The British Lion (33 page)

CHAPTER 40

A
NJA AND JACK
had held hands for over an hour.

They hadn’t spoken, they hadn’t acknowledged they were holding hands, they hadn’t squeezed them tighter to reassure each other, and they hadn’t cried or shown they were scared.

But they hadn’t let go, either.

They’d clung to each other as if they were adrift in a storm, each holding the other up. Every time there was a noise on the other side of the door, they flinched, their eyes chasing shadows and imaginary flashes of light in the darkness.

Jack had never been so scared in his life.

He was glad he wasn’t alone.

Anja was scared, but she was also very angry.

She was sick of being locked in rooms, being dragged by adults who should have known better, being hungry and cold, not being in control of her own life.

She wanted to scream at the injustice.

But instead, she lay on the floor and held Jack’s hand.

There was a noise outside the door. Anja and Jack both watched the gap underneath it for signs of movement. Boots broke the light, walking past, left to right. Heavy cludding boots that caused the floor to vibrate under them, like a giant in a fairy tale.

Jack finally squeezed.

“You all right?” His whisper sounded loud in the darkness and Anja looked at him in the gloom. She nodded, knowing that Jack was more scared than she.

“How long have we been ’ere, do you reckon?” he whispered again.

“An hour maybe? I don’t know.”

Anja looked around the room to see if it had changed in that hour. It hadn’t. There was still no window, no plaster on the walls, no carpet on the floor, and no furniture.

There was just the same bright light, beaming through the inch at the bottom of the door like a torch through a letterbox.

They lay in the light, away from the darkness in the corners of the room and the corners of their mind.

The boots were coming back.

Clump, clump, clump, into view at the bottom of the door; then stopping, toecaps peering at them like rats through the gap. Something metal dragged through a rusty lock and then the door opened inward, forcing them backward into illuminating corners.

Jack was squeezing Anja’s hand so tightly she thought it might break. She looked down and saw his fingers wrapped over hers like string making rope. She looked up at the man in the doorway, who pointed at Jack.

“Up.”

Jack didn’t move.

“Get up, collaborator,” the man said again, and this time he flicked the finger to show which way was up. “Now.”

Jack looked at Anja and she shook her head. Her heart beat faster and she suddenly knew she didn’t want to be alone again, not now, not ever.

“I demand to see whoever is in charge,” Anja said, moving an inch forward, positioning herself in front of Jack slightly.

“Get your arse up now.” The man in the doorway took a step into the room, ignoring Anja as if he hadn’t noticed she was there, let alone heard her speak.

Jack slid up the wall, pushing with his feet, his back scraping against bare brick every inch of the way. He finally released Anja’s hand as she tried to pull him back to the ground.

Anja grabbed his leg, wrapping both arms around it, hugging it to her body as she looked at the big man by the door.

“Ma Price wants a word,” the man said.

“No,” Anja said, squeezing Jack’s leg harder.

Anja felt Jack’s fingers in her hair, brushing her scalp. She looked up and the same fingers touched her cheek.

“I’ll not be long, promise.” Jack looked about to cry. His fringe, that thick, black, floppy, oily fringe, dropped forward again, shadowing his eyes.

Anja wanted to reach up to scoop it away.

He smiled at her.

The man in the doorway reached across the gap and took hold of Jack’s arm, then pulled him from Anja. She grabbed for the man’s hand, ripping his arm as she screamed and pulled and tried to hold on.

The man reached down and pushed her away, shaking her off and shoving her back into the corner. She fell heavily. Looking up, she met Jack’s eyes; he was still smiling.

And then he was gone.

The door was slamming shut by the time Anja had gotten to her feet.

Too late.

Time passed in silence, moments passing slowly, the only thing to keep her company, an unwanted friend.

She cried silently, wiping the tears away before they made it past her eyelashes.

Then it started.

Anja listened to Jack’s screams.

They lasted nearly ten minutes, but it seemed much longer.

High-pitched, panicked, desperate screams.

Lonely screams.

Anja screamed back. She banged on the door and shouted his name. Thin tears became fat, rolling angry and fast, filled with salt and vengeance.

She banged, kicked, screamed; banged, kicked, and screamed again.

