He finished his coffee and stood up, bringing another chair near to his. He then sat again, pulled his boots off—they smelled almost as bad as his breath—and put his feet up on the other chair. The bright morning light disturbed him. He reached for his cap, leaned his head back and placed the cap over his face. Much better. Apart from the fact he had to endure his breath again, he was now comfortable. He was asleep in five minutes, snoring volubly.

Ten minutes later he was being shaken awake by his orderly.

“Oberstleutnant,” the young man urged, “they’ve captured one of the partisans.”

“What?” Dietrich asked blearily.

“One of the partisans has been captured—he’s in the cells.”

Dietrich swung his feet off the table, knocking the empty coffee cup onto the floor, where it smashed.

“Clear that up, Schmidt,” he barked. “And pass me my boots—I don’t want to walk on this floor now.”

Schmidt did as he was told, and bent down to clear up the fragments as Dietrich heaved his boots on.

“In fact, this office is a mess. Have it cleared before I get back.”

“Yes, sir. It will be done right away.”

“Good.”

Dietrich turned on his heel and walked toward the door, grinding small shards of cup into the tiles.

The parade ground of the Rethimno barracks was quiet. Much of the garrison, which was nearly a thousand strong, was either on maneuvers or chasing the andartes responsible for last night’s attack. Others would be trawling the town for suitable hostages.

Dietrich passed a row of trucks. Some mechanics had jumped back to work upon spotting the oberstleutnant’s approach.

“I want them all fixed by this evening,” Dietrich shouted. “I shall even test one myself at random.”

The mechanics saluted, their eyes bulging in worry and disbelief.

Dietrich reached the prison. Before the invasion, it had been a storage cellar for wine and olive oil. It was cool and dark, and could accommodate nearly two hundred prisoners in the cages the army had installed. The two guards at the door clicked to attention as Dietrich entered. As he made his way down the steep stone steps, his eyes took a while to get accustomed to the dimness. The air was still and stank of sweat and urine. The soldiers who worked down here were usually on punishment duty—being a mere guard was a disgrace.

At the bottom of the steps was a small room, containing a desk and some chairs. A heavy door at the back opened into the main prison. Dietrich found four men standing to attention, one of whom was an officer, Oberleutnant Gunther Fasshauer. All of twenty-three, Fasshauer was a rising young star, and Dietrich liked the fact that he was capable and respectful without being oleaginous, unlike some of his other junior officers.

“So then, Fasshauer, who have you got for me this morning?”