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.

“Look, Strasser, so far I’ve kept my side of the bargain, and you yours. And every time you have asked me to do something more, something else, you’ve given me that little extra. And this time, because you’re asking me to do a big thing, I’d like to ask you for a big thing.”

“What?”

“I’d like to see my wife.”

Strasser sat up.

“That’s out of the question!” he shouted.

“Really?”

“Absolutely!”

“Why?”

“Because it would be impossible!”

“Why? She is alive, isn’t she?”

“Of course she is!”

“Then why can’t I see her?”

“Because you would never get permission.”

“It’s not up to you then? So who do I get permission from?”

“It is up to me, but you can’t have it!”

“So you really want to go back to Russia, do you, Strasser? You really want to go and get your fucking feet frozen off, that’s if you don’t die first, butchered by some Commie in the snow?”

“Whether you’re part of this unit or not makes no difference to me!”

“I don’t believe you! You need me, Strasser, of course you bloody do, so why don’t you just allow me this one little request? Christ! How much is it to ask? And you have so much to gain. Just think about it, man! I see my wife—I’ll get you your remaining men. You’re still here, I’m still here, my wife’s still here—none of us dead, none of us on our way to Russia. Doesn’t that make sense? Kill me, kill my wife, and you’ll end up getting yourself killed.”

Strasser glowered back at Lockhart, who was sitting back triumphantly. “You will not fail” echoed in his head. Lockhart was right—damn him! Damn his English arrogance.

“Come on, Strasser. Yes or no?”

“Be quiet!”