Strasser was tapping his pen once more, but this time far more quickly. He was rattled, his eyes searching around the room as though the answer was hidden somewhere in a cold corner. One day, he would kill Lockhart—it would be a pleasure, a joy to kill this…this know-it-all. He had been cornered by him—this was not part of the plan, not at all what he had wanted to happen. He let himself slump slightly. Screw it. Why did it matter anyway? So long as he stopped himself going back to the Front, that was all that mattered. And if Lockhart became more enthusiastic because he thought he was going to see his wife, then great—excellent, in fact. There was no earthly reason why he, Strasser, would need to keep his side of the deal. So Lockhart thought he had the better of him. Well, let him think that.

“All right,” he began. “All right. You will be able to see your wife….”

Lockhart’s eyes widened.

“…but on one condition.”

“Yes?”

“You succeed in recruiting the required number of men. This is not open for discussion.”

“Fine.”

“You have asked for a lot from me, Lockhart. This will be your final request.”

“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.