“Just so long as I see her.”

“Just so long as you recruit another nineteen men. And now you may leave.”

Lockhart stood up as Strasser looked down at his desk.

“By the way, Lockhart…”

“Yes?” said the Englishman, already at the door.

“I nearly forgot. Happy birthday! Would you allow me to buy you a drink this evening?”

For once, to Strasser’s delight, Lockhart looked truly flabbergasted.

Lockhart might have been taken aback by Strasser’s birthday salutation, but secretly he was delighted at the prospect of the recruitment drive. Finally, he had the opportunity to get in touch with Baker Street. POWs—including members of the BFC, but not Lockhart—were allowed to write letters back home, letters that were vetted by the Germans and then delivered by the Red Cross.

Lockhart was still not in a position to trust Worstead, let alone any other member of the Corps. He had desperately wanted to send a coded letter, via a member of the unit, to SOE, telling them what had happened, and more crucially, telling them about the supposed existence of sarin, but he had stopped himself. If the person to whom he entrusted the letter ratted on him, then the game would be over. Strasser would undoubtedly have Lockhart—and Anna—shot.

But at a stalag he should be able to find a trustworthy POW, a POW he might be able to recruit as a link-man, a POW untainted by any connection with a Pugh or a Maclaren. The only problem, Lockhart thought, was finding a POW who would trust him in return. But he couldn’t let that stop him, couldn’t allow that to be a hindrance. The threat of sarin was too huge, and he needed to act, to clutch whatever straws blew toward him. With the absence of any further information about the gas, the best he could do for the present was to let London know about it.

That night, in his small room, Lockhart took two hours to write a letter that looked like any other from a British POW, complete with deliberate spelling mistakes:

Dear Hattie,

It’s a bloody big stalag this! Richard Welsh arrived here Wednesday night, really upset and tired. Also, Will Thomas, Betty’s husband! How about that? Anyway, how’s Father? Still selling Mum’s jam at market? We don’t have fresh food here except bad eggs if the guards have left some to go manky! Life is all right, even managed to find some flowers to plant and look after! They’re quite ugly little things really. I reckon daffs would grow well here—soil’s excellently rich and breaks up into fine lumps of mulch. Anyway, fat chance!

Any further grumbles from Walter’s dickey tummy? He’s not been to our favorite quack doctor or has he stayed away this time? Poor Walt! Perhaps it’s got better now I hope! Must be flipping boring sitting around with nothing to eat or drink. Please send my love when he’s around next.