The British Lion (40 page)

“Nobody ever will.”

“If it got out that I told you this, I’d be dead before dinnertime.”

“Nobody will know, I swear . . . on my daughter’s life, I swear.”

“Sir James Sterling wants Ruth. He thinks he can get her to Canada. He thinks she can build a bomb for Britain. Or, at the very least, convince the Yanks she’s worth working with.”

“James Sterling?”

“Yes.”

“The civil servant?”

“Yes.”

“He was a fascist before the war. He marched with Mosley.” Koehler tried to compute the information.

“I know.”

“He is in the resistance?”

“He
is
the resistance. You get him, you get the girl, and plenty more as well.”

“How do I know this isn’t just you getting rid of Sterling?”

“I don’t think you want to kill Sterling, although I don’t care if you do. I’ll wager you’d just as soon do a deal with him, same as you’re doing one with me. You’re fighting for your life, Mr. Koehler, I can see that.”

“I’m fighting for my daughter.”

“Same thing,” Ma Price replied, wincing.

“Does Rossett know about Sterling?”

“What I’ve heard about Mr. Rossett, it won’t take him long to find out if he doesn’t.”

Koehler nodded, glancing over his shoulder at the two others on the curb, and then leaning back in to Price.

“If I manage to get Hartz, if I manage to clear this up, the slate is clean between us. If I don’t, if I’m questioned . . . I don’t know what will happen. I gave you my word, but—”

“I’m a big girl, Mr. Koehler. When you see your daughter you hold her tight. Mark my words, you don’t ever want to let go again.”

Koehler nodded, then stepped back from the taxi and turned to the driver.

“Go.”

“Where’s she going?”

“Out of this shithole.”

CHAPTER 48

B
ILL FRASER
HAD
his shoulder and his foot to his front door, but still it moved toward him.

“You can’t just push your way in here, this is my home.”

Rossett shoved again. This time Fraser rocked back a step under the pressure.

The door was now open wide enough for Rossett to walk through, but he didn’t.

He stared at Fraser from the front step.

“I’ve known you for ten years, Bill. Ten years, and you try to slam a door in my face?”

Fraser looked at Ruth, who was standing behind Rossett.

“I don’t need this.”

“You slam the door on me?”

Fraser scratched the back of his neck.

“I’ve had a hell of a morning, John.”

Rossett and Ruth both raised their eyebrows.

Fraser sighed and shrugged, then took a step back and lowered his head.

They stepped into the hallway. Rossett ignored Fraser and walked past him toward the door at the end. Ruth watched Rossett look into the kitchen, then open the door to the back room of the house.

Ruth could hear a voice on a radio somewhere; it sounded like one of the political discussion programs that featured a lot on the BBC nowadays. She remembered how they had been piped into the labs at Cambridge when she first had first arrived. That lasted a few months, until various members of staff complained they were unable to think with the constant twittering of “Nazi intellectuals.”

The radio had been switched off at Cambridge, and some of those staff had moved on a short time later, never to be seen again.

She looked at Rossett, standing at the far end of the hall, hands in his coat pockets, staring at Fraser. Fraser was still stationed next to the front door, nervously toying with a button on his cardigan.

Ruth broke the silence.

“Could I use your bathroom?”

Fraser nodded, pointing up the stairs.

“First door on the left.”

“Thank you.” She started up the stairs, then leaned over the banister.

“John?”

Rossett looked back at her.

“We’re guests.”

Rossett nodded. “Put the kettle on, Bill.”

THE RADIO WA
S
still mumbling to itself in the corner of the front room when Ruth came back downstairs. She had washed her face and run wet fingers through her hair in an effort to encourage it into behaving.

Rossett and Fraser were sitting silently together in the front room. The door was open and Ruth stood framed in it. Rossett smiled.

“You look better.”

She looked beautiful.

“You look awful,” Ruth said. “You should take off your coat, make the most of the fire.”

Rossett looked at the fire, then at Fraser, who was sitting on the other side of it.

