“What do you want, Andrew? What do you want?”

“All I want,” Worstead said slowly, his eyes staring like those of a madman, “is to feel what it’s like to wield power before I die. It’s a strange feeling, you know, watching you, knowing that I hold your life in my hands. Now I can see why people like it. The sense of power. It’s rather fun. You have that power, don’t you, John? Those men in the unit—some of them practically love you, do you know that? Why is that, I wonder? What is it that men like about you and hate about me? Is it because I’m queer? It can’t just be that, can it?”

Worstead put the gun to his mouth. But before Lockhart could even shout out, let alone reach forward to stop him, he had pulled the trigger. His head jerked back violently, and fragments of bone and brain burst out of his skull. His body crumpled to the ground, rendered lifeless in less than a second.

Lockhart stood motionless for almost a minute, staring down at Worstead’s corpse. Blood was oozing from his head, flowing into a dark syrupy puddle between the cobbles. The poor bugger. But the bloody idiot. Lockhart felt a mixture of contempt and sympathy as he watched the puddle get larger, creeping guiltily away from its owner.

He bent down, grabbed Worstead’s tunic and attempted to lift him. It was impossible, for even though Worstead was lighter than he had been ten years ago, he was still bloody heavy. There was no way that Lockhart would be able to carry him. He would have to find some help. He’d go back to the Rosenstock—there were some NCOs there.

The sound of running caused Lockhart to turn around. There, at the end of the road, were a couple of figures sprinting toward him. Lockhart squinted in the dim moonlight—judging by their caps, they looked like civilian policemen. One of them blew his whistle.

“Halt!” the other shouted.

Lockhart stood up, grateful that help had come so quickly.

The policemen came up to him, panting heavily.

“I’m glad you’ve come,” said Lockhart.

“We heard a shot,” one of them said.

Lockhart looked at their faces—they were the faces of officialdom, faces that made him realize that this wasn’t going to be straightforward. They studied Worstead’s corpse.

“He just…he just shot himself,” said Lockhart.

“That’s your story, Hauptsturmführer.”

“No—wait a minute. I’m telling you the truth….”

“You can have your say at the station. In the meantime, you’re under arrest.”

“What? Under arrest? Do you really think I would kill someone in the middle of the road? Get your hands off me!”

But it was no use complaining or struggling, for even as Lockhart spoke, the policemen had wrenched back his arms and tightly attached a pair of handcuffs.

FEBRUARY 1973