Making herself heard.

So Jack would know he wasn’t alone.

She hoped he was thinking of her when his screams stopped.

She didn’t want him to think he was alone.

She could smell something burning in the silence that followed; she pretended that they were cooking, even though she knew they weren’t.

Sometimes it was better to pretend.

CHAPTER 41

m
R. K
OEHLER?”

Koehler switched on, lifted his head, and shook off a snooze. The weird state of half awake, half asleep he’d last known when he was sitting in a foxhole in Russia.

King was still sitting opposite. Like a drunk he was trying to force his eyes open and lick a sticky tongue across his lips.

“Mr. Koehler?”

Koehler was awake now, back in the café, switched on and ready.

He looked at the waitress, who was standing behind the counter, holding up a telephone receiver and shaking it in his direction.

“Stay here, don’t move,” Koehler said to King.

“What?” King was still rubbing his eyes.

Koehler got up from the table and picked his way through the café. He looked at his Rolex: 3:30
A.M.

He took the phone out of the girl’s hand.

“Two teas.”

“Your friend is drinking coffee, Mr. Koehler.”

“Two teas, on the table, thank you.”

The girl stared at Koehler from behind the counter a moment, and then turned away, shaking her head as she went.

He watched her go, then lifted the phone to his ear and turned so that he could keep an eye on King in the booth. King, in turn, was watching Koehler on the phone and stretching his legs under the table.

“Koehler.”

“Ernst, it’s me.” Rossett sounded far away on the crackling phone line.

“John. Are you okay?”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be there, after you getting arrested.”

“Neumann, the policeman at the flat, he arrested me; he thought I’d killed Lotte.”

“You got away?”

Koehler took a deep breath, dipped his head, and then turned sideways on to King, so that he was facing the wall at the end of the counter, but still able to watch him out of the corner of his eye.

“John.” Koehler paused, then lowered his voice. “Lotte is dead. God knows where Anja is. I’ve got one of the men who took them, but this whole thing has gone to shit.”

After a pause, Rossett replied, “I’m sorry.”

“We can still get Anja.”

“She’s alive?”

“That’s what the American says, and I think he is right. There is nothing for the resistance to gain by killing her yet.”

“American?”

“Long story. All that matters is Anja escaped from them, and now we think the resistance have her.”

“She’s kidnapped?”

“Maybe. We need to reach out to them, but I don’t know how yet.” Koehler looked around the café again, catching the eye of one of the waitresses, who smiled. He went back to staring at the wall, using the phone handset to shield his mouth. “Did you get the scientist?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, we still have a chance to get Anja. They’ll want the Jew. We need to get her to them.”

“I’ll get her there.”

“Do you know anyone who can help us?”

“Maybe. Do we know what faction has Anja?”

“Not yet. Neumann is helping with that.”

“Neumann?”

“He knows what is going on. I had to tell him. I had to get out to save Anja . . . I gambled he would understand.”

“And he did?”

“I’m out.”

“For now.”

“For long enough, that’s all that matters.”

“What is your plan?”

“We need the American alive. Without him the British can’t do much with the scientist except kill her. I say we keep him with us, we find out who has Anja, then we arrange a handover and we get my daughter.”

“Simple as that?”

“I can’t afford to risk Anja.”

“Have you thought about what happens after?”

“No.”

“We see what plays out?”

“It’s the only way.”

“If the weather stays as it is and doesn’t get worse, I’ll be back in London by eight in the morning, I reckon.”

“Should we wait in the café?”

“It’s worked so far.”

Koehler looked at King again, who was now fully awake, staring back at him.

Koehler blinked, lowered his eyes, then turned his back on the café to face the wall.

“Thank you, John.”

“Thank me when you’ve got your daughter back.”

ROSSETT PICKED HIS
way through the snow on the grass verge next to the telephone box as he headed back to the car.

He could see headlamps in the distance.

Headlamps that were getting closer.

The hamlet of Colliers End straddled the main A10 road that led from Cambridge to London. Rossett had originally hoped to crisscross the lattice of lanes and side roads that laced the open countryside between the two cities, but the heavy snowfall of the last few days had made most of the roads impassable to the little Austin, with its tiny wheels and poor ground clearance.

