He helps the blackshirt off the floor. He looks as though he has a broken nose and no doubt he’ll have a few broken ribs. He might need some new teeth too.

“Come on, my friend,” he says gently. “Up you get.”

“Thank you, sir,” the blackshirt splutters through his bloody mouth. “You’re a hero, sir.”

That makes his chest swell, but he does not want to show it. A hero, eh? How about that?

“You are the hero, my friend, taking on those two Jews. Come on, let’s get you to an ambulance.”

They come in peace, but they bring their own ambulances. They cannot rely on the hospitals; instead they take their wounded back to a ward in London, staffed by loyal wives and sisters. A state within a state, that’s what they are. And soon their state will replace the state.

The fighting is breaking up, as the Bolshies who can do so are now running. As he helps the blackshirt into the ambulance, he hears the familiar sound of police whistles. Too late again, fools! He lets the truncheon drop by his side. No one will have seen him use it, or at least no one will say they have. The Bolshies wouldn’t dare, stupid scum.

They came in peace and now they’re leaving with another glorious victory under their silver belts. The Leader will be pleased.

Chapter Three

DECEMBER 1943

It had taken a lot of doing, but Strasser had wangled himself an office on the Potsdamer Strasse—far enough away from the SS-Hauptamt to give him the privacy required. Since he had seen Berger last week, he had spent much of his time waging war on red tape and deflecting Max’s inquisitions. Even Leni had asked him what he was now doing, her curiosity aroused by his slight irritability. He had snapped back, telling her it was none of her business, and that she was just a whore and had better get on with her job. Upset, she went to her task, and Strasser apologized afterward. He couldn’t help it—he liked her too much. He had offered her more money than normal, but she had refused, saying that his apology was worth more than any amount of reichsmarks.

Strasser looked at his desk. Piles and piles of paper, from just about every department in the Reich. He had skimmed through or ignored most of them, trying to keep the job simple. All he had to do was enlist thirty Englishmen, train them, and then his job was done. He wasn’t going to put his heart into it, but then he wasn’t going to fail.