It took four hours to reach Rethimno. As the truck pulled into the parade ground early that afternoon, Lockhart saw Dietrich waiting for them. Standing next to him were two civilians, wearing long black leather coats and snap-brim hats. Gestapo. He had been taught about them at Arisaig, how no agent could hope to survive an encounter with the Reich’s secret police. They even had the legal right to beat confessions out of their prisoners. So, finally, this really would be the end. He would be taken off to another cell by fat men in leather coats, where the tortures would be more brutal, the deprivations and abuse horrific. He had made a shambles of everything and now the Fates were to punish him for it. The situation was so dire, he could have laughed—fear was now replaced by an almost comic sense of resignation.

Grinning slightly, Lockhart looked at a perplexed Fasshauer.

“Stay where you are,” the German said, and jumped out the back.

Lockhart watched as Fasshauer walked over to his commanding officer, saluted him, and was introduced to the two Gestapo men. The conversation was inaudible, until he heard Fasshauer shout:

“You must be joking! He’s far too valuable for us just to give him…”

But then Dietrich was already quieting the young man down, and the conversation carried on for another minute until Fasshauer shouted over to the truck.

“Bring the prisoner here!”

The two guards bundled Lockhart to the back of the truck and pushed him out so hard that he nearly fell flat. Desperate to impress Dietrich, they made a great show of roughly shoving their prisoner over the few yards.

“Untie his hands!” ordered Dietrich.

Lockhart felt a bayonet sawing vigorously between his wrists, and briefly thought that he might be killed there and then by some idiot private accidentally slicing up his veins. When the rope came off, he found it difficult to move his arms in front of him, so cramped and stiff were his shoulders.

“Welcome back, Captain,” smiled Dietrich. “I’m glad to see you’re safe and well. Many congratulations, although I am sorry that I didn’t quite trust you enough not to have you followed. No hard feelings, I hope?”

Lockhart smiled sarcastically back. Dietrich’s bogus chivalry was absurd—he was clearly trying to show the Gestapo what gentlemen the Wehrmacht were.

“I’m so glad. Unfortunately our friendship must end here, as these two gentlemen from the Gestapo would like to take you in for questioning. Believe me, Captain, I tried as hard as I could, but they were most insistent that they become your new guardians.”

Lockhart continued with his insincere smile. Part of him relished the fact that Dietrich had been overruled by these two policemen. His attempts to make light of it were pathetic, childish even.

“So it’s goodbye, Lockhart,” said Dietrich, holding out his hand. “I wish you the very best of luck.”