Mallory smiled.

«I don't have to look again, sir. Four miles or so away to the east I'd see the Turkish coast curving up north and west to a point almost due north of Navarone — a very sharp promontory, that, for the coastline above curves back almost due east. Then, about sixteen miles away, due north beyond this promontory — Cape Demirci, isn't it? — and practically in a line with it I'd see the island of Kheros. Finally, six miles to the west is the island of Maidos, the first of the Lerades group. They stretch away in a north-westerly direction, maybe fifty miles.»

«Sixty.» Jensen nodded. «You have the eye, my boy. You've got the guts and the experience — a man doesn't survive eighteen months in Crete without both. You've got one or two special qualifications I'll mention by and by.» He paused for a moment, shook his head slowly. «I only hope you have the luck — all the luck. God alone knows you're going to need it.»

Mallory waited expectantly, but Jensen had sunk into some private reverie. Three minutes passed, perhaps five, and there was only the swish of the tyres, the subdued hum of the powerful engine. Presently Jensen stirred and spoke again, quietly, still without taking his eyes off the road.

«This is Saturday — rather, it's Sunday morning now. There are one thousand two hundred men on the island of Kheros — one thousand two hundred British soldiers — who will be dead, wounded or prisoner by next Saturday. Mostly, they'll be dead.» For the first time he looked at Mallory and smiled, a brief smile, a crooked smile, and then it was gone. «How does it feel to hold a thousand lives in your hands, Captain Mallory?»

For long seconds Mallory looked at the impassive face beside him, then looked away again.