Dickie and Lockhart had proved to be peas in a pod. Both were classicists, although Dickie was mainly self-taught, having wandered throughout Europe for a few years after dropping out of school. Both loved drinking, and Dickie’s alcoholic bouts usually saw him end up in the arms of some beauty. However, his charms were lost on the dark and mysterious Natasha, who appeared to have rather more time for Billy Farson, a tall and athletic Old Etonian. Natasha was a Polish aristocrat who had made her way through the Balkans and found refuge in Cairo. But nobody knew her role in SOE, not even Dickie.

“All I know about her is that that smooth bastard Billy’s got her in the bag,” Dickie moaned when Lockhart inquired.

The few months at Tara reminded Lockhart of a summer at Oxford. There was a lot of work, but there was a lot of fun, a lot of innocence. They played cards out on the verandah, or would hire a dhow and go down the Nile. They even went racing at the Gezira Sporting Club, Lockhart taking home over a thousand piasters, much to Dickie’s annoyance. The winnings were blown on dinner at Shepheards on Lockhart’s last night, the most expensive evening he had ever forgotten.

Tara had been a magical place, Lockhart thought, all the more so from his present vantage point. But it had lacked Anna, and at times he had felt guilty when he had enjoyed himself a little too much. He had been careful never to flirt, no matter how liquid an evening had become, but there had been no shortage of female attention. He would have hated himself if he had sought solace in the bed of a stranger, however tempting the prospect. Dickie had encouraged him, told him it would do him some good, but Dickie was a little young in some respects, a little naive. He would be coming back to Crete soon, Lockhart remembered. He wondered whether, being unmarried, Dickie would find it easier to face death.

He knew Dietrich was buttering him up, spoiling his new star pupil. The food was palatable, and he was even given a bottle of German beer with his dinner. There had been no questioning and no visits from Dietrich or Fasshauer. He was alone, apart from a medical orderly who came to see him every hour or so. He thought of escape but knew it would be fruitless—he had noticed two guards had been posted at the entrance, and his window was barred.

This was the lull. Soon he would need every portion of physical and mental energy to beat Dietrich at this game. If he failed, then Anna would undoubtedly be killed. But Lockhart knew this was the only way they could both stay alive. He would tell Manoli exactly what had happened, and together they could spend months leading Dietrich and his men up the wrong trails. Lockhart knew that he would have to give the appearance of betraying the andartes. A few supply drops would have to be compromised, a few ambushes supposedly rumbled, but it wouldn’t take long for Dietrich to demand some blood.