He looked at the small clock on his desk: five past twelve. Lockhart was late. He had taken the unit to the outdoor municipal baths, where they would be swimming in their full kit, along with dummy weaponry. It caused Strasser no little amusement to think of the valiant British Free Corps plunging into the icy water, especially those such as Pugh and Worstead who had had it too easy in Berlin for too long. Berlin. He wished he was back there, back in his office with Max and the hideous Frau Buch. The only thing he didn’t miss was the air raids. There was a rumor going around that Hitler hardly spoke to Göring, that he regarded the head of the Luftwaffe as a fat, drug-addled whale and blamed him for letting the bombers through.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in!”

Lockhart walked in—or rather sauntered in—his hair still a little wet. Before Strasser could speak, Lockhart had beaten him to it.

“Going up in the world, Carl?”

“What?” said Strasser irritably, slightly puzzled.

“Your office—it’s looking very…smart.”

Lockhart was teasing him—it was typical of his behavior of late. He seemed to think he could get away with anything. Well, what Strasser was about to say would eradicate his grin.

“Sit down, Lockhart.”

Lockhart did so, drawing his chair up near the fire, but only after he had surveyed the painting with something approaching a slight sneer. For an archaeologist, Lockhart was perhaps a little bit of a philistine, thought Strasser.

“How was your swim?” asked Strasser.

“Cold,” said Lockhart, “very cold. Simpkin almost drowned, but Hull and I managed to fish him out.”

“Can’t he swim then?”

“Oh no, he can swim all right, but he just seems to be permanently ill. I think he must have picked up something pretty vile when he was in Africa.”

Strasser shrugged. In a perfect world he wouldn’t have to make do with weaklings such as Simpkin.

“So this is why you’re late?”

Lockhart started slightly.

“I suppose so, yes.”

Strasser was fed up with Lockhart’s near impudence. He slammed his desk hard with his hand.

“I do not expect you to be late again! Do you understand? This is the SS—not the British army!”

Lockhart narrowed his eyes. “I’m sorry—it won’t happen again.”

He said the words indifferently, flatly, as if he was an automaton. He clearly didn’t mean them. For the time being, Strasser would leave it—but he would get the measure of Lockhart one day. In the meantime, he needed to talk about recruitment.

“I have a memorandum here,” he said, “which I would like you to read.”

“Poor you, Strasser,” said Lockhart after half a minute. “It sounds as though you’re having one hell of a time.”

“I don’t need your sympathy, Lockhart.”

“Sorry I offered it.”

Strasser held up his hand as a small gesture of apology. Perhaps Lockhart had been sincere.