He’d given up several miles back and resorted to the main drag, such as it was, to get them to their destination.

In truth the A10 itself was barely wider than the lanes they had been using. On a normal night it wouldn’t see much traffic due to the scarceness of private cars and the danger of moving military vehicles through the countryside in darkness. Roadside explosives and occasional ambushes had made military convoys scarce in most parts of the country, but that night the added ingredient of heavy snow had turned the A10 into a ghost road. It was deserted except for Rossett and Ruth, and their spluttering, slipping, and sliding car.

Until now.

Rossett could hear the engine of the other vehicle now, low, almost a rumble, steady behind the bright headlamps.

Ruth climbed out of the Austin.

“Can you see who it is?” she asked, watching the lights approach.

“No.”

“We should open the bonnet; maybe they’ll stop to help us.”

“And then?”

“We take their car.”

There was that word again,
take.
Rossett looked at Ruth as she moved around the front of the Austin and lifted one flap of the bonnet to expose the engine.

She looked at him.

“Are you ready?”

Rossett nodded.

Ruth walked toward the headlamps, raising her hands and waving to the oncoming car to stop. Rossett moved to the verge and turned slightly, so that he could shield himself as he checked the load in his pistol. He unbuttoned his coat, making way for the shotgun. He took out his police warrant card and then followed Ruth, lifting his hands to his shoulders, palm out, showing them to be empty except for the warrant card, its gold-embossed badge glinting in the headlamps ahead of him.

A black Mercedes.

“Shit,” he heard himself say out loud, and then wondered if the word had shown on his face.

Rossett looked left and right at the cottages on either side of the road, then back at Ruth. The car was less than fifty yards away. It was too late.

Rossett followed Ruth toward the Mercedes, hands still up, taking slow steps, the gap between him and Ruth growing as she moved toward the other vehicle.

“Ruth, wait,” he called, aware that he was disturbing whoever might live in the cottages, but less concerned about them than the occupants of the Mercedes.

Ruth looked over her shoulder at him, still waving her right arm at the car, less than twenty yards and slowing.

The Mercedes stopped next to her; he could see her silhouette in the headlamps as she gave a little wave to whoever was in the car.

She stepped beyond the beam and he lost her.

He half lowered his hand and walked forward slowly until his head broke the beam itself. He saw her, leaning into the driver’s window. Rossett stopped, flicked his head to the warrant card, and waved it at the driver.

“Police,” he mouthed.

The driver said something to a passenger, then gestured that Rossett should approach the car.

He high-stepped through the thick snow on the verge, hands still palms out, slightly lower than before.

“ . . . we’re heading to London. Our car has broken down and we need help.”

Rossett leaned in so he could fully hear the conversation.

Ruth was talking to an officer in the rear of the car, while the driver watched Rossett, one hand on the wheel, the other on his MP40.

The barrel of the machine pistol was resting on the driver’s forearm, aimed squarely at Rossett’s chest. In the passenger seat, another soldier, slightly older, was leaning forward to inspect Rossett, another MP40 at the ready.

Rossett nodded to the two men in the front of the car. The driver studied the warrant card and then seemed to relax slightly, but still watched him with the wary eyes of a soldier in an occupied land.

Ruth turned to Rossett.

“Darling, I was just telling the general that we’ve broken down.” She flashed a dazzling smile, suddenly beautiful in the darkness; a tumble of hair dropped over her cheek and Rossett wondered if she was able to do it on cue.

To his right, a window lit up in one of the cottages. He looked at it and then saw that the soldier in the passenger seat was also checking it out, and bringing his MP40 to bear.

Ready, experienced, head screwed on, addressing the potential threat.

One to watch.

Rossett leaned forward and smiled at the driver, seeing that he was wearing an SS dress uniform. He was young, but not too young, Rottenführer tabs on his collar and an Iron Cross on his chest.

A decorated corporal driving; that meant someone senior to him, and more experienced, was in the passenger seat holding the MP40.

Rossett wished he had a grenade to drop through the window. “Excuse me, darling.” Rossett eased Ruth away from the window, then regretted it when he saw a youngish Brigadeführer in the backseat.

