The motorbike pounced forward. He could feel Leni holding on so tightly that she almost pulled him away from the handle-bars. He steered to the left of the Opel, and had to swerve violently to avoid the car lining up in the other direction. The engine was making the most ferocious whine, and Lockhart changed into second gear. He could feel Leni’s weight shift in the saddle behind him, and then the unmistakable sound of the Luger firing, not once, but twice. He changed into third—by now they had gone at least sixty yards, far enough to be out of effective range.

“What happened?” Lockhart shouted.

“I hit them!” Leni screamed.

“Hit who?”

“The two SS!”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes!”

Lockhart changed into fourth as he overtook a truck. Nobody would be able to catch up with them, thank God. The motorbike could outpace any of the vehicles at the roadblock. Leni’s marksmanship was astonishing. To be able to hit both targets from the back of a hurtling motorcycle was extraordinary.

“Great shooting,” he yelled. “Amazing!”

Lockhart couldn’t see Leni’s smile, but it was one of elation and relief, deep relief that she was actively fighting for her parents, for what was right. She was making a difference, and doing it with someone she wanted to hold like this for a very long time.

They reached the edge of Hildesheim twenty minutes later. Lockhart had expected a roadblock, but there was none. He decided the best thing to do would be to ditch the motorbike and then get back to Leni’s guesthouse on foot. A small copse provided the perfect spot, and Lockhart rolled the bike into some deep bushes. That would have to do—he didn’t want to ride it any further.

They walked arm-in-arm back to the guesthouse. They were both shaking uncontrollably—they would need a drink, but there was no time for that. Lockhart’s uniform was in Leni’s room, and he desperately wanted to get it back on—something he’d never thought he would feel. The clothes he was wearing would need to be destroyed, but for the meantime they could be stuffed into Leni’s cupboard.

It was half past four when they walked into the guesthouse, the landlady once more sweetened by a few Reichsmarks pressed into her hand. Together they lay on the small bed, their brains in a turmoil of exhaustion and overexcitement.

“The plans!” said Lockhart.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got them.”

Leni pulled the dog-eared Volkischer Beobachter from underneath her top and handed it to Lockhart. He stood up and opened the newspaper, letting a medium-sized brown envelope fall onto the floor. He picked it up, slit it open, and pulled out a folded piece of thin paper—it was a blueprint, thought Lockhart, a bloody blueprint. He walked over to the small dressing table and pushed Leni’s meager toiletries to one side, some of them falling onto the floor.

“Thanks,” Leni said sarcastically.