded with the German officer to spare the men’s lives, offering his life in exchange. The officer, an Oberstleutnant Walther Dietrich, agreed, and Manoli’s brother was indeed hanged. His body was left there for two weeks. The men were shot shortly afterward.

Manoli heard about his brother’s death while he was hiding in the hills outside Rethimno. He did not speak and barely moved for two days. On the third day he went back to Alones, where he told his parents. The villagers said they could hear the wailing from the top of Mount Kefala. His parents warned Manoli not to let his heart grow cold, but the advice was fruitless. The loss had changed him, eradicating much of his laughter, making him hard. His father died a year later at the age of fifty-seven. Manoli blamed his death on the Germans. His mother pleaded with him not to continue as an andarte, but his mind was made up. He would kill as many of them as he could.

Lockhart looked at his old friend.

“How are you, Manoli?”

“Not so bad.” The big man slumped.

“And your mother?”

“She’s not too bad. I haven’t told her you were coming. You know what she’s like—the whole of Crete would know by lunchtime.”

“At least she’s still gossiping.”

“Oh yes, that hasn’t changed. But the gossip is no longer about who’s run off with who, or whose son has been caught stealing sheep. It’s all about death. Just death.”

“I’m sorry, Manoli.”

“Don’t be. You’re here, and that brings me a lot of happiness. How is Anna?”

Lockhart looked at his boots. He’d known Manoli would ask him sooner or later. He took a deep breath.

“The truth is, I don’t know, Manoli. I don’t even know if she’s still alive.”

Manoli frowned.

“How do you mean? Has she disappeared?”

“Worse. She’s been taken prisoner by the Germans.”

“How?”

“She was in Holland when it was invaded. She was there with her mother, trying to persuade her to come and join us in England. But just as she was about to leave, the paratroopers landed and she was stuck. I didn’t hear a word from her for two months, and then the Foreign Office told me that they had heard via the underground that she was alive. I remember asking a chum there if they could do anything, and all he said was, ‘What do you want us to do? Declare war again?’ I nearly decked him, but he had a point.”

“But why is she in prison?”

“About two years ago, I found out via the Resistance that Anna had been locked up in Vught concentration camp in Holland. She had been caught working on an underground newspaper, writing articles about the evil of Nazism.”

“Is there anything you can do?”