The British Lion (41 page)

He knew that Rossett would somehow have to reach out to Sterling. He knew that Sterling had gone to ground, and he also knew that Fraser was the only link between Rossett and Sterling.

So it had been an educated guess, but a guess nonetheless.

It had taken almost an hour to get Neumann to go along with it. The policeman had cold feet, and not just because of the snow.

After witnessing the carnage at Finsbury Circus, March being shot, and the release of Ma Price, Neumann had wanted to call a halt to the whole affair and inform their superiors.

“You’re out of control!”

“I’m maintaining control; by doing this I’m containing this situation. We sort the scientist, we pin this on Sterling, and you’ll be a hero, in the clear and back to Germany as the man who saved the Reich.”

“We need more men. Please let me call in a team to assist us?”

“What happens if that team gets to Hartz or Sterling before us? What happens if the truth gets out before we can contain it? If it were just you and me in this, Neumann, I’d say yes, I’d say we call in every man in London to help us get back the scientist . . . but it isn’t just you and me. There is no other way: we keep this small, between us, me and you; that way we maintain control. That way we look good.”

“I can’t go on. At least let me walk away? I’ll not say anything to anyone, there is nothing to tie me into this except a forged travel warrant I can talk myself out of.”

“I need you. I can’t do it alone. Please, for Anja, just one more step.”

“My family, I—”

“If you walk away, all this was for nothing. Please . . . if you walk away, I lose her.”

They’d gone to Scotland Yard, and there they’d established Fraser’s address and booked out a car. They’d stayed away from the detectives’ floor and control rooms, being careful to avoid the Finsbury Circus fallout. Throughout their time there Koehler hadn’t left Neumann’s shoulder as they had walked through the corridors, each step leading Neumann further into the abyss.

IT HAD BEEN
the snow that had given Rossett and Ruth away.

Two sets of footprints, a man and a woman’s, had led Koehler to the door on his first pass. He’d thought about Lotte, about the stories she had told him, about her father and how they had hunted together in the forests around their farm.

He had almost heard her voice, talking about reading signs in the snow, as he had turned his head and saw the fresh prints leading up the path to Fraser’s front door.

Koehler was the hunter now.

Lotte was with him, helping him save Anja’s future. He liked that thought, and he held on to it as he and Neumann sat quietly in the unmarked police car watching the house.

Waiting for the right moment.

Koehler was desperate, but he wasn’t crazy. He knew that assaulting a house with Rossett inside would be madness. Koehler was good, but he was smart enough to know he wasn’t
that
good.

Rossett and Ruth would eventually come out, and that would be the time.

In the open, fast, hard, then finish the job.

Koehler hadn’t doubted himself until he saw the men in the taxi. Hard men, alert men, trained men. Not the usual stumbling scruffy resistance types tied up with string. These men were good; Koehler could see it as soon as they pulled up.

He and Neumann had been crouching low, watching as one of the men went up the path and the other stationed himself by the taxi door. Hands in pockets; smartly dressed, clean-cut killers.

There was too much risk, too many chances to get pinned down, caught up in a drawn-out gunfight that would give time for others to respond.

More police, more soldiers, clogging up his plan, risking it all, coming between him and what he wanted.

Anja and him, all that mattered.

KOEHLER AND NEUM
ANN
had driven across London, following the taxi, keeping close, waiting for the right moment to strike. Then Koehler had seen the road sign for the station and realized they had nearly run out of time.

“We can stop the train,” Neumann had tried to reason. “Down the line, we can tell them Sterling and Rossett are dangerous and should be shot on sight.”

“I can’t risk them being captured. It’s now or never.”

The side street that led to the goods entrance was quiet due to the bad weather, and it was sealed by a boxed dead end. On one side the high walls of the station, and on the other a solid office building. Halfway down on the right, the wide-open goods entrance to the station sat like a missing tooth, empty and black, waiting.

The snow, slushing and slippy from all the days’ trucks, had created the perfect conditions for the final throw of the dice.

Koehler had accelerated, closing on the cab and sensing Neumann grabbing the doorframe to brace himself. He’d swung the wheel, catching the taxi on its rear quarter and slamming it into a lazy, lurching waltz across the road.

Koehler hadn’t expected the cab to flip onto its side.

But he’d been glad it had.

His own car had slid to a halt almost sixty feet beyond the crash, across from the goods entrance of the station. Between them they had two Mauser pistols and one MP40.

Not much to stop a man like Rossett.

Koehler had climbed out of their car and looked into the goods entrance. One railway employee was standing with a trolley, openmouthed, watching the wrecked taxi up the road, one wheel still spinning.

