“It’s a sort of local fuel. Don’t worry—it’s bloody dreadful.”

The men on the shore started wading toward them. They were dressed like Lockhart, and carrying either Marlin submachine guns or rifles over their shoulders. At their head was Manoli, Lockhart’s old friend from the digs, his six-and-a-half-foot frame wading firmly through the surf. Lockhart jumped out of the dinghy.

“You took your time getting here,” said Manoli, gripping Lockhart by the shoulders.

“It was nice of me to come at all considering you gave the wrong bloody signal.”

“But we did as instructed—we flashed four times.”

“It should have been three,” said Lockhart, and then added with a smirk, “You great big idiotic peasant.”

“And you’re a pathetic excuse for a man,” replied Manoli, pulling Lockhart’s moustache. “The runner from Mr. Yanni said it was four times.”

“Never mind,” said Lockhart. “Come on, let’s get the dinghy ashore.”

The two men added their weight to pulling the dinghy in. Eight more andartes had come down from the rocks, along with five mules. It was quite a party, and their tired faces looked excited by the cargo.

“What have you got for us here, then?” asked Manoli, as they dragged the craft up the sand.

“Christmas pudding,” Lockhart replied.

“What?”

“You’ll find out next month.”

By two o’clock the mules had been loaded. The creatures looked as though they were about to collapse.

“Are they going to make it?” Lockhart asked.

“Of course!” Manoli replied. “My mules are the best in Crete. I’ve never known one to give up—if they do, they will make an excellent stew.”

“In that case they’d better bloody make it.”

The party left the beach, the tide starting to erase their presence. Lockhart wasn’t relishing the long hike. Even though they were only walking five miles, they had to make their way up muddy goat tracks to a height of two thousand feet. The Cretans measured distance in time, and they had a habit of underestimation that irritated Lockhart. Manoli had said two hours, but Lockhart knew five would be more likely.

The paths would take them to their hideout, a cave in the side of Mount Kefala, near Alones, Manoli’s village. Lockhart remembered it from peacetime, visiting Manoli’s parents in their one-roomed whitewashed cottage. It was Easter, and they had served up lamb and endless bottles of raki. Lockhart had never been so drunk—not even at May Balls in Oxford. He dimly recalled falling into a coma underneath a tree, and being woken up by Manoli telling him it was time for more raki. Lockhart had unappreciatively vomited at the mention of the word.