Lockhart looked at it. It was field gray, similar to Strasser’s, who had swapped back from his light blue tunic. But the insignia were different. Around the left cuff was a band on which was embroidered in Germanic script, BRITISH FREE CORPS. Further up the forearm was the Union Jack in the shape of a shield. On the upper arm was positioned the spread eagle of the SS. The left collar tab bore the three pips and single line that denoted the rank, but the right tab, instead of showing the SS runes, bore three lions, as on the royal standard. The breeches were hanging beneath it, and on the floor was a pair of brilliantly polished black boots. An officer’s cap, bearing the death’s-head badge, and a belt were also hanging on the hook.

“When do you want me to wear it?”

“From now on, of course!”

“Can I have a shower first?”

“By all means—and then come and see me.”

Lockhart had his shower. Despite how cold it was, he wanted to stay under it forever, to permanently delay wearing that uniform, a uniform that signified so much evil. See it as a costume, he told himself, a prop, all part of his dangerous act.

He walked slowly back to his room and lay on the bed, staring at it. There was something powerful about it, something magnetic that held his gaze. He had witnessed the effect of such uniforms in the newsreels, but now he was about to wear one, become a part of it, even if his motives were hostile. But this SS uniform—the same uniform proudly worn by so many maniacs and murderers—bore a Union Jack and the three lions. It was an insult to King and Country.

A knock on the door.

“Are you ready?”

It was Strasser.

“Not yet. Give me five minutes.”

“All right. But hurry.”

Lockhart swung his legs out of bed. Finally, some underclothes had been provided, and he put them on. He pulled the breeches down from the hanger and stepped into them—the material felt rough, but a little less itchy than his Cretan crap-catchers. He then pulled on the boots, sitting on the edge of the bed. They were a little large—he would need some more socks. So far, if an Englishman walked in, he could not be accused of wearing an SS uniform. The next stage would seal it.

He lifted the hanger off the hook and removed the tunic. It felt heavy and would be warm, which would be about its only benefit. He slid his right arm in, and then the left, once again feeling the fabric’s coarseness. His hands shook as he did up the five buttons. It fit well, and he fixed the belt around the waist. He had lost a lot of weight since he had landed in Crete, and he had to buckle the belt at its tightest position.