As he got out of the car, Lockhart noticed the camp was nearly silent. He had expected to see a few men kicking a ball around, but it was deserted except for the sentries patrolling the perimeter fence. The quiet was broken by the appearance of a bulky SS NCO jauntily coming down the steps.

“Hello, Captain Lockhart,” he shouted in an American accent. “Welcome to Genshagen holiday camp!”

Lockhart stayed silent, looking at the man. He was huge—at least six feet four, and immensely broad, about the same size as Manoli. The thought made him wince. His curly hair was a dirty blond, and he had a ruddy, clean-shaven face. He looked friendly enough.

“Remove the prisoner’s cuffs,” he ordered the Gestapo officers.

One of them did so, barely concealing his distaste at being bossed around.

“Do you need any refreshments?”

The Gestapo men shook their heads and walked back to their car.

The big man looked back at Lockhart.

“Not very friendly, don’t you think?”

Lockhart was nonplussed.

“No—not particularly.”

“Sorry—let me introduce myself. I’m Sonderführer Oskar Lange—one of the men in charge here.”

“You’re American?”

“Hell, no! I’m German through and through. I sound like a Yank because I used to work over there—as a longshoreman in New York.”

Lockhart nodded.

“You call this place a holiday camp?”

“That’s right. Allied prisoners who behave themselves can come here for a break. The food’s better for a start, and there are a lot more privileges.”

“Such as?”

“All these questions, Lockhart! Come on—let’s go inside, it’s far too cold! Anyway, there are some people I’d like you to meet.”

They walked up the steps.

“This building is the headquarters—it contains the barracks and my offices.”

He paused halfway up the steps and turned around.

“And that building over there,” he said proudly, pointing at one of the four large huts, “is the concert hall.”

“Concert hall?”

“Oh yes—we may be small, but it’s all here. Do you play anything?”

“The piano—badly.”

“That’s better than most! Anyway, that building there is the washhouse and canteen, and the other two huts are for the two hundred or so holiday-makers we have here.”

“Two hundred? Where are they all?”

“Oh, they’re all inside—we didn’t want them to see you coming!”

“Why not?”

“More and more questions! Come on, inside!”

They stepped into a long, dimly lit corridor. As they walked, Lockhart couldn’t help but warm to this man Lange. He was the friendliest German he had met, and his charm seemed genuine. This was obviously a camp where Allied prisoners were being buttered up for something, and Lange was plainly the man to do it.

Lange opened a door marked with his name, and ushered Lockhart in.

“Here we go, my friend, this is my huge office, and in it are two very important gentlemen who are dying to meet you.”