The British Lion (30 page)

“Police, you say?” The farmer and the dog squinted at Rossett.

“I need your truck.”

“You can have it. Bleedin’ thing hasn’t started in months.”

“It’s broken down?”

“Totally buggered,” the farmer replied as he leaned in close to Ruth, studying the yellow star on her coat and then looking up into her face.

“She’s a Jew.” The farmer looked at Rossett, who was putting his police warrant card back into his suit pocket. “We don’t get many of them round here,” said the farmer, turning to look at Ruth again.

“Do you have any other form of transport?” Rossett was already buttoning up his coat.

“Oh, aye, I’ve got a horse, but he’s pretty much buggered as well.” The farmer shuffled across the room in untied boots. He tossed a piece of wood onto the embers behind Rossett, then stabbed at the fire with a poker, speaking without looking up.

“Bleedin’ ’orse just eats and shits. You ask him to pull something and he ain’t interested. He’s useless, he is.”

Smoke billowed from the fire and Rossett took a few steps away from it. The dog retook his place.

“How far is the nearest main road?”

“Main road?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you mean by main road. See, round here we don’t have many roads you could call ‘main.’ ”

Rossett considered shooting the old man.

“Just tell me where the nearest road is that will have cars on it.”

A lonely flame crept up the back of the fresh log. The old man scratched at his chest through his vest, with a finger that was more knuckle than anything.

He looked at the ceiling deep in thought.

“Road, you say . . .”

Rossett looked at Ruth and then back at the farmer, who was still scratching and staring.

“It is a simple question. Answer it.”

“Well, the old St. Neots Road is a few miles north of here. And the London Road is a few miles west, but they aren’t busy roads, not by any measure. Not since the Germans showed up, that is.”

“Who else around here has a truck?”

“A truck?”

“Do you have to repeat everything I say?”

The old man frowned at Rossett’s rudeness and turned back to poke the fire again. He agitated a few sparks, one of which landed on the dog and filled the room with the smell of singed fur.

The dog didn’t move; it was probably used to it.

“A truck?” the old man said to himself before starting to scratch his chest again.

“I haven’t got all night.”

“Neither ’ave I. I’ve got to feed the bleedin’ pigs at six o’clock. Then I’ve got to milk them cows in the lower barn, then I’ve got to drive over to Caxton to pick up . . .”

“Drive?” Rossett held up his hand to stop the farmer, who paused in his scratching and squinted at the finger.

“Aye, I’ve got to drive up to Caxton to—”

“What in?”

“What?”

“What in? What are you driving in?”

“My car, what do you think?”

Rossett opened his hand, touched the side of his face in exasperation, and then looked at Ruth before turning back to the farmer.

“You said you didn’t have a car.”

“No, I never.”

“I asked you . . . it doesn’t matter. I’m commandeering your car. Where is it?”

“My car? You can’t take my car; I’ve got to go over to Caxton in the morning after I—”

Rossett pulled his Webley and pointed it at the farmer.

“Give me the fucking keys.”

CHAPTER 36

H
OW THE ENGLISH
drink this swill amazes me.” King stirred the strong tea in the mug with a spoon and shook his head. “It’s like watery mud.”

He set the mug down and dropped the teaspoon next to it on the table with a rattle; then turned sideways in his seat and looked around the café. He scanned the various taxi drivers and night-shift workers who were dotted around the steamy, noisy room, eating, drinking, or reading newspapers.

King looked at his watch, then gingerly felt the lumps and scratches on his head where Koehler had hit him earlier.

“Shithole.” King shook his head and looked at Koehler sitting opposite him across the table. “How long do we wait here?”

“Until Rossett calls,” Koehler replied flatly.

“Why here?”

“Because this is his place. It’s where he chose.”

“So we just sit?”

“Till he calls.”

King breathed out noisily before looking up at the ceiling of the café, and then back at Koehler.

“You come here a lot?”

Koehler didn’t reply.

“The waitress knew you; I could tell when you ordered the tea at the counter.”

Koehler took a drink and then put the mug back down on the table. He looked at King, pointedly ignoring the question.

King sighed once more and then gingerly touched his head again.

He looked at his fingertips and then held them up for Koehler to see.

“I’ve stopped bleeding.”

“For now.”

King smirked. “You don’t say much, do you?”

Koehler didn’t reply.

“I know that you are . . . well, I know that you’re angry with me. Jesus, I can understand why. But you have to realize I want to help you get your daughter back. I can’t make what I’ve done right, but I can at least help you get . . .” King broke off, not wanting to say Anja’s name for some reason he couldn’t quite understand. “Get your daughter back.”

Koehler picked up the battered pack of cigarettes and shook one out; he closed the box and tapped the cigarette on the tabletop before lighting it.

He turned back to King, watching him over the top of the mug and through the smoke.

King waited for an answer that didn’t come, and eventually he sighed and tried again.

“I’m sorry, okay? I’ll keep saying it, I’m sorry . . . I really mean it, I’m sorry.”

