He studied his neck in the mirror. It looked badly bruised, damn it. He had also sustained a small cut above his left eye—that must have happened when they fell against the side of the desk. It worried him that Lockhart had got the best of the fight before Lange stepped in. It was a lesson, a warning. Time to get back to those rigorous morning exercises. Working in the Hauptamt had not exactly made him flabby, but he certainly knew that he could be fitter, a lot fitter. Maybe a spot of boxing as well—that was good for reflexes rendered docile by a small smoke-filled office and Berlin life.

Strasser washed his face and patted it dry, leaving some specks of blood on his towel. He removed his tunic and dusted it down—Lange’s office floor could do with a clean. He brushed the grime from the back of his breeches and then inspected his boots. They looked a little scuffed, not exhibiting their usual brilliant shine. He would get an orderly to polish them up overnight. He kicked them off and decided to lie on the bed for a few minutes. It had been a long day, and he could do with a catnap—a habit he had picked up on the Russian front.

He thought of Lockhart in his cell. He would probably still be unconscious, the fool, although Strasser had to admit that he had done the honorable thing. He would have to be shot, whatever Hillen-Ziegfeld said. Nevertheless, part of him didn’t want that. He wanted to know more about this man who had had the wit to stay alive this far. Still, it was too bad—he couldn’t just let a British prisoner get away with attacking him. Anyway, he was a spy, and spies got shot, just as they did in Britain. He would do it himself, first thing in the morning. There was always a possibility, he supposed, that Lockhart would change his mind, but the chance of that was negligible. No, Lockhart was a man who knew he had taken things too far, and had realized that it was time to die.

Strasser awoke with a start. He looked at his watch—he had been asleep for over an hour. He was late for dinner, not that it mattered. Groggily he put on his tunic and boots, brushed his hair and went over to the mess. He found Lange sitting on his own, greedily tucking into a bowl of soup.

“What’s it like?” asked Strasser, sitting down.

“Shit,” said Lange. “But I need all the food I can get. There’s a lot of me to feed.”

Strasser smiled a little.

“Where’s our Foreign Office functionary?”

“He’s been trying to get through to Berlin for the past hour or so,” said Lange in between slurps. “He’s gone mad, you know, jumping up and down, saying that Lockhart mustn’t be shot.”

“Too bad.”

“Quite. Anyway, I doubt he’ll get through—the lines are probably down as usual.”