What puzzled Strasser most was how Lockhart and Leni knew each other. Did Lockhart work for the SD as well? No—that was ridiculous, impossible. So what did that leave? That they were both spies for the Allies? Could that be so? Had Lockhart tricked him all along—had his entire treachery been a charade, merely using the unit as a way to get deep inside the Fatherland? And how was Leni involved? A British agent also?

So intense were his thoughts that Strasser nearly forgot to get off the train at Hildesheim. He felt trapped, wretched. If Leni and Lockhart did work for the Allies, then by assisting them he would become a traitor himself. Not a fake traitor like Lockhart, but a real one. Images of being caught, tortured and executed flooded his exhausted brain. He had survived too long for that to happen now.

He supposed that he could tell the SS what was going on, but there would be a risk in doing that, a terrible risk. He would be more than just reprimanded for allowing Leni to dupe him—he would doubtless be shot along with her and Lockhart. The SD wouldn’t be merciful just because he had blown the whistle. He would be tainted, soiled, and they wouldn’t want to keep him alive. And what then? Who would they send the bill to? His old father? Bastards.

His legs, and not his mind, carried him to the police station. He was on automatic as he spoke to the duty officer, telling him that as Hauptsturmführer Lockhart was in the Waffen-SS, he would need to be disciplined by the Waffen-SS, and that it was not the job of the criminal police to deal with him. The duty officer was reluctant at first, but Strasser put the fear of God into him, telling him that he would get him sent to a concentration camp for disobeying the order of an SS officer. It worked.

Strasser coughed before he answered Lockhart’s question. It was not a good cough, the type that dislodges something, but a wheezing cough, the type that feeds on itself, making life unbearable.

“You should see the medic,” said Lockhart. “That sounds nasty.”

Strasser waved off the suggestion.

“So what’s the matter?” Lockhart asked.

“Everything’s the bloody matter,” said Strasser.

He watched Lockhart take a nonchalant sip of coffee.

“Especially you,” Strasser continued, “and especially this fucking unit! I was fine until this came along, doing just fine at the Hauptamt, pen-pushing, glad to be away from the Russian front. And now, thanks to you lot, it looks as though I’ll be going back there.”

“Oh?”

“If I’m lucky! That’s if I’m not shot first.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“But why…”

“I think you know.”

“I’m sorry, Strasser, but I don’t.”

“Yes you do.”

“I do?”

“Stop acting the innocent! You and that bitch in Berlin are blackmailing me, and I want to know why!”

Strasser studied Lockhart’s face, but the Englishman was expressionless. Another sip of coffee.