A Brigadeführer who was much happier to talk to a beautiful woman than a disheveled policeman.

The Brigadeführer frowned.

This was getting worse.

Rossett touched his temple with the hand holding his warrant card, a halfhearted salute.

“Sir, apologies for delaying you. I’m sure we can manage. Please, don’t allow us to detain you any longer.”

The front passenger door on the other side of the car opened as more lights lit the upstairs windows of the cottages opposite, no doubt awakened by the sound of the Mercedes rumbling outside. Rossett looked over the roof and saw the front-seat passenger get out.

An SS sergeant, covering the windows with his MP40.

Rossett looked back into the car.

“Really, it’ll be best if you keep moving.”

“We can’t just leave you here on a night like this, Constable.” The Brigadeführer smiled.

Rossett ignored the wrong rank and tried again.

“Honestly, sir, I’ve telephoned for help.” Rossett pointed up the road to the call box. “They are minutes away, coming from Cambridge, it’s quite all right.”

“I insist.” The Brigadeführer tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Hans, take a look at the constable’s car.”

The driver looked at Rossett and put his hand on the handle of the car door, waiting for Rossett to take a step back so he could get out.

Rossett paused, smiled, and stepped back.

He looked at Ruth, who had walked toward the rear of the Mercedes, then ducked his head again to the officer.

“Thank you, sir. That is very kind of you.” Rossett saluted to the closed rear window, then straightened, looking again at Ruth and giving a microscopic shake of the head.

No . . . let them go.

Ruth smiled at him.

Rossett’s heart sank.

The driver climbed out, carrying his MP40 and working the bolt slowly, eyes on the cottages.

“The car
ist kaputte
?” the driver said, still not looking at Rossett as they walked to the Austin.

“Yeah, we borrowed the car to get back to London, it’s very old. I should have waited till tomorrow for the train.” Rossett was speaking loudly, as if to a child. He was following the driver as they made their way toward the Austin. He looked over his shoulder at the Mercedes and Ruth, who was walking fifteen feet behind him.

The front-seat passenger of the Mercedes still had eyes on the surrounding houses for signs of trouble. He was turning his head and scanning both sides of the road while occasionally checking on the driver, who still had his own MP40 in his hands.

These men knew they were in bandit country, and Rossett wondered why they hadn’t had some sort of escort.

“Jesus.” The driver shook his head when he saw the old Austin.

“We were at a dinner. It belongs to the host. I received a call to return to London urgently, so . . .” Rossett shrugged. “It was all they had.”

The driver leaned into the engine of the Austin, looked at Rossett again, then slung his MP40 over his shoulder and rested one hand on the wing of the car. He pulled and pushed at the spark plug cables.

“It just . . . die . . . stop?”

“Yeah.” Rossett was watching the Mercedes; the Brigadeführer had climbed out and was speaking to the sergeant across the roof of the car as he put on his cap.

Ruth was standing some twenty feet from Rossett and some thirty from the Mercedes, collar up, hands in her pockets, watching the Mercedes also.

“It . . .” The driver paused, looking for the word in English before continuing. “It go bang?”

“No, just spluttering for a while, losing power.”

Rossett glanced at the driver and then back at Ruth, lit up by the headlamps of the Mercedes still.

“Gasoline?”

“I think so, I . . .” Rossett broke off; the Brigadeführer and the sergeant were walking toward them. The sergeant had crossed to the far side of the road, walking along the building line. The Brigadeführer was coming up behind Ruth, keeping her between himself and Rossett.

From where Rossett was standing it looked like he was being outflanked. He looked at the sergeant, who was watching him as he approached on the other side of the road.

Eyes on him, not the buildings.

Changed priorities.

Eyes on the immediate threat.

“Constable?” The Brigadeführer had reached Ruth; he stopped, smiled politely at her, and then turned to Rossett.

“Sir?”

“Why are you calling a Jew ‘darling’?”

Rossett looked at the star of David on Ruth’s coat.

Even in the darkness, he could see it.

Mocking him for the deeds he’d done, for the sins he’d sinned, and the crimes he’d committed.