Lockhart looked out of the window to his right. They were driving past a field of barley, the crop’s ears quite still, a pink light washing over them. Strasser was right, but he didn’t want to tell him so in front of Malcolm. With his eyes still on the field, he spoke.

“You know, Carl, I feel ancient, old enough to be my own grandfather. I feel as if I am carrying the whole of time on my shoulders, and I’m exhausted, bloody exhausted. When I went to Crete, I was a young man, but in just a few months, I’ve become very, very old.”

“I’ve been feeling like that since my second week in Russia.”

“Then perhaps it’s time,” said Lockhart, and he turned around to Strasser. There should have been tears in Strasser’s eyes, but Lockhart knew that they would have dried up long ago. Instead, Strasser was just staring through the windshield, at a place that was neither near nor far, but somewhere else altogether.

According to the map, they would have to enter Mittelbau from the east, passing through a concentration camp called Harzungen. They would then have to make their way to the north of the mountain, where Lockhart assumed they would have to pass another, more stringent checkpoint. It was one thing to let a truck into a concentration camp, but another to allow it into the mountain itself.

They arrived at Harzungen just after eight o’clock, having driven through towns and villages that Lockhart couldn’t help but notice were picturesque. The inhabitants who were awake didn’t give them a second glance; it was just another military truck ruining the peace of their Sunday morning. Occasionally they passed other detachments of SS and Wehrmacht, causing Lockhart’s heart to jump, but they showed as little interest in them as the civilians did.

The concentration camp looked very new. As they neared its entrance, Lockhart saw, through the barbed wire, row upon row of low wooden housing blocks, and a road passing between them. There appeared to be a lot of activity—there were trucks, prisoners constructing more housing blocks, prisoners marching in ranks, prisoners digging. He was too far away to see their expressions, but their bodies suggested they were broken, beaten, resigned. His mind turned to Anna, wondering whether she was here; they could be less than a few hundred yards apart. Malcolm’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

“What’s the plan, sir?”

“Just drive up to the gate and stop when you’re told to. If you’re asked any questions, just act dumb. Hauptsturmführer Strasser and I will deal with the guards.

“Yes, sir.”

Malcolm edged the truck a few more yards forward until they drew up at the solid-looking crash barrier. There must have been at least six guards milling around, all wearing the uniform of the SS Death’s Head formation. They looked tough and unpleasant, their faces hardened by brutality. Butcher had had that same look, Lockhart thought, that cold stare, that expression of permanent hatred. Their eyes expected to find fear, and their search was often fruitful. Once again, Anna invaded his thoughts, and it was with a huge wrench that he managed to dispel her. If she was here, if she was alive, then he would meet her. He had no doubt of that.