“I didn’t forge them,” said Worstead. “It was Stranders. He asked me all about you and Anna, but it was him who did the actual forgeries. He did the first one on his own, the one you got when you were in Berlin.”

Lockhart did his best not to shout.

“For Christ’s sake, Andrew! Why did you help him? Why?”

“Because…because I had to. They would have killed me, John, don’t you see that? As soon as Strasser reported back to Berlin that I knew you, they told me I had to help.”

Worstead started sobbing once more. It was time for the big question.

“Andrew. Look at me. Look at me. I need to know if Anna is alive.”

But Worstead didn’t look up.

“Tell me,” said Lockhart. “Tell me honestly.”

“Stranders…told me she was dead. That’s why we were doing the forgeries.”

“And did you believe him?”

“Yes…yes, I did.”

“And you’ve spent all this time playing with me, lying to me, deceiving me. And why? Just to save your skin! Just because you couldn’t hack it in a prison camp! You even had the nerve to try and frame Pugh, get me to kill him, to do your dirty work! You’re a coward, Andrew, a bloody coward.”

Lockhart stood up. He couldn’t bear to be with Worstead, who was sniveling like a young boy. He wanted to be anywhere but here, somewhere he could indulge in his own grief, for he was now certain Anna was dead. Why else would they forge the letters? If she was alive, then why wouldn’t they just let her write to him? No, she had to be dead. He looked at Worstead, wanting to knock him senseless, beat him up in the way that he had done to Butcher. Part of him felt sorry for Worstead, but it was not a large part. There were plenty of homosexuals around—not all of them became traitors. He despised Worstead’s cowardice, hated his duplicity.

He knew he couldn’t leave Worstead here. He would take him back to St. Michael, and tell him to shut up, to act as before. He wasn’t going to kill him—he wasn’t even going to touch him—but he was going to put him on ice. If Lockhart did anything to Worstead, then he himself would get it in the neck—it would simply not be worth it. He would have his revenge, but it would be served cold.

“Come on, Andrew, get up.”

“I’d rather stay here.”

“I said get up!”

Worstead reluctantly pushed himself up from the table and stood with his head bowed. Lockhart removed some marks from his wallet and placed them in the ashtray, and then took Worstead firmly by the elbow. As they left the restaurant, a few heads turned, including that of their waitress.