The men did so, most of them with their arms folded, looking at the floor or out of the window. Each thought of his family back home, trying to imagine a terror that was almost inconceivable. They pictured their mothers, their girlfriends, their fathers—all choking to death. They saw heaps of bodies lying in the streets, a vision so grim, so evil, that a collective shudder went around the room.

“And where do we go if we get away?” Prain asked.

Lockhart had thought about that, but had put it low down on his list of priorities. In his heart, he knew that the chance of any of them getting out alive was appallingly slim.

“I have a contact who has a safe house in Nordhausen,” said Lockhart. “We will make our way there afterwards.”

“Who’s your contact?”

“I cannot tell you,” said Lockhart, for the simple reason that there was no contact.

“What I’d like to know,” said Smith, “is exactly how we’re going to deal with the gas.”

Lockhart noticed Smith’s use of the word “we.” It was a good sign, an excellent sign.

“I’m glad you asked me that,” said Lockhart. “Because some of us are going to pick it up tomorrow morning.”

“Pick what up?”

“All in good time, Smith, all in good time.”

At seven o’clock the next morning, a truck pulled away from the St. Michael Cloister. It was a commonplace event—trucks came and went nearly every hour, ferrying groups of SS men to parts of the ever-diminishing Reich. Lockhart had deliberately neglected to tell Strasser, preferring instead to face the music—if there was any—on his return.

“So how are you finding it?” Lockhart shouted above the noise of the engine.

“It’s very good, sir,” replied Malcolm. “I wish I’d had one as good as this back home!”

Alongside them in the front were Pugh and Hull.

“Where the hell are we going?” Pugh asked for the umpteenth time.

“It’s not far now,” said Lockhart, studying the map.

They had been driving for an hour, and he could sense that Pugh and Hull were deeply frustrated at being left in the dark.

“But…” said Pugh.

“You’ll see, don’t you worry.”

Ten minutes later, Lockhart suddenly turned to Malcolm.

“Here! Stop here!”

Malcolm did as he was told. Lockhart looked out of the passenger window to see an elegantly arched gatehouse, which stood before a half-timbered complex consisting of a church, a cloister and numerous barns and outhouses. On the other side of the road was a huge orchard that stretched into the middle distance.

“What the hell is this place?” asked Hull.

“A sodding monastery!” Pugh exclaimed. “Are we going to pray that the gas destroys itself?”

“Better than that,” Lockhart grinned. “Come on, Malcolm, in we go. And let’s not bump into the gatehouse. We need the monks to think we’re decent sorts.”