“Right on time,” said Strasser. “Well done, Oskar—your men are not disappointing me. That reminds me….”

“Yes?”

“Who was the man who polished my boots? He did a first-rate job—I’d like to thank him.”

“A young schütze by the name of Schmidt.”

“Well, please tell him to come and see me.”

“I will.”

“Are you all right, Oskar? You seem a little sotto, not your normal booming self.”

“I suppose I am a little apprehensive.”

“That’s natural. But I hope you don’t think it’s wrong, Oskar. Lockhart is a spy—remember that. I’m sure the British would do the same.”

“Yes. I’m sure you’re right, Hauptsturmführer.”

Strasser patted Lange on the back.

“Good. And after this is over, we can see how the unit is getting along this morning.”

“Yes, sir. Good idea.”

“Oh yes—and when the lines are back up, remind me that I must phone through about his wife.”

Lockhart hadn’t expected to be led into the woods. He had thought he would be shot in the camp, against a wall somewhere, but the woods—that was a surprise. Not that it mattered where he died. All it showed was that the Germans wanted to keep his death secret, sweep it under the carpet.

His hands had been crudely tied behind his back. However, he was neither pushed nor shoved, but allowed to walk at his own pace, as if the four men leading him to his death wanted to show some pittance of respect. It was a lovely morning, Lockhart thought as they walked in silence. The low sunlight was piercing through the trees, casting out orange rays. A perfect morning for a run, he thought, or to run away.

He felt unusually calm. He couldn’t work out whether that was because he had gone beyond fear, or whether he really didn’t think he was about to die. He liked the pines, imagined that he might see Anna walking through them, walking along with Amy clinging to her hand. Perhaps he would see them both very soon, coming through the winter light, collecting pinecones.

There was no way he could die. There were too many reasons to be alive. He thought of Scylla berating the departing Minos:

“Where are you going?” she cried. “You whom I have preferred to my country and to my own father?”

He couldn’t just go. He had to stay.

By the time Strasser and Lange arrived in the clearing Lockhart had already been tied to a small tree. The squad had assembled a few yards away from him, their backs turned, a column of cigarette smoke rising gently from their huddle. They stood to attention when they spotted the two officers, throwing their cigarettes to the ground.

“All right, line up,” Strasser barked.

As the men did so, Strasser and Lange went over to Lockhart.