“That’s all right, Catchpole,” Lockhart replied. “I’m afraid there won’t be room, because I’m expecting one more at any moment.”

“Sir?”

“Yes. We shall be fifteen strong, not fourteen. I thought we could do with another pair of hands.”

“May I ask who, sir?”

“There’s no need, because that pair of hands is walking right toward you.”

Lockhart pointed over Catchpole’s shoulder. Catchpole turned to see a very familiar figure indeed—that of Carl Strasser.

“But…” said Catchpole.

“I’m so glad you could join us, Hauptsturmführer,” said Lockhart.

Strasser let out a sort of grunt in return, a grunt obscured by the noise of the truck starting up.

For the first ten minutes of the journey, Lockhart, Strasser and Malcolm sat in silence. Hildesheim was still sleeping, and the roads were deserted. It was a lovely time of day, Lockhart thought, the time of day when he used to go out for a run, despite Anna’s protestations that he should stay in bed. When they reached open country, Lockhart decided to speak. His tone was solemn, respectful of Strasser’s decision.

“You’re still sure about this?” he asked.

“Yes, John, yes I am.”

That was the first time Strasser had used his first name. He himself had called the German “Carl” plenty of times, but he had used it derisively, as a term of false endearment. It made him pause; made him feel reassured that Strasser’s decision was sincere. It was time, if he was going to go into battle with the man, to show Strasser that he trusted him.

“You know that if you decided to drop out,” said Lockhart, “then I would tell Leni not to speak to the SD.”

“That’s good of you,” Strasser replied. “I appreciate it. But let me assure you that my mind is made up. What you said last night…”

Strasser stopped.

“Yes?” Lockhart prodded.

“Let’s just say that you made me feel ashamed. Your telling me that you would be doing the same if the British had made such a terrible weapon, well, it made me think. I don’t care if I die as a traitor. I need to do something good for humanity, not the Reich. There have been too many firing squads, too many razed villages, too many killings for me to remember. My life is stained with too much blood. I’m no longer proud.”

For a while, Lockhart didn’t reply. There was nothing he could say. Strasser had come to the end of his own personal road—he was either going to find a turning off it, or he was simply going to stop.

“One thing,” said Lockhart.

“Yes?”

“Do you think you’re the only one?”

“The only one with doubts?”

“Yes.”

“Oh no. There are the fanatics, of course, but there are many who I’m sure are already planning their escape. Argentina, I hear, is the most favored destination.”

“If we survive this,” said Lockhart, “I shall make sure that when the war is—”

“We’re not going to survive.”