“Give me your coat, John. You can relax now,” Fraser said gently.

Rossett’s eyes lowered to the rug. His broad hands lay wearily on the arms of the armchair, white, like marble, lined with blue veins.

The kettle started to whistle in the kitchen, and Fraser rose out of his chair.

“Ruth will make it,” said Rossett quietly before turning his head toward her. “Please?”

Ruth nodded and left the room. Fraser remained standing. Rossett stared without emotion back at him.

The voices on the radio were talking about the danger of communism and the Jews; someone called William Joyce was declaring that Hitler was the savior of the human race, a man who would be remembered by future generations as a great British hero.

Fraser switched the radio off and took up position by the window, staring through the net curtains at the empty street outside. Eventually he turned and looked at Rossett.

“Do you want a drink?”

Rossett nodded.

Fraser crossed to a silver tray on a small table in the corner of the room, where three bottles sat. The bottles chinked and rattled as he took one from the back, then held it up for Rossett to see.

“Scotch?”

Rossett just stared at the bottle until Fraser shrugged.

He poured half an inch into two tumblers and handed one to Rossett.

Rossett looked at the Scotch.

“I had to water it down, to make it last,” Fraser said, reading Rossett’s eyes.

Rossett took a sip, frowned, and placed the glass on the arm of the chair.

He breathed out through his nose, feeling the whiskey warm his throat and his sinuses; he blinked and licked his lips.

“When is your wife home?”

Fraser looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.

“Four hours. She finishes at five, and then it takes half an hour to get home.”

“When do you need to be at work?”

“I don’t, it’s my day off.”

Rossett nodded, took a breath, and looked at the fire.

“I’m bleeding.”

“What?”

“I’ve been stabbed. I’m bleeding.” Fraser took a step forward, but Rossett held up a hand to stop him. “I need your help, Bill. I’m tired, I’m struggling, I need your help.”

Fraser looked at his own whiskey, then sat down.

“John, I—”

“I can’t look after her for much longer. Koehler needs her; I think he’s going to kill her. I’m not sure I can hold him off.”

“I thought he was your friend.”

“So did I.”

Ruth entered the room carrying a tray with a teapot and cups on it. She noticed the whiskey, and frowned as she put the tea down on the small table next to the radio.

“It’s a little early, isn’t it?”

“It’s more water than whiskey.” Fraser sounded like a schoolboy caught smoking.

Ruth took the whiskey out of Rossett’s hand. She sipped, savored, then smiled at him and handed it back.

“It’s good,” she said.

“It is,” replied Rossett as he watched Ruth start to pour the tea.

The low winter sun was shining through the window, silhouetting her, highlighting every feature in a perfect contrast of light and dark.

Rossett could see a wisp of hair that had dropped forward.

She turned and looked at him.

She tilted her head, the sun so bright he couldn’t see her face.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m tired.”

“Not long now, we can sleep soon.”

“Yeah.”

Rossett couldn’t see her smile, but—whether it was the fire, the whiskey, or the sun coming through the window shining on him—he felt warmer.

RUTH STOOD BE
HIND
Fraser in the hallway while he made the call.

“I need to speak to Sir James.” Fraser turned and nodded to Ruth. “It’s very important . . . Trust me, he’ll want to be interrupted . . . It’s Bill Fraser, tell him I’m calling about John Rossett . . . Thank you.”

Fraser put his hand over the mouthpiece.

“He’s gone to get him. I was starting to panic. I was running out of telephone numbers to try.”

Ruth realized she was clenching her fists, so she opened her hands, trying to stretch the tension out of them.

“Hello?” She heard the tiny voice on the end of the line and held out a hand for the receiver.

Fraser passed it over and took a step back.

“Sir James?” Ruth said quietly.

“Who is this?”

“Ruth Hartz.”

A smile entered Sterling’s voice.

“Is it, by God?”

“We had trouble finding you, Sir James. I was starting to worry.”

“I’ve been rather busy, getting ready to go on a little trip.”

“Is there space for me to tag along?”

