More problematic was what to tell Dietrich about the andartes. He couldn’t betray Manoli and his men. But the truth could easily be twisted. The landing beach could be changed; the locations of the hideouts could be kept vague. And as Lockhart did not know Manoli’s whereabouts, he wouldn’t be able to tell Dietrich anyway. The men’s identities could be restricted to first names—that was pretty much the truth too. Lockhart could say that they operated on that basis in case of interrogation. He would have to deny that he knew what villages they came from for the same reason. Surely Dietrich would understand that any sort of resistance group worked on a need-to-know principle?

Lockhart anticipated that Dietrich would find much of his supposed ignorance hard to swallow, but he was counting on the German’s keenness to have an informer, and an English agent to boot. Dietrich was merely playing the oldest trick in the espionage book: work for us or we’ll kill you. It had worked before, and Lockhart was hoping that Dietrich’s greed and vanity would make it work again. And in return, Lockhart would have bought Anna’s life.

For Lockhart, the sanatorium was like a hotel. His finger was put in a cast and a Wehrmacht medic dressed the myriad cuts and bruises. His testicles were given the all-clear, although there was little that could be done for his nose. He was shocked when he saw it in the mirror—crooked and still swollen. He looked like a thug, but he could have looked a lot worse.

He slept through much of that first day. The last bed he had been in was at Tara. That had been two weeks ago, but it seemed longer. Tara, the castle of ancient Irish kings, whose name had been appropriated by Dickie for their house in Cairo. One of the Billys had found it—a slightly decrepit mansion in the smart Zamalek area. It even had a ballroom. SOE had requisitioned it for use as an “operations center,” but in truth, it had become a venue for some great parties.

Seven of them lived there, Lockhart being the most recent addition. He had arrived early one evening, the jacaranda in full gaudy bloom, the wide tree-lined street quiet and secluded from the manic bustle of the city. A mongrel ran down the steps and licked his hand as a precursor for a cheeky attempt at stealing his small suitcase. Abdul the houseboy came down to shoo him away, telling Lockhart in pidgin English that he must not worry about Pixie, Pixie always like that with new people, Pixie very naughty.

Abdul led him through the cool, dark hallway. The marble floors were in need of a polish, but this was far grander than Lockhart had dared hope for. He had expected to be slumming it in some sweltering hut—a far cry from the bedroom Abdul was showing him into. Oil paintings hung on the walls; the furniture was a medley of Middle Eastern styles, ornately carved, some pieces inlaid with exquisite marquetry. Lockhart couldn’t help but cackle when he saw the magnificent four-poster.