Koehler had waved him away.

“SS! Get inside!”

The man had dropped the handles of his trolley and done as he was told.

One of the taxi’s headlamps was out and the other hung from wires, rocking back and forth, its beam like a lighthouse, occasionally shining into Koehler’s eyes as he crossed the road toward it slowly.

Someone fired from the front of the taxi.

It was close, a good shot that caused Koehler to flinch and take a step backward.

There was another shot, which kicked snow next to Koehler’s right foot. He turned and ran back to the other side of the bonnet of the police car.

“Shit,” he exclaimed.

He looked for Neumann; he couldn’t see him and wondered if the policeman was hit or, even worse, had run away.

Koehler aimed at the taxi and let off a couple of rounds, aware he only had one magazine for the MP40.

The taxi lamp stayed lit, blinding him, then lighting the snow as it swung back and forth.

Koehler saw someone climbing out the window that was on the top of the cab.

He let off a few more rounds.

They went high.

He cursed again.

“Come on,” he said out loud to himself.

He heard Neumann nearby firing a few shots. He ducked as fire was returned from the cab.

Koehler glanced toward the goods entrance: it was empty. Maybe he could block their exit, show them there was no way out, and get them to surrender?

If they dropped their weapons he could finish them off with no problem.

He looked back at the taxi, took a breath, and started to run for the goods entrance.

The snow exploded around him.

Machine gun fire, heavier than his MP40, tracking him as he moved, drawing a bead, getting closer. He stopped, dropped, and scrambled his way back to the police car.

“Fuck!” he shouted, panicked breath catching in his throat. “Neumann?”

“What?”

“We need to advance on them, work as a team.”

“Are you mad? There is sixty feet of open ground between us; they’ll cut us to ribbons. We need to wait for reinforcements!”

Another round hit the police car.

“We aren’t waiting for fucking reinforcements!”

Koehler rested his forehead against the cold metal, blew out his cheeks, and looked back toward the swinging lamp.

This couldn’t go wrong, not now, not when he was so close. There had to be a way.

He could see shadows moving on the far side of the taxi. He lifted the MP40 and rested it on the front wing. He squinted past the lamp, fired two rounds, then cursed, certain they had gone high as the machine gun lifted in his hand and then settled back on the wing, chipping the paint.

He let go of the magazine and smoothed his hair, then looked toward the goods entrance and whistled.

“I’m going to them. I’m going to end this. Cover me.”

Koehler rose, bringing the MP40 up. As if in slow motion, he presented himself to the bright light from the lamp as it danced shadows in the snow.

He fired a round, took a step, fired a round, and took another step.

And then saw Rossett coming toward him, out of the light, lit from behind, a long shadow, Thompson at his shoulder.

Silhouetted death coming to take his due.

CHAPTER 50

R
OSSETT WASN’
T CRAZY,
he wasn’t reckless, and he wasn’t a fool.

He also wasn’t afraid of dying.

Rossett had a role. He knew his place.

He was a protector, a policeman, a doer of what was right.

If he died, he would die well.

Rossett knew he wouldn’t stop fighting till Ruth was on that train, or until those trying to stop her were dead, or until he was dead.

He would do whatever it took.

Rossett heard the train whistle.

He saw Koehler.

His friend, walking toward him. Not scared, just determined, desperate, and definitely coming toward him.

Rossett fired and tried to move to the left.

He’d figured that with both Thompsons firing at the same time, he’d have a chance to outflank whoever was attacking them and get to a position that would enable him to shoot around the car.

And then he’d seen Koehler.

Rossett would have run if he could, but his head was still groggy and his balance doubtful.

So he walked.

As Koehler ran.

Back to the cover of the car.

Rossett adjusted his aim, turning a fraction at the waist, three rounds, three steps, slow, plodding, struggling to keep his balance as the concussion of the crash kicked the inside of his skull, and the blood loss from his wound slowed him further. He could hear the other Thompson firing at Koehler and Neumann, rhythmic shots, not too fast, just enough to keep their heads down, same as his own.

Rossett kept moving, then saw Neumann, edging out of cover, aiming at him.

Neumann fired once and then ducked, turning his back to Rossett and the car, and sinking down until he was sitting on the wet slush and cobbles.

A rattle from Koehler’s MP40 fired widely in the general direction of the goods entrance. Rossett turned and looked through the falling snow for Ruth.

Neumann reached around the corner of the car and fired again.

