“One of the terrorists from last night’s attack, Herr Oberst.”

“Where did you find him?”

“He was hiding in an old tomb about two hundred meters from the arms dump. One of the dogs sniffed him out. He came out when we threatened to throw in a grenade.”

“A tomb.”

“Indeed, Herr Oberst, I was surprised too. That whole area seems to be littered with them. No one had known they were there.”

“You are becoming a bit of an archaeologist, young Gunther!”

“I hardly think so, sir, but we did notice some broken pots down a couple of them as we searched.”

“Interesting, Gunther, very interesting. There could be some valuable stuff down some of these tombs. Go back there this afternoon with as many men as you can get your hands on and give them a thorough inspection. I’m sure Berlin would be grateful to receive some more treasures from this island.”

“Yes, sir—I could do with some culture.”

“Couldn’t we all! Now then—let’s meet this partisan of yours.”

A guard unlocked the door and led them into the dimly lit prison. A long corridor ran between the two rows of cages, all of which were crammed with dispirited and tattered Cretans. The stench was foul—the buckets in each cell were overflowing. Dietrich took out his handkerchief and covered his nose and mouth. The groaning and pleading that filled the room ceased as he walked past. Hollow eyes looked at the man who controlled their fate.

“Are some of these fresh from this morning?” Dietrich asked Fasshauer.

“Yes, sir—so far twenty have been hauled in. The rest should be here in the next hour.”

“Good. Where is the partisan? I hope he’s been kept apart.”

“Certainly, sir, he’s in solitary at the end here.”

At the back of the prison lay two small rooms, both about the size of large cupboards, which was what they had been. Now they were punishment cells, with no light, no buckets, and a small hatch at the bottom of each door through which food would be passed twice a day if anybody remembered.

The guard drew back the iron bolt and pulled the heavy wooden door toward them. Dietrich stood for a few seconds in the doorway, letting his shadow cast itself on the form in the corner of the cell. He walked in to examine his catch. Like all Cretans, the prisoner had a moustache, although this one did not seem as large as most. His hair looked finer too—not the normal thick and wiry mop found on the local heads. His clothes were in slightly better shape, although his vest was ripped so that it hung off one shoulder. Dietrich looked into the man’s eyes. They looked back at him sharply, intelligently. This was no ordinary andarte, thought Dietrich.