“What we need now,” said Lockhart, “is a car, or a motorbike.”

“Or somewhere to lie low,” said Leni.

“No—we’ve got to get out of here as soon as possible. The longer we wait, the tighter their noose. At the moment, they’re still confused, still searching for us around the station. We need to get out of Hanover before they circulate our descriptions.”

“Where are we going to get a car from?”

“We’ll just have to steal one.”

“How?”

“I’ll do it at gunpoint if necessary.”

For the next ten minutes they walked the streets, looking for a suitable vehicle. They were hardly spoiled for choice. Cars were a luxury item, used only by top officials. A motorbike would be more practical, and less conspicuous. Lockhart had noticed that a few civilians still rode them, despite the exorbitant price they had to pay for petrol on the black market. It was simply a case of waiting for a motorcyclist, stopping him, and stealing his bike. It was desperate, Lockhart thought, but there were no other options.

But there was no need for a drastic hijacking. As they made their way down a badly bombed street, Lockhart noticed a glint out of the corner of his eye. It came from inside a garage of a wrecked house.

“That looks hopeful,” he said.

“What does?”

“That—in there.”

It was a motorbike, its shiny surface visible in the darkness of the garage. Lockhart looked up and down the road. There were a few other pedestrians, but nobody in uniform. He stepped into the garage—it smelled musty, and part of it had collapsed onto a once-handsome Mercedes. However, the large BMW motorbike looked intact. Shelves bearing every form of tool imaginable lined the walls. Whoever owned this garage must be a rich man, Lockhart thought.

“That would have been nice to drive away in,” said Lockhart, pointing at the car.

“A little ostentatious, don’t you think?”

“Just a little—and I wouldn’t have liked to try and get it past all the rubble on the streets.”

“Do you know how to ride these things?” Leni asked.

“Sure,” said Lockhart.

“But won’t you need a key to start it?”

Lockhart laughed.

“Not at all—just a strong right leg!”

Lockhart unscrewed the cap to the petrol tank and peered inside. It must have been half full—plenty to get them the thirty miles or so to Hildesheim.

“We’re in luck. Give me a hand pushing it out of here, and let’s get going.”

Within a few minutes, they were under way, Leni’s arms wrapped tightly around Lockhart’s chest. Initially, Lockhart’s control of the motorbike was somewhat haphazard, causing several gasps from his passenger. However, his confidence quickly improved, and he was soon riding as competently as he had done in Crete. That time it had been Anna’s arms around him, on the way back from the monastery at Arkadi, after they’d had their first kiss. Lockhart recalled the sun setting behind them, casting their long shadows out in front. He had sworn then that he would never forget that ride, telling himself that it was the best moment in his life. But now the memory of it was too painful.