The corridor took a right turn, and they walked down a passage that flanked a courtyard, in the center of which stood a disused fountain. A monastery, thought Lockhart, grimacing—trust the Germans to have hijacked a monastery. They approached a large door, which Fasshauer rudely opened with little ceremony. This had to be Dietrich’s office.

Dietrich’s orderly stood to attention behind his desk.

“Can I go straight in?” asked Fasshauer.

“Yes, sir, he’s expecting you.”

The orderly opened the door and Fasshauer pushed Lockhart so hard that he stumbled and fell in front of Dietrich’s desk. As he got up, Dietrich jokingly admonished Fasshauer.

“Be careful with our new friend, Gunther. He is going to be very useful for us.”

Fasshauer nodded back with a reluctant grunt of agreement.

Dietrich lit a cigarette and scrutinized Lockhart through the blue haze. Lockhart was becoming accustomed to Dietrich’s long stares, and he found them less threatening. Finally, the German spoke.

“It seems as though your story is true, Captain Lockhart.”

Lockhart stood transfixed. Anna was alive! He knew she must have been. She would never allow herself to die without a struggle.

“Well, aren’t you going to say anything?” Dietrich asked.

“An…Anna?” stammered Lockhart. “You’re sure she’s alive?”

“Indeed she is. Although she is not in Vught; she is currently being held as a political prisoner in Germany. She is being well looked after.”

Dietrich told him the name of the prison camp. He had never heard of it, but if it was like others that he had heard of, then it was a miracle that Anna was alive. Back in Cairo, Lockhart had read reports that claimed the conditions in such camps were subhuman—murderous even. And just before he had left, he had read of a speech Churchill had made in the Commons, stating that the Nazis were systematically murdering the Jews, the Gypsies, the mentally ill, the politically hostile—any enemy—in such camps. Lockhart tried to stop himself picturing Anna’s emaciated corpse, her eyes permanently frozen in a wasted face. Could she really be still alive?

“You do not look very happy, Lockhart.”

It was Dietrich, again in his avuncular tone. Lockhart cleared his throat.

“It’s just that I had heard that these camps…”

“That’s all nonsense,” said Dietrich. “She’ll be all right. Anyway, it’s the Jews who get the tough time. She may have to work hard, but that’s good for the soul, eh?”

“Quite.”

“Come on, Lockhart—cheer up! When the war is over, you will see her again. Perhaps you’ll end up in the same cell!”

Lockhart smiled weakly, and then the obvious occurred to him.

“Can I write to her?”

Dietrich’s smile vanished.

“Of course you fucking can’t! That would be a terrible breach of security, her knowing you had been captured. Besides, I’m not some fucking post office. Who the hell do you think I am?”

Lockhart stayed silent.