“Of course, my dear, you are more than welcome.”

“Shall I come to you?”

“I’d imagine it would be best if I came to you. We’ll not be long. Are you with Fraser?”

“Yes.”

“Good, stay there.”

“Sir James?”

“Yes?”

“There will be two of us traveling.”

There was a pause on the line before Sterling spoke again.

“Are we talking about our friend the detective inspector?”

“We are.”

“That might be difficult.”

“It’ll be more difficult if he doesn’t.”

“The inspector and I have a history.”

“I like to think the inspector and I may have a future.”

“Can you ensure his cooperation, Miss Hartz? He has a reputation for belligerence.”

“It is Dr. Hartz, and he’ll cooperate. I’ll see to that.”

ROSSETT HAD DOZED
off. His head was resting against the back of the chair, and his mouth had fallen open. The fire had died down to embers, but the room had managed to retain the heat of the afternoon sun, which had long since sloped off to disappear behind the houses opposite.

Ruth stood by the window, lost in thought as she looked through the net curtains. Fraser sat half listening to the regular beat of martial music on the wireless.

Ruth watched the taxi slowly cruise past the low hedgerow that bordered the front garden.

She knew it was them.

Their faces were white at the windows, watching Fraser’s house and then spinning and checking for signs of ambush from the empty front gardens, or passersby on their way home from work.

The taxi passed twice more before she finally spoke.

“They are here.”

Rossett started in the chair and then grimaced, opening his eyes and blinking.

“Who?” His voice was husky and heavy with sleep.

“It looks like Sterling and a few of his men.”

Rossett shifted in his seat, trying to push himself up with his elbows but unable to do so due to his wound.

Ruth crossed the room, knelt in front of him, then unbuttoned his coat.

Rossett’s white shirtfront under his jacket was soaked dark red with dried blood.

He managed to almost smile.

“I cut myself shaving.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What’s the point?”

“I could have cleaned you up.”

“It’s stopped bleeding, I’m okay.”

Ruth lifted the jacket, gently touched the wound, and looked at him.

“I’ll be okay,” he said again.

There was a knock at the front door. Ruth paused, looking at Rossett, her hand still on his chest.

She smiled.

“We’re nearly there.”

“We?”

“You’re coming with me.”

Rossett smiled back.

“We’d better get going.”

FRASER AND RUTH
helped him out of the chair. Rossett stood still for a moment, collecting his remaining strength, and crossed to the window. He pulled back the net curtain and saw a tall man, dressed in a suit, standing by the front door.

The man jerked a thumb toward the taxi; Rossett nodded and let the curtain fall back.

He turned to Bill Fraser and held out his hand.

“Bill.”

“John.”

They shook.

“Thank you for being a friend,” said Rossett, still holding Fraser’s hand.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t a better one.”

Fraser turned to Ruth, holding out his hand.

“Look after him.”

“I will.”

They walked to the hallway, where they could see the outline of the man through the glass.

Rossett took out his Webley; he checked the load before nodding to Fraser to open the door.

The man outside smiled at Fraser, then saw the Webley and frowned.

“You’ll not need that, guv’nor.”

“Let’s hope not,” replied Rossett as he slipped the pistol into his pocket.

It was cold; the early evening was still, the wind having tired itself out. A few slow flakes of snow drifted down from the heavens, passing the dim streetlamp that had just flickered and buzzed into life. The taxi engine was clattering away and there was another man standing on the curb, holding the door open, while checking the street for potential threats.

Rossett paused in the driveway.

“Where’s Sterling?”

The taxi driver turned toward him.

“I’m here, you idiot. Get in.”

Rossett smiled again and wondered if it was becoming a habit.

He looked at Ruth over his shoulder and nodded.

She walked past him toward the taxi, touching his arm as she went; Rossett paused and looked at Bill Fraser for the last time.

“Cheerio, Bill.”

“Cheerio, John.”

CHAPTER 49

S
TERLING WAS A
terrible driver.

