Back at Hildesheim, the four men unloaded their cargo in full view of the rest of the unit. It consisted of a heavy steel drum about six feet tall, with a small copper pipe sticking out from near the bottom. On top was a heavy lid, screwed down with at least a dozen bolts. Another pipe came out through the center of the lid.

“What the hell is that?” asked Maclaren.

“I know what it is!” said Marston.

“What?”

“It’s a still, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” said Lockhart. “It is a still. A still that until two hours ago contained fermenting schnapps.”

“And what in the devil’s name are we going to do with it?” asked Catchpole.

“This,” said Lockhart proudly, “is the chamber in which we will destroy the sarin.”

“How?”

Lockhart told them about Barham’s theory.

“A still is the only container I could find,” he said, finishing the lecture, “that should be able to withstand the pressure of a small explosion.”

“And what if it doesn’t?” asked Pugh.

“Then some of the gas will escape. Next question.”

There weren’t any.

The rest of that Saturday was spent making hurried preparations. Lockhart and Stafford set about converting the still into a chamber. The plan was to pack the sarin around a pound of explosive, which would be detonated by a timer fuse. Lockhart was concerned that the pipes would prove to be the weak points, but Stafford, who had characteristically wangled a blowtorch, sealed them up.

Malcolm gave Nichols a crash course in how to drive the truck—Lockhart had decided that it was essential to have at least two men capable of doing it. Simpkin managed to obtain some plain SS rune collar patches, which he sewed onto all fourteen uniforms, as well as picking all the BFC insignia off them. Lockhart made the rest of the unit check, and then double-check, that all the weapons worked, as well as prime the grenades.

By six o’clock in the evening, all that remained for him to do was to have his conversations with Leni and Strasser, one of whom he wanted to join them tomorrow, the other who he wanted to stay behind. He would talk to Strasser first, and then go to the guesthouse.

He found Strasser in his office, staring out of the window, his hands clasped behind his back.

“You seem very busy today, Lockhart,” Strasser said, turning around with an insincere smile on his face.

“I am indeed.”

“Do you want to tell me what it is you’re doing?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

Nothing could have caused Strasser’s mouth to fall open more suddenly.

“What?”

“I’d like you to know—I think it’s only fair.”

Lockhart sat down.

“Go on,” said Strasser.

“Do you have anything to drink first?”