Lockhart folded the letter and put it in an envelope addressed to a Mrs. Susan Dykes of 1 Glenilla Road, Belsize Park, London NW. The address was fictitious, but it would end up in the right place. He lay on his bed and held the unsealed envelope to his chest. Its contents, he reflected, could save the lives of millions.

MARCH 1940

He’s proud of his script—it’s one of his best, he thinks. He knows that much of it is overblown, but they pay him handsomely for it, and have even given him and Eileen a smart apartment in the Kastanienallee in the Charlottenburg district. They told him a Jew once owned it, but he and his family no longer needed it. The apartment makes Eileen happy, but she still says she feels uncomfortable here. Well, too bad. Let her moan—she’s not going anywhere.

The clock on the studio wall in the Reichsrundfunk indicates that it is nine minutes past seven. Young James Clark will be finishing off reading the news as part of the Germany Calling program, and then it will be his turn. He’ll have twenty minutes all to himself, twenty minutes in which he can tell the whole of Britain the truth. Not just a crowd of the curious at Hyde Park Corner, not just a hall full of loyal blackshirts, but anybody back home who can listen to a radio. Apparently, they told him, he has already earned himself quite a reputation. That made him feel proud, made him feel that he has made the right decision.

But he has his doubts. Not even here, here in the heart of fascism, is he convinced that the creed is being followed closely enough. The deal with Stalin has rattled him—why did the Führer do that, make a pact with the Bolsheviks? Others tell him that it is part of a bigger plan, that the Führer knows what he is doing, that they will just have to wait and see. He wonders about that, but in the meantime he is going to work for the wider cause, not least because there isnowhere else to work. He knows on which side his bread is buttered.

The second hand sweeps steadily up to the top of the clock, and when it reaches it, a red light comes on above.

“Good evening,” he begins in a slow, low voice, not in the haranguing tones he once used at public meetings. “Tonight I’d like to talk to you about the Jews. As many of you know, this war was started by the Jews, and I think it only right that we should avail ourselves of as much information as possible about this pernicious race of people, exposing the means by which they hope to gain world power.