Rossett felt the burn, sudden and sharp, right through his forearm. Like a shaken rag doll he took a step to the right, then another. Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement by the goods entrance. He looked and saw Ruth with the others passing through, into the darkness of the station.

Ruth gave one last look back, dragged by Sterling, shouting, reaching out toward him.

Rossett tried to steady himself, but it was like he was wading through mud. His limbs felt heavy, his feet were like lead, each blink seemed to take seconds as he stumbled, fighting to get his balance.

He realized the other Thompson had stopped firing but didn’t look to see if Sterling’s man was all right. Rossett breathed deep, feeling the concussion sap his strength. He dropped to one knee, his head hanging heavily, sleepy.

Rossett paused, gathered his strength, sucked in more air, and turned back to the car.

The Thompson seemed to weigh a ton, but he lifted it again, one more time. Time to end all this.

He fired.

He saw a flash of Koehler’s blond hair dip below the wing.

Rossett’s Thompson clicked.

Empty.

He heard the train whistle, calling through the night.

Saying good-bye.

He let go of the barrel and tried to work the bolt but found he didn’t have the strength. The muzzle of the gun dropped into the snow next to his knee, and Rossett sank back onto his heels, his hand falling to his side, blood in his eyes.

His head dropped forward, and he saw more blood in the snow.

He heard the whistle once more, but this time he didn’t look.

Someone fired a gun somewhere, and Rossett noticed his shirt was soaked in blood from the stab wound as his chin rested on his chest. He heard the shunting and the power of a steam engine, and another whistle wailed.

A train was leaving the station on the other side of the wall.

He dropped into the snow and rolled slowly onto his back.

He lifted his head and saw Koehler, halfway across the road, running toward the goods entrance, slowing, then stopping.

Rossett knew he had done enough.

She was gone.

KOEHLER DROPPED THE
empty MP40 and drew his Mauser.

He’d only made it halfway to the station entrance, and he knew he’d failed.

He stopped, lifted his hands, and dropped them to his sides as he heard the train powering out of the station. He stared at the goods entrance, and then slowly turned to Rossett.

His friend.

Neumann was emerging from behind the car. The policeman looked like he was in shock, half crouching, pistol pointed at Rossett.

“Leave him,” called Koehler, his own pistol at his side as he walked across the road.

When he got to Rossett he found that he was staring up at the sky with glassy eyes.

Koehler dropped to his knees. Rossett was in a bad way. His shirt was soaked with blood, and there was another leaking wound on his forearm, staining the white wet snow. More blood was seeping from Rossett’s scalp, and Koehler gently touched the flap of skin and tried to close the wound with a fingertip.

“I’m sorry it has come to this, John,” Koehler whispered, even though he knew Rossett probably couldn’t hear him.

“How is he?” Neumann came up behind him.

“I think he’s passed out.”

“Is he dying?”

“He’s lost a lot of blood.”

Koehler wrapped his hand around Rossett’s arm to try and stop the bleeding.

“We need to get out of here,” Neumann said quietly.

“I can’t leave him like this. You go.”

“If they find you here . . .”

“Go.”

Koehler looked up and saw Neumann staring at the police car parked behind them, riddled with bullet holes.

“I signed for the car; there isn’t much point in my running.”

“I’m sorry for this, what I got you into. I’m sorry.”

NEUMANN PASSED KOEHL
ER
his handkerchief.

“Can you trust him not to say anything? He’s just been trying to kill you.”

“If he’d wanted to kill me, he would have done. He was just giving her the chance to get away.”

Some station staff appeared at the goods entrance, watching Neumann, Rossett, and Koehler.

“They’ll have called the police.” Neumann nodded his head in the direction of the staff as Koehler wrapped the handkerchief around the wound on Rossett’s arm.

“Yes.”

“What do we do?” Neumann looked at Koehler. “Me and you, where does this leave us?”

“I got you into this, Neumann. You say what you need to say to stay alive and get back to your family. I’ll agree to it, I owe you that.”

Neumann looked at the pistol in his hand, then slipped it into his coat pocket. He stared at the upturned taxicab and the resistance man lying in the snow next to it.

Neumann walked across to the taxi as the first of the responding police cars slid into the top of the road, stopping well short of the scene of the shooting, holding back in case more rounds were about to be fired.

Neumann dropped next to the dead resistance man on the ground. Two feet away lay Rossett’s warrant card, open in the snow. Neumann picked it up, shielding it from the view of the policemen cautiously making their way up the road behind him, and slipped it into the jacket pocket of the dead man. Then he climbed to his feet, arms rising above his head, just as the bobby behind him knocked him back to the ground.