“That’s much more like it,” said Strasser, and the three of them settled down to work, Frau Buch’s typewriter clattering away. For the next two hours, Strasser and Esser worked mostly in silence, occasionally checking a fact with each other.

Just before ten, Strasser’s telephone rang. He let it ring a few times as he was in the middle of a calculation, and then picked it up.

“Yes?”

“Hauptsturmführer Strasser?” asked the female voice at the end of the line.

“Yes.”

“This is Obergruppenführer Berger’s office. Could you come up and see the Obergruppenführer right away?”

Strasser’s heart missed a beat. Berger was the head of SS recruiting and the SS Hauptamt.

“Yes, of course—I shall be up immediately.”

Strasser put the phone down. Esser and Frau Buch were looking expectantly at him.

“That was Berger’s office. I’ve got to see him right away.”

“Did they tell you why?” asked Esser.

“No, they didn’t. And before you ask, I have absolutely no idea.”

“Armenoi,” said Manoli. “There’s a big fuel and ammo dump at Armenoi.”

Lockhart and Manoli were talking business again—the temptation to wallow in their private miseries had nearly bettered them. They were studying a map that Manoli had sketched.

“How heavily is it guarded?” Lockhart asked.

“Quite lightly, as the Germans do not think we have the means to raid it. I suppose there must be around thirty or forty troops there. It’s a busy place, with trucks always going in and out.”

“What about locals? Do many locals work there?”

“A few—they are mainly used for building huts inside the compound.”

“Couldn’t we disguise ourselves as a work gang?”

“We could, but there are always rigorous checks of the gangs for just this reason. I think it’s too risky.”

Lockhart chewed his lip.

“Presumably it’s surrounded by barbed wire. Electrified?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Manoli replied. “But there are regular patrols around the perimeter.”

“How big are these patrols?”

“Normally a couple of men. Usually with a dog.”

“So, if we took care of a patrol, we might have enough time to cut through the fence, cause havoc, and run back into the night.”

“We might, yes.”

Manoli looked up.

“Have you done this before, John?”

“Oh, Richard and I used to do this sort of thing every day when we were small.”

But Manoli wasn’t laughing.

“All right, Manoli, yes I have,” said Lockhart guardedly.

“Where?”

“In France, in the summer.”

“What did you do?”

Lockhart eyed Manoli warily, not because he didn’t trust him, but because he was conditioned to not talking about his work.

“It was my first mission, although it wasn’t an arms dump, it was a power station.”

“A power station?”

“That’s right—it supplied the power to a massive steelworks. Our bombers had been unsuccessfully trying to destroy it for weeks. My orders were to link up with the Resistance and do what the RAF couldn’t do.”

“And did you?”

“Yes—yes, we did, but…” Lockhart’s voice trailed off.

“But what?”