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.

He sat back down on the bed and put his head in his hands. This was like the hour before some great stage performance—the same nerves, but magnified many, many times. As it so often did, his mind turned to Anna and Amy. He would be ashamed if they saw him now—their husband and father wearing the uniform of a butcher. But he was wearing it for them and perhaps so many others—Anna would understand that. He sniffed deeply and collected himself.

Without any more reflection, he stood up, put on the cap, and walked down the corridor toward Strasser’s office. An NCO walked past and saluted him, causing Lockhart to salute back—a knee-jerk reaction only, he told himself. He knocked on the door.

“Come in, Hauptsturmführer!”

Lockhart walked in, feeling self-conscious at having to parade himself.

Strasser looked him up and down, a thin smile on his lips.