I can’t do this job anymore. The last few months have shown me that I am not the right person for the role that I’ve been given. I can’t do it; I’m finished.”

Hahn shook his head.

“You have been ordered to do your job. The person who orders, it is he who decides when a job is finished, not the person doing it.”

Koehler kept looking at the brown carpet. Tiny lines in the weave made it look like the plowed fields Koehler had seen far below when he had flown out of Moscow back to Berlin all those years ago.

Another lifetime.

Hahn opened Koehler’s file once more. He picked up a pencil and tapped it on the desk.

“Your family are visiting you, are they not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When do they go back?” Hahn said without looking up.

“Four days, sir.” Koehler’s mood lifted along with his head.

Hahn leaned back in his chair studying Koehler, who stared back, unsure of what was coming next.

“You are a good soldier, Ernst. Your men would do anything for you, your superiors speak highly of you, and you run a tight ship. Your work with the Jews has been extremely efficient and is to be commended.” Hahn toyed with the pencil again. “Your adventure last year with this Rossett character, exposing those resistance cells, was unconventional but effective. For that work, the Reich and the Führer are extremely grateful. You are being awarded Oak Leaves, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Well deserved.” Hahn clasped his hands in front of him again, still holding the pencil, which stuck out the top like the plunger on a firing box.

“Thank you, sir.”

Hahn stared at Koehler without speaking, for so long Koehler found himself shifting in the chair.

“Am I dismissed, sir?”

Hahn leaned back from the desk, then tapped the pencil against his teeth before speaking again.

“You’re not losing faith, are you, Ernst?”

“Faith, sir?”

“In what we do, and the ­people we do it for?”

Koehler stiffened and suddenly regretted writing the transfer request.

“No, sir.”

Hahn frowned.

“Germany calls on us. The Fatherland makes great demands. Demands that many find difficult to live up to. You’ve been tasked with an unpleasant job—­a vital job, but unpleasant nonetheless.” Hahn leaned forward again and lowered his voice. “It would be understandable if your work with the Jews in London became a difficult cross to bear. If you’ll pardon the pun.” Hahn smiled thinly at his own joke.

“My record speaks for itself, sir.”

“Records are history. It’s the present I’m talking about, so I’ll ask you again. Are you losing faith?”

“I’m not losing faith, sir.”

Hahn smiled before standing up and wandering over to the window.

Koehler twisted to look at his boss as he spoke.

“Does the business with the Jews offend you, Ernst?”

“Not at all, sir. It is important work that needs to be done,” Koehler replied, surprised to find his eyes straying toward a portrait of the Führer.

He looked away quickly and scratched at his ear.

“You can speak freely, Ernst. You have my word as an officer that nothing will leave this room,” Hahn said, still staring out the window.

Koehler didn’t reply, for fear of falling into a trap. He noticed his left hand was aching again, and he had to fight the urge to rub it.

“It’s been a long war, Ernst,” Hahn said at the window. “For some, longer than others. You are one of those others. I understand that you are tired, and when ­people are tired, they make mistakes.”

Like asking for a fucking transfer, Koehler thought to himself.

“But you can relax with me here. Here and now, Ernst, in this room, you can speak freely. I’ll ask you again: does this business with the Jews offend you?”

Koehler turned to look at Hahn, swiveling slightly in his chair. He paused, looked down, and then back up again at Hahn, who still stared out over London from the window.

Say nothing, Koehler thought. Just say nothing and get the fuck out of this office as soon as possible.

Silence sat on his shoulders like a shroud. Hahn didn’t move an inch.