Lockhart checked himself over. He was dressed as a native—baggy breeches known as “crap-catchers,” a black bandanna, a thick shirt and an embroidered waistcoat. He had even grown a moustache, although it was not up to the hirsute magnificence of the typical Cretan example. Slung over his shoulder was his Sten gun, and around his chest a belt of ammunition. He slowly cocked the weapon and engaged the safety catch with his right thumb.

There was one more thing, one thing that he had promised himself to get rid of. He felt the point of his left collar. It was still there, that small bump, his ultimate escape route—his suicide pill. They called them “cough drops” at Arisaig, their training center in Scotland, although this was a medication that killed in five seconds. In theory, it meant that you never talked, you never suffered, and your friends stayed safe. It was supposed to be the honorable thing to do, because everybody cracked, running out of things to tell, until all that was left was the truth. But many of them threw the cough drops away, determined that they would never talk, and would suffer anything rather than take their own lives. If there was life, far better to hang on—let someone else kill you. Lockhart unpicked the stitching on his collar and removed the little gray capsule. He looked at it briefly, and then threw it into the water. As it landed with a tiny high-pitched splash, Lockhart hoped some poor fish didn’t regard it as a tasty morsel.

“We’re ready to go now, sir.”

Lockhart looked at the little crewman. There was a tremor in his voice, and his eyes were unnaturally wide. He must have been only twenty, yet here he was risking his young life in the middle of the Mediterranean for a man he had never met.

“Fancy some bravery juice?” asked Lockhart, pulling his hip flash from his breeches.

“Sorry, sir?”

“Well, if we’re going to get blown to bits by whoever it is on the beach, then I’d prefer to have some Talisker inside me, wouldn’t you?”

The crewman smiled gauchely—he plainly had no idea what Lockhart was talking about.

“Do you want a drink, man?”

“Oh, yes please, sir,” the crewman replied, taking the hip flash.

He swigged it, and Lockhart was surprised to see that the whisky didn’t make him cough and choke. Richard had always said that Talisker was a lot smoother than Lockhart’s “filthy” Glenfiddich. It looked as though his brother had been proved right. The crewman handed the flask back.

“Thank you, sir, that was very nice, sir.”

“My pleasure,” said Lockhart, taking a neckful. “Right—let’s get on with it then.”