“Yes, Andrew—you. You’ve been working for the Germans for ages. All that stuff about Beth and the child is bunk. Nice touch about baby David being born the same day as you, by the way. One of those coincidences that only happens in real life—added a lot of realism to your story.”

Lockhart took a swig of beer.

“Aren’t you going to drink, Andrew? After all, dinner’s on me.”

“No I’m bloody not. Not until you explain why you’re accusing me of this.”

“All right, I will. You’re the one behind the letters from Anna. You’re the one who’s friendly with Stranders, not Pugh. You’re the one who’s the German stooge, spying on us all on Strasser’s behalf….”

“But this is preposterous!”

“Is it?”

“Yes it damn well is!”

“Shh, Andrew, shush.”

“Don’t you tell me to shut up!”

“I’m not—I just don’t want to cause a scene.”

Worstead’s entire body was shaking now. He picked up his glass of schnapps and downed it ineptly, some of the liquid dribbling down his chin.

“Who’s got to you?” Worstead asked.

Lockhart said nothing. He wanted to let Worstead talk himself out.

“Come on, who? Pugh? Yes—I bet it’s Pugh. The bastard. He’s always hated me, and now he’s poisoning your mind, John. He’s your traitor, not me. God—when I get my hands on him, I’m going to…going to wring his bloody neck. Bastard. John, you have to believe me, please, I’m no traitor. Can’t you see they’re trying to set us against each other? Divide and rule, don’t you see? Oh, they’re very clever indeed, but we’ll get them back, oh yes, there’s no doubt about that. You and me, John. Great team, we’re a great team.”

It was time for Lockhart to drop his bombshell.

“How come you’re feeling so short at the moment?” he asked.

“What?”

“Someone told me that you’re feeling skinned at the moment. I only wondered why.”

“What’s this got to do with anything?”

“I’m interested, that’s all.”

Worstead smiled weakly.

“Too many whores,” he said.

Lockhart raised an eyebrow.

“Really?”

“There’s this great new Hungarian tart in town called—”

“Blackmail, Andrew. She’s called blackmail, and she’s the most expensive tart on the street.”

Worstead slumped back, the action causing his jowls to wobble slightly. He opened his mouth, but no words came out, merely a strangled croak.

“Do you want to tell me about it, Andrew?”

Worstead shook his head rapidly.

“In that case,” Lockhart continued, “why don’t I tell you what I know and you can correct me if it’s wrong? Is that all right with you?”

Once more, Worstead remained speechless.

“Good,” said Lockhart.