The key turned in the lock at around eight in the morning. Lockhart assumed it was the guards bringing some excuse for breakfast, and declined to look around. He had been staring at the cell wall next to the bed for nearly three hours, contemplating his next move. He still could not believe that he might face a court-martial, and he had been going over what he would say to defend himself. But interrupting those thoughts was a constant stream of images of Anna and Amy, images as visible as the stonework in front of his eyes. The more he tried to shake them off, the guiltier he felt for doing so, a vicious circle that would have resulted in tears if he’d had any left.

“Lockhart!”

It was Strasser’s voice. Lockhart rolled over to face him.

“Yes?”

“I’m here to set you free.”

Lockhart sat upright. The sudden movement and the relief made him feel light-headed.

“But I thought they were looking for more evidence….”

“Not anymore. I’ve convinced them that the charge is ridiculous.”

Lockhart stood up.

“Well, you’re not such a bad bloke after all. Thank you very much.”

Strasser smiled weakly. Lockhart thought he looked washed out, an absolute wreck.

“Christ, Carl, what the hell were you up to last night?”

“Securing your release.”

“What did you have to do?”

“We need to talk about that.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Lockhart ran his hand through his hair and buttoned up his tunic.

“What’s there to talk about?” he asked. “Presumably you just told them that it would be ridiculous of me to stand in the middle of the road next to somebody I had just shot….”

“I’m afraid it’s rather more complicated than that.”

Strasser looked shifty, thought Lockhart, uncharacteristically incapable of making eye contact.

“I see,” said Lockhart. “There’s some sort of quid pro quo then, is there?”

“Shall we go back to my office?”

“I’d prefer to have a wash and something to eat first.”

“You can do that later.”

Strasser poured out two cups of coffee, real coffee.

“So what is it?” asked Lockhart, blowing on the surface of the almost black liquid. “Why so cagey?”

Strasser was slumped at his desk. He had gotten back from Berlin at seven this morning, and felt terrible. After leaving that bitch Leni’s, he had made his way to the Zoo station, where he had tried—and failed—to sleep on a bench. He had spent the small hours trying to work out if there was anything he could do to escape Leni’s threats. There was nothing. The SD was too powerful, its tentacles too far-reaching to attempt to outwit it. It occurred to him that he should kill her, but that would be barbaric. He had done enough killing in Russia, had seen too much death. He couldn’t just go back to the Adlon and coldly murder her.