What Lockhart hadn’t told Dietrich and Fasshauer was that he knew the area well. Apostoli was on the fringes of the Ida range, and he, Anna and Worstead had walked a lot around there during that far-gone summer. Lockhart would head for Zeus’s Cave in the side of Mount Ida, which he knew to be a semipermanent hideout. Despite the cold, and with any luck, there should be some andartes there. They might know where Manoli was, if indeed he was still alive. As the crow flew, it was only eight miles from Apostoli, but with the twisting mountain paths, Lockhart knew it to be nearer to sixteen—sixteen tough miles of icy paths and little shelter. Still, he thought, it was better than having a Hun kick your balls in for breakfast.

The road was getting steeper, and the truck slowed down to little faster than running pace. Lockhart looked up at Fasshauer.

“Get ready, Lockhart, we’re nearly there.”

Lockhart checked himself over. There was little to check. He had no gun, no food, not even a knife. Fasshauer had secured him a stinking and raggedy sheepskin coat from one of the prisoners, which gave some protection. The temperature must have dropped by nearly ten degrees since they had left the coastal climate of Rethimno.

He looked out the back of the truck. It was a clear night, which meant that he would have no trouble orienting himself. He would cut through to Kasteli, which was about an hour or two east, and there bed down in one of its two churches. He would save the slog to Ida for tomorrow—he risked getting both exhausted and lost if he tried it overnight.

“Get up.”

Fasshauer motioned him toward the back of the truck with the MP40. Lockhart did as he was ordered, and went over and sat on the tailgate, his legs dangling over the edge. He heard the truck changing gear as it slowed to a walk, bracing itself for the next climb.

“Out!” barked Fasshauer. “Get out!”

Lockhart jumped onto the road. As he stumbled, something told him that Fasshauer was going to open fire, and he started running toward some boulders over to the left. The coldness of the air entering his lungs shocked him, but he sprinted as hard as he could. But there were no shots. As he reached the boulders, he turned to see the truck continue to lumber up the road, its engine straining and belching with the effort. It then rounded a hairpin, and was gone.

Silence. As he caught his breath, Lockhart looked around. On the other side of the road lay a drop of about fifty feet, and then a space of a few hundred feet until the ground rose up as the Ida range proper began. The space was densely vegetated with gorse and thyme. Somewhere in there lay the track to Kasteli, along which he had walked before, one August day ten years ago.