Alistair Maclean - The guns of Navaronne

«I understand,» Mallory said grimly. «But Panayis—»

«He should have died. But he is tough, that one, tougher than a knot in an old carob tree. Friends cut him down during the night, took him away into the hifis till he was well again. And then he arrived back in Navarone, God knows how. I think he came from island to island in a small rowing-boat. He never says why he came back — I think it gives him greater pleasure to kill on his own native island. I do not know, Major. All I know is that food and sleep, the sunshine, women and wine — all these are nothing and less than nothing to the dark one.» Again Louki crossed himself. «He obeys me, for I am the steward of the Vlachos family, but even I am afraid of him. To kill, to keep on killing, then kill again — that is the very breath of his being.» Louki stopped momentarily, sniffed the air like a hound seeking some fugitive scent, then kicked the snow off his boots and struck off up the hill at a tangent. The little man's unhesitating sureness of direction was uncanny.

«How far to go now, Louki?»

«Two hundred yards, Major. No more.» Louki blew some snow off his heavy, dark moustache and swore. «I shall not be sorry to arrive.»

«Nor I.» Mallory thought of the miserable, draughty shelter in the dripping rocks almost with affection. It was becoming steadily colder as they climbed out of the valley, and the wind was rising, climbing up the register with a steady, moaning whine: they had to lean into it now, push hard against it, to make any progress. Suddenly both men stopped, listened, looked at each other, heads bent against the driving snow. Around them there was only the white emptiness and the silence: there was no sign of what had caused the sudden sound.

«You heard something, too?» Mallory murmured.

«It is only I.» Mallory spun round as the deep voice boomed out behind him and the bulky, white-smocked figure loomed out of the snow. «A milk wagon on a cobbled street is as nothing compared to yourself and your friend here. But the snow muffled your voices and I could not be sure.»

Mallory looked at him curiously. «How come you're here, Andrea?»

«Wood,» Andrea explained. «I was looking for firewood. I was high up on Kostos at sunset when the snow lifted for a moment. I could have sworn I saw an old hut in a gully not far from here — it was dark and square against the snow. So I left—»

«You are right,» Louki interrupted. «The hut of old Leri, the mad one. Leri was a goatherd. We all warned him, but Len would listen and speak to no man, only to his goats. He died in his hut, in a landslide.»

«It is an ill wind…» Andrea murmured. «Old Leri will keep us warm to-night.» He checked abruptly as the gully opened up at his feet, then dropped quickly to the bottom, surefooted as a mountain sheep. He whistled twice, a double high-pitched note, listened intently into the snow for the answering whistle, walked swiftly up the gully. Casey Brown, gun lowered, met them at the entrance to the cave and held back the canvas screen to let them pass inside.

The smoking tallow candle, guttering heavily to one side in the icy draught, filled every corner of the cave with dark and flickering shadows from its erratic flame. The candle itself was almost gone, the dripping wick bending over tiredly till it touched the rock, and Louki, snow-suit cast aside, was lighting another stump of candle from the dying flame. For a moment, both candles flared up together, and Mallory saw Louki clearly for the first time — a small, compact figure in a dark-blue jacket black-braided at the seams and flamboyantly frogged at the breast, the jacket tightly bound to his body by the crimson tsanta or cummerbund, and, above, the swarthy, smiling face, the magnificent moustache that he flaunted like a banner. A Laughing Cavalier of a man, a miniature d'Artagnan splendidly behung with weapons. And then Mallory's gaze travelled up to the lined, liquid eyes, eyes dark and sad and permanent ly tired, and his shock, a slow, uncomprehending shock, had barely time to register before the stub of the candle had flared up and died and Louki had sunk back into the shadows.

Stevens was stretched in a sleeping-bag, his breathing harsh and shallow and quick. He had been awake when they had arrived but had refused all food and drink, and turned away and drifted off into an uneasy jerky sleep. He seemed to be suffering no pain at all now: a bad sign, Mallory thought bleakly, the worst possible. He wished Miller would return… .

Casey Brown washed down the last few crumbs of bread with a mouthful of wine, rose stiffly to his feet, pulled the screen aside and peered out mournfully at the falling snow. He shuddered, let the canvas fall, lifted up his transmitter and shrugged into the shoulder straps, gathered up a coil of nope, a torch and a groundsheet. Mallory looked at his watch: it was fifteen minutes to midnight. The routine call from Cairo was ahnost due.

«Going to have another go, Casey? I wouldn't send a dog out on a night like this.»

«Neither would I,» Brown said morosely. «But I think I'd better, sir. Reception is far better at night and I'm going to climb uphill a bit to get a clearance from that damned mountain there; I'd be spotted right away if I tried to do that in daylight.»

«Right you are, Casey. You know best.» Mallory looked at him curiously. «What's all the extra gear for?»

«Putting the set under the groundsheet, then getting below it myself with the torch,» Brown explained. «And I'm pegging the rope here, going to pay it out on my way up. I'd like to be able to get back some time.»

«Good enough,» Mallory approved. «Just watch it a bit higher up. This gully narrows and deepens into a regular ravine.»

«Don't you worry about me, sir.» Brown said firmly. «Nothing's going to happen to Casey BrOwn.» A snow-laden gust of wind, the flap of the canvas and Brown was gone.

«Well, if Brown can do it …» Mallory was on his feet now, pulling his snow-smock over his head. «Fuel, gentlemen — old Leri's hut. Who's for a midnight stroll?»

Andrea and Louki were on their feet together, but Mallory shook his head.

«One's enough. I think someone should stay to look after Stevens.»

«He's sound asleep,» Andrea murmured. «He can come to no harm in the short time we are away.»

«I wasn't thinking of that. It's just that we can't take the chance of him falling into German hands. They'd make him talk, one way or another. It would be no fault of his — but they'd make him talk. It's too much of a risk.»

«Pouf!» Louki snapped his fingers. «You worry about nothing, Major. There isn't a German within miles of here. You have my word.»

Mallory hesitated, then grinned. «You're right. I'm getting the jumps.» He bent over Stevens, shook him gently. The boy stirred and moaned, opened his eyes slowly.

«We're going out for some firewood,» Mallory said. «Back in a few minutes. You be O.K.?»

«Of course, sir. What can happen? Just leave a gun by my side — and blow out the candle.» He smiled. «Be sure to call out before you come in!»

Mallory stooped, blew out the candle. For an instant the flame flared then died and every feature, every per-V son in the cave was swallowed up in the thick darkness of a winter midnight. Abruptly Mallory turned on his heel and pushed out through the canvas into the drifting, wind-blown snow already filling up the floor of the gully, Andrea and Louki close behind.

It took them ten minutes to find the ruined hut of the old goatherd, another five for Andrea to wrench the door off its shattered hinges and smash it up to manageable lengths, along with the wood from the bunk and table, another ten to carry back with them to the rockshelter as much wood as they could conveniently rope together and carry. The wind, blowing straight north off Kostos, was in their faces now — faces numbed with the chill, wet lash of the driving snow, and blowing almost at gale force: they were not sorry to reach the gully again, drop down gratefully between the sheltering walls.