As far as the author is aware, the Nazis never intended to employ sarin, a gas they had created before the war. Hitler had an abhorrence of the use of gas in a military capacity, believing it would lead to the mutual destruction of both the Allies and Nazi Germany. It is also supposed that his experience of being gassed in the trenches of WWI may have influenced his opinion. Readers scarcely need to be reminded that Hitler was more than willing to use gas away from the battlefield.

The A4 project to build V2 rockets was indeed masterminded by SS-Brigadeführer Hans Kammler, who disappeared after the war. More people died manufacturing V2 rockets than as a result of their use. It is estimated that every operational rocket cost the lives of six workers.

Some of the locations in both Crete and Germany are necessarily fictional.

Readers concerned at Lockhart’s inability to revive Dr. Rudolph should be aware that cardiopulmonary resuscitation was not in practice in the 1940s.

Author’s Note

A Close Encounter with the British Free Corps

It is all too easy for writers of historical fiction to get bogged down in research. Spending hours in dusty archives is a marvelous way of putting off the business of writing. I’m afraid I was no exception, and all too often found myself spending far too many hours—days!—on research.

However, when researching The Traitor, it seemed a legitimate use of time to attempt to contact a surviving member of the BFC. I knew that many members had died, but an online search of the U.K.’s electoral roll revealed that one Albert Minchin was alive, living in Weston-super-Mare in the west of England.

Minchin had been interned in the special camp for captured merchant seamen near Bremen, but was persuaded to join the BFC, believing, he later claimed, that it was little more than a propaganda unit. In fact Minchin was an excellent SS lance-corporal, who even attempted to enlist other members himself. Finding him would be quite a catch, not least because it was Minchin who had actually made up the name of the unit, at a meeting in Berlin in November 1943.

I drove to the address in Weston-super-Mare. It was part of a block of smart council flats. I rang the doorbell—no reply. I rang repeatedly—nothing. I walked around to the back of the block and found a woman hanging up some washing.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m looking for Mr. Minchin.”

“Mr. Minchin? I’m sorry, love, he died last year.”

I cursed inwardly. But then, a good consolation prize.

“But Mrs. Minchin has only just moved around the corner.”

She gave me the address, and I drove there. There was no one at home, so I decided to sit in the car and wait.

Eventually, a shadow opened the door. Standing in front of me was a short woman, not as old as I had anticipated.

“Yes?”