There are four of them in the lead now. Some of the others are finishing off the ones back there, and some are a little slower. Shameful. He must make sure they get some proper PT. Twenty yards now, then ten, and then the lad turns around, panting, looking back at them with fear and boldness in his eyes. He must be only fifteen.

“Just leave us alone!” the lad calls out.

“Fuck you!” one of the men shouts, and the four of them pounce.

Oh yes, this is good, this is what they came here for. This little Jew-boy will regret throwing that rock. These new boots are proving worthy additions too, judging by the screams the boy gives at each kick. His face is coming up nice and red and purple under the gaslight. There’s blood in his mouth too—internal bleeding, that is, which means they are really giving it to him.

The boy tries covering his head but it’s no help. Two of them pick him up and hold him between them, while the others take turns hitting him. The boy cannot even say “Stop” anymore, just makes a strange groaning. He looks a real mess, and he’s slipping in and out of consciousness. They cannot see his eyes anymore, just a mass of bruises and cuts. Should they kill him? he thinks. Why not? Nobody will throw rocks at them again.

A whistle! The four men look back. They see the silhouettes of at least six policemen.

“Coppers!” he shouts.

They’re running once more, but this time faster than before. He is running like a superman. He feels supreme now; he feels great. They will never catch him. For he is too quick, he is too clever. One day, when the country is theirs, they will run from no one. But until then, he will live underground, plotting and waiting.

Chapter One

NOVEMBER 1943

Lockhart was anxious. They had been navigating the same three miles of coast for two hours, and still there had been no signal. The night air was clear and the sea was calm. The captain had insisted they were in the right place, although Lockhart didn’t believe him.

“Who are you going to trust?” asked the sailor. “Me, or a bunch of drunken shepherds?”

Lockhart held his tongue. Pompous naval halfwit. He didn’t want to start lecturing the man on Cretan bravery. He turned, and continued to scan the inlets for the three flashes of light.

The air was scented with thyme. The aroma brought back good memories, but now wasn’t the moment to reminisce. The last thing he wanted was to miss the signal and find himself kicking his heels back in dusty Cairo. Perhaps Manoli and his gang of andartes had been captured, tortured, shot, their families raped and deported. Those too frail to move would have been burned alive inside their homes. Lockhart slowly exhaled.