Koehler picked a strand of tobacco off his tongue, looked at it, then rolled it in his fingers before dropping it into the foil ashtray between them. He sucked on the cigarette and King heard it crackle as the tip glowed, then turned to ash.

Koehler leaned forward, blowing smoke through his nose; he took the cigarette out of his mouth and used it to beckon King closer.

“You killed my fucking wife and kidnapped my daughter, you bastard. You’re a murderer, you are scum, and when the time is right I’m going to kill you.”

Koehler sat back in his chair and put the cigarette into his mouth once more. He picked up the mug of tea with his other hand, still staring at King, who stared back at him.

It took King ten seconds to blink; he lowered his head, paused, and then looked up again at Koehler.

“You know, I’m sorry about your wife, I really am. I’m going to keep on saying it because I genuinely regret what happened.” King looked at the table again, shifted slightly, and then looked up. “Thing is, while I can understand your anger, I can’t understand your indignation.”

Koehler raised one eyebrow a fraction as King continued.

“You see”—King squeezed the bridge of his nose and then lowered his hand to the table—“you’re a fucking Nazi. You’re in the SS. Your job, your life, your whole existence is built on killing people. Husbands, sons, daughters, and, if you’ll forgive me for saying it, wives. You guys kill ’em, you kill ’em all. I didn’t mean for your wife to get hurt, but I won’t accept you taking the moral high ground over me. Someone who is part of a machine built by death has no right to complain when death visits him.”

“She was an innocent woman out shopping with her child.”

King shook his head and looked out at the street outside. Five or six black taxis were parked opposite, and he could see his face reflected in the window looking back.

“Do you see that?” King gestured toward his reflection but Koehler missed the point and looked at the taxis outside. “My reflection in the glass, can you see it?” King tried again.

Koehler looked at the window, and then back at King.

“I can look at myself. Can you?” King looked away from the window and back to Koehler.

Koehler tapped the cigarette over the ashtray.

King nodded, then carried on speaking, his voice low, barely audible over the noise of the café.

“I didn’t kill your wife; she shot herself when she was struggling with Eric, my partner. I concede, with genuine regret, that my actions led to that struggle, and for that I am sorry. But I did what I had to do. I was following orders, orders that I believe to be in the best interests of my country, and the battle against fascism . . . the battle against you. Okay, I admit it, I am a bad man. I have done things for my country that I am ashamed of.” King held up his hands in surrender, then folded his fingers into his palms and leaned forward, unfurling his left index finger and pointing it at Koehler. “But—this is important, and you need to remember this—I’m a long way behind you when it comes to killing. I’m an amateur compared to you. I know your reputation; I know how many lives you’ve taken, how many people you’ve disappeared . . . I’m an amateur, pure and simple.”

“I am a soldier,” Koehler said through the smoke.

King smiled and shook his head.

“No. No, really, you are a monster, you are a reaper of souls, you are dripping in blood. You are the man who loads the trains, Ernst; you are the man who stopped being a soldier to be the collector of the Jews. All in the name of a madman. You are the man who rounds up the innocents and then sends them away. How many is it? One hundred? One thousand? Ten thousand? Do you even know? You are evil. What you do is evil.” King folded his finger back into his fist and leaned back an inch, staring at Koehler with cold gray eyes. “I think, deep down, deep, deep down, you know that. I think there’s even a small chance that you struggle with it. But whatever inner wars you may fight, you keep dealing death. So don’t fucking complain when it bites you on the ass.”

The waitress came over and King sat fully back and smiled at her.

“Can I get you gentlemen anything to eat?”

“I’d love a bacon sandwich.” King smiled again and raised his eyebrows at Koehler. “Do you want anything?”

“Sir?” The waitress looked at Koehler, who waved her away.

King smiled at Koehler, who stared back across the table, through the ribbon of smoke that was rising from the cigarette, still held in his clenched fist on the table.

“You see, Koehler, whatever I do, however badly I behave, and whatever carnage I leave behind, I’m just an amateur compared to you, and I always will be.”

King picked up his tea, took a sip, and pulled a face.

He never even saw Koehler whipping his right hand out and across the table. Koehler caught hold of the lapel of King’s raincoat and dragged him over the table, knocking King’s mug onto the floor, where it smashed as the teaspoon clattered behind it. Koehler dragged King closer as the American pushed back in a futile attempt to fight him off.

King could smell the cigarette on Koehler’s breath.

For a moment the café was utterly silent, except for the hiss of the water boiler behind the counter.

Koehler stared into King’s eyes as he held the other man, inches from his face.

Nobody moved in the café, and seconds passed before King whispered softly to Koehler.

“You know I’m right. You are the devil. You just don’t want to admit it.”

Koehler’s cheek fluttered, another moment passed, and then he released his grip on King and shoved him backward across the table, so hard King almost tipped out of his seat and onto the floor.

Koehler ran a hand through his hair and then looked toward the other people seated around them. Everyone quickly looked away.

