“He’s feeling a little unwell,” Lockhart said to her. “I’ve left some money on the table.”

They stepped onto the street, which was dark from the blackout, and almost silent, bar the sound of a distant dog.

“What are you going to do with me, John?”

“Nothing, precisely nothing. We’re going to go back to the barracks and pretend nothing has happened.”

“Are you going to tell Strasser?”

“No. Why? Does he know about the letters?”

Worstead shook his head.

“He hasn’t a clue,” he said. “I think he thinks that your wife is still alive.”

So Strasser had not been lying to him. It came as an almost irrelevant relief.

“Why didn’t they tell him?” Lockhart asked.

“I don’t bloody know!”

Perhaps Pugh had been right. They had not told Strasser because he had no need to know—his threats might not have sounded so convincing had he known the truth.

“What I’d like you to do,” said Lockhart, “is to keep your mouth shut. Do you understand?”

“Y…yes.”

“I’ll kill you if you say a word about this.”

They walked for fifty yards without speaking, Lockhart maintaining his grip on Worstead’s left elbow. As they reached a corner, he felt Worstead reach inside his tunic with his right hand.

“What are you doing?” Lockhart asked.

“Getting a cigarette.”

Something stirred in Lockhart’s head, but it didn’t stir quickly enough. Perhaps it was because he was off the ball, thinking about Anna. He’d always thought of Worstead as a smoker, but then he remembered that he hadn’t seen him smoking for a long time. There could only be one thing he was getting out of his tunic.

Before Lockhart had a chance to stop him, Worstead had pulled out a small revolver. He broke free from Lockhart’s grip and turned to face him, the muzzle pointing shakily at Lockhart’s chest. Stay calm, Lockhart told himself, think of what you were taught at Arisaig. Keep your eye on the gun. He did so, watching the metallic shine of the muzzle in the moonlight, bracing himself to knock it out of Worstead’s hand.

“What are you doing, Andrew?”

Worstead didn’t reply.

“Put it down, Andrew—this isn’t going to help.”

Keep using his Christian name. Be intimate. Above all, lie.

“Andrew—nothing’s going to happen to you. I’ll make sure of it. I promise I won’t tell a soul. I’ll even get Pugh off your back.”

Worstead’s hand was getting increasingly unsteady.

“There’s nothing you can do,” he said. “Nothing.”

“What do you mean? Of course I can. I can protect you.”

“No you can’t. Nothing can protect me.”

“Stick it out, Andrew—you’ll be all right. Please, just put the gun away.”

“No! Now you know what it’s like, John. To be under threat the whole time. To face death.”