“All right, Lockhart. Here’s what you’re going to do. On Monday, you, Butcher, Pugh and Worstead are going to set off on a little tour. The four of you are going to spend the next few weeks visiting your fellow countrymen, persuading them to join you. You will give lectures, explaining the origins of the BFC….”

Lockhart shifted in his seat, readying himself to interrupt, but Strasser was not going to let him.

“…handing out pamphlets, and recruiting as Berger suggests. The fact that you are an officer will make you a very good advertisement, I think. All that intelligence and charm won’t hurt either.”

Strasser could see Lockhart was squirming. He looked deeply uncomfortable. Good—he could earn his right to live.

“What, Lockhart? What do you want to say?”

“I think it’s a mad idea, a complete waste of time,” said Lockhart.

That impudence again. Strasser sat back. He’d let Lockhart say his bit, indulge him a little.

“Why’s that?”

“Because nobody will take us seriously.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the British, like the Germans, aren’t very good at being traitors. We tend to leave that to the French.”

“The French?”

“Isn’t there some sort of French SS legion? Butcher said there was.”

“He’s right—it’s called the Légion des Voluntaires Français, although it’s part of the Wehrmacht. They fought very bravely on the Eastern Front, which is what we should all be doing. There’s talk that we in the Waffen-SS might soon take them over.”

“Lucky you.”

“I don’t know what the problem is with you English. You seem to regard the Soviets as your ally, when anybody who has any sense can see that they are the real threat to peace and freedom.”

Lockhart let out a disapproving snort.

“We have only occupied countries such as France and Holland in order to save them from the menace of the Jews and the Bolsheviks. Just think what would have happened if we hadn’t acted.”

Lockhart shook his head.

“If you can’t persuade me,” he said, “what chance do you think I have of persuading my countrymen, most of whom will have had comrades killed by Germans? And besides, they will have witnessed your barbarity at first hand—your executions, your burning down of villages.”

Strasser didn’t speak. What did Lockhart know of anything like that? He recalled one such action in Russia. He had burned down an entire village because it was harboring partisans—it was his duty, that was all. A small village on a great plain, just another Bolshevik nest—it needed wiping out, cleansing, even the women. Fuck. Russian women—they were tough, tougher than some of the men, their eyes cold and impassive in front of the firing squads. Strasser looked down at the desk. He gently grasped his pen between his thumb and forefinger, and repeatedly tapped it on the desk, a long pause between each tap. He didn’t feel proud about what had happened back there, back on that great plain, even though he knew he should. After nearly a minute, he looked back up at Lockhart, who was starting to speak again.