King adjusted his raincoat, then leaned down to pick up a few pieces of the broken mug as a nervous hum of conversation resumed in the café. King placed the broken crockery on the edge of the table and adjusted his coat again.

“Ernst, we all tell ourselves we don’t have a choice. We behave the way we do because we think it’s all we can do. You aren’t alone.” King spoke more quietly this time, in a less challenging tone; he touched the lump on his head again and then placed his hand palm down on the table. “If I could go back and stop this, I would.”

King lifted his hand an inch, staring at it, before nodding to himself and placing it back down.

“I had a choice today. I took the easy option. I hid and waited instead of charging in and fighting for someone else. Someone I dragged into this, someone who didn’t deserve to die. I hid. I hid while they killed him.”

He looked up at Koehler and then continued.

“Choices, eh? Life is easy when you don’t have them. When there is someone telling you what to do, you always have someone else to blame when it goes wrong. ‘I was just following orders’ works every time. Do you know that’s why we picked you?”

Koehler looked at him silently.

“We looked for someone who would fight, take the hard options. We needed someone who could get down and dirty, someone who could think on the move. Someone not like me. I follow orders, and we needed a
street fighter.
We hoped we were getting two when we picked you. We hoped Rossett would get on board, and we thought we’d have the dream team. You and him, doing our dirty work.” King chuckled sadly. “Eric and I thought we were doing the easy bit.”

The waitress appeared nervously next to them. She placed the bacon sandwich down on the table before collecting the broken bits of mug.

“I’m sorry about that,” King said. “I can’t stand tea.”

The waitress looked at Koehler and then back at King.

“Would you like a coffee?”

“I would
love
a coffee. That would be so kind of you.”

She smiled, nodded, and left the table. King watched her go, then turned back to Koehler and took half the sandwich before sliding the plate with the other half across the table toward him.

Koehler slid the plate back.

“Why do you want the Jew in Cambridge so badly?” Koehler looked out the window as he spoke.

“Because we can’t afford to let you guys have her.”

“So
you
having the bomb is better than
us
having the bomb?”

“You’ll get your bomb, Ernst, don’t worry about that. It’ll maybe take a little longer, but the result will be the same.”

“If we have time.”

“America wouldn’t attack first.”

“Your government isn’t that much different from mine.”

“We’re still a democracy.”

“For now. Lindbergh is eating away at your precious liberty in the name of security.”

“If we have the bomb we’ll be secure, then there won’t be a threat.”

Koehler gave a slight shake of his head and then looked at King.

“Weapons don’t make you secure; they just make the other man get a bigger weapon. Be careful, because one day you might find yourself looking at your reflection, realizing you’re not that much different from me. And if that day comes, there is no going back. Once you start, you are rolling down the hill to hell, and it’s almost impossible to stop.”

King shook his head and put the sandwich down on the plate untasted.

“We’ll get your daughter back. I’ll make it right,” King said without looking up from the sandwich.

“I’ll get her back.”

King rested his elbows on the table as his head dropped forward wearily.

He didn’t move for minutes. When he finally lifted his head he found that Koehler was still staring at him, and there was a mug of steaming coffee on the table.

“The resistance jumped us at the flat. As we were trying to see them off, your daughter managed to get hold of Eric’s gun and left us with no choice but to run. She outfoxed the pair of us.”

“You left her to the resistance?”

“She had a gun; we didn’t have a choice. We were pinned down on both sides. We had to withdraw.” King slid the plate away from him, toward the ashtray, and pointed to Koehler’s cigarettes. “May I?”

Koehler nodded. King lit up and then exhaled with his eyes closed. He seemed to meditate for a moment.

“I left Eric to get us some transport, and the resistance took him. I followed them to a house and I waited to see what would happen.”

“And what happened?”

King shrugged. “They killed him. I fucked up and they killed him. I was waiting to see how things played out, and they were killing him fifty feet away from me while I couldn’t make up my mind.”

Koehler didn’t reply.

“He was just a clerk, a dumb kid looking for some excitement,” King said quietly.

“You know he is dead?”

“I killed two of them. Eric tried to escape, and they chased him. He was pretty badly injured . . . very badly injured.” King took another drag. “They tortured him for information. He told me that he hadn’t told them anything. He was brave. He wasn’t a soldier, but he was brave.”

Koehler swilled the cold tea in his cup, staring into it as King drifted off to the memory of Eric dying in the snow.

After a moment Koehler looked up.

“You killed two of them?”

“Yes, I shot them.”

“Was that all there was?”

“No. There was an old man, very tall, and a fat woman. She was vicious, a handful, I think she made them torture him. She got away, I think,” King looked at Koehler and smiled sadly. “I always seem to have problems with women.”

Koehler frowned. “Was that a joke?”

“I’m sorry, bad taste.”

Koehler stared across the table and then spoke again.

“Does this woman have Anja?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, I never saw her there.”

“How old was she?”

“I don’t know, forty, maybe fifty?”

“Vicious?”

“Oh, God, yes. She—well, the injuries to Eric . . .” King shook his head. “I should have killed her.”