“Come with me,” he said to Strasser. “I think we’ll need to deal with this lot together.”

“Sure,” said Strasser.

They stepped down from the truck and approached the nearest guard. Lockhart could see that the man was writing down the registration plate of the truck. Officious little bastard, thought Lockhart, a view reinforced by the man’s absurdly overblown Heil Hitler.

“Heil Hitler, Rottenführer,” Lockhart saluted back. “We have an important consignment for Mittelwerk.”

From his blueprint, Lockhart had learned that “Mittelwerk” was the name of the factory itself.

“You have the necessary documentation?” the rottenführer asked with a slight sneer.

Lockhart produced the forged papers from his tunic, and handed them with a slight tutting to the guard. He affected a tone of disdain, as any man of his rank would when confronted by a petty-minded NCO. To have been too polite would have looked unusual. Men like these were accustomed to being kicked around—it was what made them the monsters they were.

The guard studied the papers closely.

“It says here that you have some vital equipment for the factory.”

Lockhart rolled his eyes skyward.

“Indeed we do,” he replied. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

The guard ignored the comment.

“I would like to inspect this equipment.”

Lockhart looked at his watch.

“Rottenführer,” he said, “I do not have the time for you to inspect my truck. This load needs to be delivered as quickly as possible.”

The guard looked almost amused. Part of Lockhart rashly felt like producing his pistol and gunning the man down, but he knew that it would be better to be patient. It was Strasser who spoke next.

“Perhaps we’d better let him.”

Lockhart knew that he was right.

“All right, all right, Rottenführer,” said Lockhart, stressing the man’s rank to remind him of his place. “Why not come ’round and have a look? If it makes you happy, then go ahead.”

The guard waved one of his comrades over, and together, the four men walked around the truck. Marston and Hull were sitting nearest to the back.

“Lower the tailgate,” Lockhart said to Hull, “and let these two on. They want to inspect our consignment.”

“Yes, sir,” said Hull.

For a moment, Lockhart worried whether Hull’s Norfolk burr came through even in those few words of German, but neither of the guards seemed to detect anything unusual in his voice. With the tailgate lowered, the rottenführer and his fellow guard climbed up to make their inspection.

“How many men are in here?” the rottenführer asked, his tone surprised.

“I told you this equipment was important,” Lockhart replied.

“But you really need all these men to go into the plant?”

“That’s what the papers say, Rottenführer, or did you neglect to read that part?”

The rottenführer said nothing. Lockhart could see him looking at the still, although he couldn’t see his face. He turned to Strasser, whose calm expression helped to steady Lockhart’s nerves.