In the rear the four passengers sat in silence, Sterling’s two men facing forward, Rossett and Ruth facing back. The windows in the back of the taxi had misted to such an extent that the outside world was a mystery to them, as they edged across London heading for Paddington Station and freedom.

“We have tickets and false papers that will get us as far as the Welsh coast,” said Sterling. “Once we are there it has been arranged for us to be picked up by a small boat, and then we’ll travel onward to Ireland and beyond.”

“You make it sound so easy.” Rossett was almost shouting over the sound of the engine, which was being held in too low a gear by Sterling.

“We do this sort of thing more often than you’d think,” one of Sterling’s men spoke up for his boss, who was too busy concentrating on the road to reply.

“Let me see the papers.” Rossett held out his hand.

The man slid a small leather holdall across the floor of the taxi toward Rossett.

Rossett looked at Ruth, who realized he was in too much pain to lean down to the bag. She lifted it onto her lap and undid the snap fasteners.

The papers were lying on the top of various clothes. There was also a wallet and a leather purse. Ruth opened the ID cards and held one out to Rossett. He held the card up to the window, inspecting it in the misted light of passing streetlamps.

“John Roberts,” he read out loud, before turning toward Sterling up front. “How did you get my picture?” he shouted.

“I have many friends, John; it shouldn’t surprise you to know some of them are at Scotland Yard.”

Rossett looked at Ruth, who held up an ID card with her photo on it.

“I’m impressed,” she said.

“You should be,” said Sterling. “This has all been arranged at extremely short notice.”

“Shouldn’t we have waited until things have died down?” Rossett was putting the ID in his coat pocket.

“We don’t have the luxury of time, Inspector. Koehler’s daughter knows my name; also, I would imagine the Americans will be looking for us. I think it best that we exit London as soon as possible, I’m afraid.”

The taxi slid to a halt at a traffic light. Sterling turned in his seat so he could look through the partition that separated the driver from his passengers.

“Our friends on the train will hold it for half a minute at the platform, after all the other passengers have boarded and just before it is due to leave. The guards in the car at the rear will be expecting us, and they will ensure we maintain a low profile during the journey.”

“What if there is an inspection by the Germans? We’ll be stopping at plenty of stations before we hit Wales, won’t we?”

“We use these trains on a frequent basis; it is a long-standing arrangement. You can rest assured there will be somewhere on board where we can hide until we arrive at our destination.”

Rossett nodded, happy to let it lie.

Sterling glanced at the traffic light, then looked back at him and continued.

“We’ll go through the goods entrance at the side of the station; it is almost adjacent to our platform. We will need to move quickly once we arrive. Are you able to do that?”

Rossett nodded, then realized that everyone in the cab was staring at him. He looked down at his shirt and for the first time it struck him how bad he looked, and how bad he actually was.

“I’ll be okay.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’ll be okay.”

The lights changed. Sterling nodded and swiveled in his seat, and they started moving again.

“My men will escort us to the train and then leave us. At our destination we have others who will help us onward.”

“You might want to change that shirt,” said the man next to Rossett.

Rossett looked down again and then nodded. He passed his Webley across to Ruth, who took the gun confidently, smiling at the two men opposite.

“He might need a hand,” she said. “He cut himself shaving.”

Sterling’s men were surprisingly gentle with Rossett as they helped him change. His shirt was clotted to the bloody wound in his shoulder, which started to bleed again once the cloth was pulled away. One of the men produced a white handkerchief, then ripped a sleeve off the old bloodstained shirt. He gently eased Rossett forward and tied the shirt and handkerchief over his shoulder, bandaging the wound.

“Good field dressing,” Rossett said through gritted teeth.

“I’ve had lots of practice,” the man replied as he eased the fresh shirt across Rossett’s shoulders. “You need to keep that arm as still as you can; if it starts bleeding heavily, you’ll have some explaining to do if we are stopped before we make it to the train.”

“I’ll be okay.”

One of the men brushed Rossett’s suit jacket with his hand and then shook his head.

