“So what are you doing over here?”

“I came here to raid the arms dump.”

“You came all the way here to do that?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you, but we can come to that later. What’s your name anyway?”

“Yanni.”

“Yanni what?”

“Yanni Marinaki.”

Yanni Marinaki was actually the name of a long-gone archaeologist, but they weren’t to know that.

“Got any family, Yanni?”

“No.”

“What happened to them?”

“They died.”

“How?”

“They were killed.”

“By who?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“No, you, the Germans.”

“We killed all your family? You must come from a pretty bad bunch. It’s just as well we caught you. Why did we kill your family?”

“They were in their house when the whole village was burned down.”

“And why was the village burned down?”

“I don’t know.”

“When did this happen?”

“In the summer.”

“And since then you have been on the run, no doubt swearing revenge on us.”

Lockhart nodded. It was nice of Dietrich to complete his alibi.

“And how did you end up with that gang of idiots?”

“I came across them in the mountains.”

“Where exactly?”

“I don’t know.”

Dietrich paused.

“Don’t tell me that you don’t know, Yanni, otherwise you’ll get another kicking.”

“I swear I don’t know—I was just wandering around, and I came across these andartes, who asked me to join them.”

“Tell me where, Yanni. This is your last chance.”

Lockhart didn’t want to mention a location for fear that it really did contain andartes. He would just have to take a kicking.

“I really don’t know.”

Dietrich breathed sharply in and out through his nose.

“Come on, Gunther, let’s see if you can help him to remember.”

Fasshauer grinned and walked over to Lockhart. He bent down and whispered in Lockhart’s ear, as he had done that morning.

“So where would you like it this time—your balls or your face?”

Lockhart drew his legs up to his chest and shut his eyes. He knew the only way he would get through this was to take his mind somewhere else, to disconnect it from the agonies he was about to feel.

“I’ve had a change of plan. I think we’ll start with your fingers this time.”

Lockhart snapped open his eyes to see Fasshauer remove a pair of pliers from his breast pocket. Would he be able to bear this? He desperately wanted to save himself the pain, to tell them everything—the hideouts, the identities, even about the training camp at Arisaig. But he knew he couldn’t do that—there could be no pain on earth that would make him tell these two about all that. Fuck them. He could live without a finger or two. He shut his eyes again—he did not want to see the pleasure Fasshauer was getting from this.

He found himself being thrust onto the floor and a boot standing on his left forearm. Cold metal sharply gripped the little finger on his left hand and pulled it back. He suppressed a scream through clenched teeth.