weren’t they there already, he thought as night time fell on the island once again. The smell of charcoal, barbecued kebabs and spit roasts filled the air, along the Promenade and side streets of the town.
He left his seat and wandered into the back to the toilets, as he sat he took time to reflect on his situation. On his way back out of the building, he was grabbed from a side door and pulled inside a small room. He stumbled and fell onto his injured leg, the pistol falling from his shorts onto the floor beside him. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, bringing people like that into my taverna.’ It was Mr Gallas for the second time in as many hours arguing with a boy less than half his age. I ought to beat you black and blue!’
Morgan dusted himself down and picked up his pistol as Ismene's father held the shutter to the window, he watched figures outside in the bar. ‘Now what’s the problem?’ he asked.
George looked at him and shook his head. ‘This is bad, very bad indeed!’ he pointed to two tall thin men drinking at the bar. ‘These bastards, that’s the problem!’
Morgan looked through the slats at the tall men. Both were tall and bold and had sport jackets on, at their feet they had small rucksacks and looked ready to travel. ‘Ah! My contacts have arrived, now I can get out of your way. If you step aside I will leave.’ Morgan asked.
However the owner did not move away from the door, he held it shut and continued to examine the men drinking lager at his bar. ‘I am glad you have a gun; I hear you have used it before. It would appear you will have to kill again!’ this time he had Morgan’s full attention.
‘Why? What’s the matter!’ he gathered close to George Gallas and listened.
‘These men are wicked men. They are not Cypriot they are Turkish and from across the border. Whoever hired these men must be in tremendous trouble, they are the worst kind of assassins. They are hired to get rid of difficult people.’
Morgan looked and studied them, they seemed no different to others in the bar. They fitted in like the locals and seemed pleasant enough. ‘How do you know them?’
‘It’s a large island, but I know a lot of what happens here. It’s my home I have ties on the other side of our island, I too like you once was involved with people like this. However when my wife died I changed for my family!’ he grabbed Morgan by the shirt. ‘Stay here do not move!’ He left the room and a moment later appeared behind the bar to welcome the Turkish men and shake their hands, with a fake smile.
Suddenly someone else joined him in the room. He reached for his gun and drew it, but as he pulled the hammer back to prepare to shoot he was disarmed by the smooth touch of Ismene's hand on his face. ‘I thought you had been sent away!’ he turned to look at her silhouetted face.
‘My father is overprotective. He understands your world better than I, so he shouts a lot and gives me warnings about getting involved with you!’ she looked into his eyes. ‘But it’s too late, I am involved!’ she frowned and then looked outside into the bar. ‘You have to go?’
‘Yes, tonight!’ he cupped his hand up to her face, with affection.
‘You taking these guys back to Corfu?’ she pointed to the men, talking to her father.
‘That's what I’ve been asked to do!’
‘You got anyone else to go with you?’
‘No, not on the return leg, just me and my friend!’ he held up his pistol and placed it back on safety.
Ismene grabbed him and pulled him near. ‘I want you to remember me!’ she kissed him.
He held here and kissed her passionately, ‘How could I ever forget this.’ he smiled and looked into her eyes.
‘We might not see each other again. I wanted to say goodbye properly, she began to cry.
He tried to comfort her, but now it was time for him to leave.
‘If you manage to survive your war with the mafia, come and find me. I will be waiting.’ she said then turned and walked away.
It took Morgan a while to gain his composure. He walked over to introduce himself to Mustaffa and Youessef, but wondered how these two men could help Spiro if the island was plunged into a mafia turf war.