“You can’t wear this. Take mine.” He passed Rossett’s jacket to Ruth. “Take his things out of the pockets, we’ll swap.”

The man started to empty his own pockets, as Ruth did the same to Rossett’s jacket.

“Nearly there,” called Sterling from the front.

Rossett watched Ruth as she took out his warrant card and his wallet.

She smiled at him.

He smiled back.

Then their world turned upside down.

THEY FELT THE
impact before they heard the sound of a car hammering into the taxi. Everyone in the back pitched out of their seat, then spun in midair as the taxi seemed to rotate around them. Gravity took hold, suddenly slamming them into each other, like buttons in a tin box. They seemed to be turning and pitching forever. Dizzying flashes of streetlamps and headlamps came and went. The light strobed through the windows as the taxi pirouetted like a skater on ice before finally, catching on a curb, it flipped onto the pavement and landed on its side.

There was silence.

In the back of the cab Rossett was at the bottom of the pile, his back against the side window, his legs twisted and above him somewhere on the backseat. He’d hit his head against the glass and the pillar of the window, and sharp white pain was drilling into his senses and crazing them.

The taxi seemed to be rocking.

Rossett thought he could hear the sound of someone climbing out.

His ears were ringing. He blinked, slowly, and when he opened his eyes he wasn’t sure how much time had passed. A slow realization of pain started to ring in his shoulder as he tried to inflate his winded lungs. It was dark; he blinked again and tried to move one of his pinned arms to wipe his face.

He forced another deep breath and lifted his head, realizing they were lying in shadow, up close to the station wall.

He tried to speak.

“Ruth . . .” His jaw ached. He swallowed, then felt someone on top of him moving and pushing down. “Ruth?”

Rossett felt her hair touching his face as she turned her head and lifted herself off him.

“What happened?” he heard himself say. His voice sounded far away.

One of Sterling’s men started to twist and turn, trying to push himself off Rossett toward the window above. The pain in Rossett’s shoulder caused him to cry out, and he felt Ruth’s hand on his face.

Comforting him in the darkness, as something warm and wet ran into his left eye.

Suddenly there was no weight on him. His legs dropped, and for a moment he had his back to Ruth in a fetal position, gravity pinning him, his strength exhausted.

Ruth pulled at his legs, trying to twist him so that she could help him up.

He realized they were alone in the cab.

He heard shots.

Gunfire, the regular rhythm of his life.

When would it ever end?

“John, we need to get out!”

Rossett blinked again. Ruth was shouting at him as she pulled his legs, twisting him into an upright position.

Rossett wondered was he dreaming.

He wondered if he was still asleep in Fraser’s armchair, music on the radio, fire in the hearth, warm whiskey in his throat.

He thought he could hear the radio.

Was he dreaming?

“John, we need to get out!” Ruth shook him. He was on all fours in the back of the taxi, but he couldn’t remember getting into that position. He could see a white wall of snow pressed against the side window of the taxi. He stared at it, unable to understand why it was there.

“John!”

Ruth was shaking his shoulders. He realized he was wearing a shirt but had no coat on. He looked at his hands, then smoothed the front of his shirt, which was blood soaked again.

“A car crash,” he said to himself. “I’m concussed,” he said drunkenly to Ruth.

The back window of the taxi exploded to his right, and Rossett turned to look through it dumbly.

One of Sterling’s men was knocking out the sharp edges of the broken glass with the butt of a Thompson submachine gun. Rossett tilted his head. The world was on its side. He could see a building lying down through the back window of the taxi.

“Where are we?” he said out loud.

Sterling’s man reached through the back window.

“Come on, miss, we need to get you going.”

“I’m a man,” Rossett replied, as the leather bag went past him and out of the window.

He felt Ruth pushing him.

Ruth?

Clarity drifted back to him like a wave on the shore.

Ruth pushed against him.

He turned and looked at her.

Ruth, of course, Ruth, he needed Ruth.

No.

He looked at Sterling’s man, then back at Ruth as she shoved him again.

