Ah, the funeral, she thought, struggling to find the energy to proceed with the arrangements. Several of the hotel staff had offered to help. Rudi had always said that he wanted to be cremated and his ashes thrown to the winds, but that was not done in Greece and she didn’t want either the expense or the trouble involved in shipping his body to the nearest crematorium in Bulgaria, a country neither of them had ever visited. She wondered whether to ask the priest at Makrymari if her husband could be buried outside the cemetery wall. He had given plenty of money to the village over the years, even helped to rebuild the church, but she wasn’t sure if she wanted to impose on the descendants of the massacre. It didn’t seem right. The easiest thing would be to bury Rudi in the grounds of the Heavenly Blue, but she had a feeling the new owners would not like that.
The phone started to ring. For a while she left it untouched, then picked it up and murmured her name.
‘Grandma?’ came Oskar’s voice. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve been out of town. I only heard a few minutes ago. I’m on my way.’
‘No!’ Hildegard said, surprising herself by the strength of her voice. ‘No, Oskar, not tonight. I am. . I am very tired.’
‘You don’t sound tired.’
‘What’s that? I can hardly hear you. Where are you?’
‘In a bar,’ her grandson shouted. ‘Raising a glass to Grandpa’s memory.’
As if you ever cared about your grandfather, Hildegard thought.
‘I’ll come tomorrow and help you sort out the coin collection,’ he continued, making no effort to conceal his interest it. ‘You know Grandpa would have wanted me to have it.’
‘I know no such thing, Oskar. The collection is to be split between various museums.’
All she could hear was shouting and the thump of loud music.
‘That. . that cannot be,’ her grandson said, his voice cracking. ‘The coins are for me.’
‘Come over tomorrow and I’ll show you the will,’ Hildegard said firmly. ‘Goodnight.’
After she had replaced the handset, it struck her that she had put herself in a difficult, even dangerous position with Oskar. She would tell Mr Capaldi to let her know when Oskar entered the resort.
It was only when she kicked the bottom of the desk by mistake that a narrow drawer she had never seen before slipped silently open. Inside was a long knife in a canvas and steel sheath. Slowly she bent forward and picked it up, then pulled the silvery blade out. The pommel was in the rough shape of an eagle’s head and the grip was dark wood.
Hildegard Kirsten shivered. She had no idea why her husband had kept the fearsome Wehrmacht bayonet, nor why its blade was so brightly polished. Then she noticed something else in the drawer — a silver double axe head about ten centimetres across. She recognized it as a Minoan labrys and was aware that Rudi had donated several to museums of Crete and the mainland. She also knew that it had religious significance related to the moon and the mother goddess. But why had her husband kept this one? She was almost certain it was because of his obsession with the woman in the war. That made her feel small and insignificant.
Mavros and Mikis looked round the corner towards the Black Eagle. There were a few misguided tourists sitting outside the bar, but no skinheads.
‘Clear about what we’re going to do?’ Mavros asked, his mouth suddenly dry.
The Cretan nodded, the large pistol under his shirt, which hung loosely over his jeans.
‘All right. . action!’
They walked down the narrow street, keeping close to the walls on the same side as the Black Eagle. When they got to the edge of the bar, Mikis took a cautious look inside.
‘They’re here,’ he said. ‘All three of the bastards who wrapped you up plus that German tosser we took the coins from.’
‘Any other neo-Nazi types?’
‘Not as many as last time. Maybe ten.’
‘So it’s fourteen to two,’ Mavros said, his blood up. ‘Or rather three, including Mr Colt.’
‘Mr Colt has an eight-round clip,’ Mikis said, smiling wickedly.
‘Fourteen to ten, then. Piece of piss. Your move.’
The Cretan steeled himself, and then marched quickly into the bar. Mavros kept close behind him. The three men were seated round a metal table, bottles of lager in front of them. Mikis reached the shortest of them before anyone noticed and stuck the pistol’s muzzle in his ribs.
‘Outside,’ he shouted, above the din of the music. ‘Only you.’
The other two had started to get up, but they sat down again when they saw the Colt. Meanwhile, Mavros leaned over Oskar Mesner, who was at another table, and spoke into his ear loudly.
‘You see the pistol my friend’s holding on that fucker over there?’
Mesner nodded rapidly.
‘Well, I’ve got another one,’ Mavros said, patting his waist. ‘Get up and walk slowly to the street.’
The German obeyed, but as they reached the gaping French windows, he squealed for help in his own language. Mavros pushed him out, while Mikis turned back to the occupants of the Black Eagle, left arm wrapped round his captive’s neck.
‘Come on, if you’ve got the balls!’ he challenged, holding up the pistol.
One of the Greek skinheads stood up, shouting, ‘At them, boys, there are only two-’
The blast of the Colt was thunderous, despite the death metal that had been playing and which abruptly stopped. The skinhead looked at the large hole that had appeared in the plaster behind him and crashed back down on his chair.
‘Seven more rounds,’ Mikis said. ‘Anyone fancy his chances?’ He looked around at the cowed young men. ‘What a surprise. And don’t even think about coming after us.’
Mavros had stuffed a handkerchief into Mesner’s mouth as the tourists outside the Black Eagle scurried away down the street. He and Mikis, who had gagged the other man, went the other way. The Jeep had been left as close as possible and they were soon there, with no one on their tails.
‘Put your hands out,’ Mavros ordered the two men. ‘Remember this?’ he said to the Greek. He wrapped duct tape around the proffered wrists as Mikis did the same with Oskar Mesner. Then the two men were shoved into the back of the Jeep.
‘Here,’ Mikis said, handing the Colt to Mavros. ‘If they move, shoot them in the knee. At this range, they’ll lose a leg, but they’ll still have time to spill their guts.’
Mesner and the shaven-headed Cretan sat stiller than statues, even when Mikis went round corners. Ten minutes later they were out of the urban sprawl and in another ten were bumping over a rough track between lines of olive trees. Mikis stopped the Jeep in a small clearing and went to the back of the vehicle. He returned with two spades.
‘Out!’ he said, hauling the Greek from the back seat.
Mesner followed meekly, his eyes bulging.
Mikis led them into the beam of the headlights and cut the tape from their wrists, laughing as they winced when he ripped the strips off. Mavros was to the rear, covering them with the pistol. Mikis gave each of the captives a spade and stepped back.
‘Start digging,’ he ordered, and then made the appropriate movement to enlighten Mesner. ‘Don’t look so surprised,’ he said, in English. ‘Your fucking soldiers made resistance fighters and civilians do this often enough in the war.’