Strasser heard the sound of a truck outside. He went to the window and opened it, letting a rush of cold morning air into the room. Coughing, he looked down three floors to see a small truck pull up and disgorge six men dressed in civilian clothes. They were accompanied by an armed SS sturmmann and a Wehrmacht private—that would be their interpreter, Wilhelm Richter. Strasser wouldn’t need Richter of course—Richter was there to see off any inquisitive policeman who heard a batch of Englishmen walking down a Berlin street. He could hear the men laughing and joking as they made their way to the entrance. So they did think it was a jolly.

Strasser shut the window. Walking over to the flimsy table and chairs at the other end of the office, he could have sworn that it was colder in than out. There was a grate in the office, but no wood, coke, anything. He was tempted to burn some of those nonsensical Foreign Office files, but thought better of it. He sat at the head of the table, neatly positioning some paper and a pencil in front of him. He straightened his tie and smoothed down his tunic. He waited, his eyes closed.

After a couple of minutes, he heard voices and footsteps. There was a knock on the door.

“Yes!”

The door opened, and in stepped the six men and Richter. They sauntered in, nodding casually at Strasser, and continued talking to each other.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” asked Strasser. He spoke in English, his voice calm, measured.

The men went silent. Strasser continued in the same authoritative monotone.

“Get the fuck out, come in again, one at a fucking time. I want each one of you to salute me, stating your name and date of birth. If you show any such disrespect again, then you’ll all be off to a punishment camp. Now—out! Richter—you stay here and sit next to me.”

Like chastised schoolboys, the men sheepishly left the room. The first to reenter was Butcher, who announced himself in German and with an immaculate Heil Hitler.

“Much better, Butcher,” said Strasser. “Although I had expected you to show an example.”

“I apologize, Hauptsturmführer….”

“Just sit down.”

Pugh and Catchpole came in next, both giving Nazi salutes. Marston and Lee merely stood to attention, but Strasser let that go—they were not yet in the SS. As he expected, Maclaren also gave a full Heil Hitler.

Strasser looked slowly around the table, sizing them up. They mostly looked like scum, useless scum skimmed off the surface. He breathed out theatrically, and pinching his pencil so it stood upright on the table, let his thumb and forefinger slide slowly down it. When they reached the bottom, he lifted the pencil up, and turned the top end down to the table, whereupon he tapped it down again and repeated the process. He did this at least thirty or forty times, the silence only broken by the rhythmic tapping and the occasional nervous cough.