“I need to save Ruth,” Rossett said to her, patting his shirtfront looking for his pistol. “I need my gun.”

Rossett looked down at his empty hand as if expecting the gun to be there. He remembered his shoulder was hurting, except . . . it was his head.

Reality drifted away again.

“Ruth?”

There were more shots; old instincts caused Rossett to look up at Sterling’s man.

“Someone is firing a gun,” Rossett said solemnly.

The man frowned, then reached through the window and grabbed Rossett’s arm, dragging him unceremoniously through the gap.

“That hurt,” said Rossett, once he was lying in the snow, flat on his back, looking up at the sky and the snow falling out of it.

The world suddenly seemed to have turned over again. He felt dizzy and closed his eyes.

He felt cold, very cold, or was it hot?

He opened his eyes and lifted his head.

Cold, it was cold, he felt cold.

It was the snow. He was lying in snow.

He was cold.

He lifted his head and then felt a little sick. He closed his eyes and waited for the nausea to pass. He grimaced, screwing his eyes tight, feeling his senses coming back again.

He opened his eyes.

He saw the taxi lying on its side and one of Sterling’s men crouching next to it, a Thompson at his shoulder, aiming across the road at something out of Rossett’s sight.

Rossett rolled onto his side and saw the others, a few feet away, crouching next to the taxi, alongside a tall red-brick wall.

His mind was clearing. He noticed something in the snow. It was blood, his blood, dripping from a head wound.

He looked at Ruth and saw she was holding his pistol.

She needed him.

Rossett got off the ground onto his haunches, breathing deep, one hand in the snow.

Ruth needed him.

He stood up.

Uncertainly at first, he touched his temple, felt a flap of skin and then a sharp sting.

“We need to move,” he said quietly.

“We’re pinned down. It’s Koehler.” Ruth sounded calm, in control.

The man at the corner of the taxi turned his head, glanced at Rossett, then turned back toward the street.

“He’s over the road. They shunted us, made us crash,” the man said.

Somebody fired at them and Rossett saw a puff of red dust come off the wall above the taxi.

Everyone flinched.

Everyone except Rossett.

“How far to the station?”

“We’re almost at the goods entrance,” Sterling shouted. “The train will be leaving!”

“Give me the Thompson.” Rossett gestured to the other one of Sterling’s men, who had taken up position next to his boss to protect him.

The man looked at Sterling.

“Give him it.”

“No,” said Ruth.

Rossett clicked his fingers impatiently for the gun. “Go get the train; I’ll see you on it.”

“You have to come.”

“I can barely stand, let alone run, and you need to move fast.”

“But . . .”

“Go get the train.”

Ruth tried to go to Rossett, but Sterling caught hold of the back of her coat, dragging her down into cover. She struggled, showing Rossett she had his Webley.

“I can help.”

“You’re too important.” Rossett tapped a bloody finger to the side of his head. “The war machine, remember?”

She started to speak, but no words came.

She looked so terribly, beautifully sad.

Rossett smiled.

Somewhere in the station a whistle sounded.

“Go save the world,” he said as he worked the bolt on the Thompson.

Ruth nodded.

Rossett leaned down, almost overbalanced, and picked up a handful of snow. He wiped it across his face, took a deep breath, and then crouched next to the man at the corner of the taxi.

“Where is the entrance?”

“Twenty yards on this side of the road,” the man glanced at him.

“When they start moving, we both open up with the Thompsons. We pin whoever is out there down so low, they’ll need a ladder to get up again.”

Rossett checked over his shoulder at the second of Sterling’s men.

“Move fast with them, save your pistol ammo. If you’re still out in the open when we stop firing it’s your turn. Just make sure she is well clear of you if it comes to that, understood?”

He nodded.

“Get them into the station and on that train.”

“I will.”

“Go,” replied Rossett as he pushed himself up and stepped out into the road on rubber legs.

KOEHLER HAD
GUESSED
that Rossett would head to Fraser’s house.

A guess.

All he had left, one desperate guess, a last throw of the dice to save his life, to stay alive for Anja.