The Darkest Hour (13 page)
R
OSSETT WAS AWARE
he’d gained purchase and was moving forward.
He felt he had purpose for the first time in years.
He couldn’t save Queenie’s boy, he couldn’t save his own, he couldn’t save the boys who had died around him in the fields of France and the south of England, and he couldn’t save the German boys he had killed with his own hands.
But he could try to save one boy, one mother’s son who deserved the chance of life and love.
He could snatch one life back from the devil and give the child hope. He owed it to Jacob and he owed it to himself.
He had to try.
He had to try, so that if one day, in another place, he had the chance to look into his own son’s eyes, he wouldn’t have to look away.
He had to try.
He didn’t have a plan; he just knew he wasn’t going to be stopped.
He’d held a gun to his own head when he was drunk many times before, but tonight he was going to hold one against someone else’s.
He glanced at his watch in the half-light off the Strand—9:40
P.M
. He would have preferred it to be later. The small hours of the morning would have been ideal. The time when jailers are sleepy and guards are thinking about the warm bed that lies a few hours distant would have been the best time to strike.
Beggars can’t be choosers, he thought, unwilling to hold off from what he had to do—in case, as the alcohol evaporated out of his body, so would his resolve.
It didn’t take long to make his way through the fog to Chandos Place. He was relieved to find it empty except for a couple of parked cars and a solitary sentry standing by the barrier stamping his feet, staving off the cold. Rossett drove up and, for once, the window did as it was told.
“I’m filling up my car from the petrol pumps in the yard.” He waved Koehler’s petrol chitty under the torch of the sentry, who glanced at it and then shone the light around the car and then at Rossett’s warrant card.
“At this time of night?” The boy spoke with heavily accented English.
“I’m away on holiday. I tried this afternoon but the yard was full with the area commander’s transport detail.”
“I’m not sure.” The sentry glanced into the darkened yard and adjusted his rifle on his shoulder.
“Please, if you could, I’d really appreciate it. I’ve a long drive tomorrow, so I really need that fuel.” The guard stepped back from the car and looked to the yard again. Rossett felt his heart beat faster. Maybe his plan, such as it was, was already coming apart.
“No civilians are supposed to be in the yard after nine.”
“I’m not a civilian, I’m a policeman, and the order is personally signed by Major Koehler.” Rossett waved the paper again at the sentry, deciding that if the boy came close to the car he was going to hit him with the sap that lay ready between his legs.
The German paused, still some distance from the car, and Rossett weighed getting out to overpower him. He judged the gap between them, not wanting to alarm the boy by appearing too keen.
“Please, I need to get that fuel. Please.” One last try.
“All right, but be quick. I don’t want to get into any trouble.”
Rossett smiled broadly and gave the thumbs-up as he slipped the car into gear.
“I’ll be in and out in minutes; you won’t even know I’ve been here.”
The German looked like he was already regretting his decision, but he walked to the barrier, put his weight on the fat end, and eased it up. Rossett pulled into the yard to find that it was still crowded from that day’s parade. Two big Mercedeses were parked next to the fuel pump, dwarfing the Austin as Rossett pulled up as close to the pump as he could.
He slipped his sap back into his raincoat, dashed around the car, and quickly started to fill it with fuel. As he waited for the pump, he glanced around, checking for anyone watching, and was glad to see the yard was deserted.
The parked vehicles threw dark shadows, and the light from the yard lamps had to fight its way through the fog, as if God were lighting the world with a solitary match.
Perfect for what Rossett had in mind.
He looked to where the sentry would be standing, some seventy feet away, and was reassured that he couldn’t see him through the fog.
“If you can’t see them, they can’t see you,” his old instructors had said, and they were nearly always right.
He finished filling the car and took out the fuel hose, but instead of placing it back in the pump he took out a pack of cigarettes and jammed it behind the handle, opening the lever just enough for a steady trickle of fuel to drizzle out of the nozzle. He placed the pump onto the cobbles and glanced across to the sentry once more before creeping around to the Mercedeses. He bent down and took out his penknife, carefully piercing two tires on each car, just enough so that he could hear the steady hiss of air escaping, not loudly enough to attract attention but deeply enough to ensure the tires would be flat in a couple of minutes.
He left the cars and jogged across the yard to the heavy blue wooden door that led into the station; he pulled it and was relieved to see that it had been left unlocked. The Germans, like the English before them, relied on the security of a bored guard standing one hundred feet away and the question of who exactly would want to break into a police station.
The door opened onto the back stairwell; it had been the route by which English bobbies had brought prisoners through to the vans that would take them to a court of justice and twelve good men and true. Now, Rossett could only imagine what fate awaited escorted prisoners at the top of the steps; he was certain whatever it was, it wasn’t justice.
He went quickly down the one flight of stairs that led to the back gate of the cell complex. At the bottom he found the familiar iron-barred black gate with its sturdy frame. Next to the gate, on the outside, was a bell push that allowed visitors to alert the custody desk that someone was there. Rossett pressed the bell, holding it for five seconds, knowing that the shrill ring, which he could hear in the distance, would have scared the life out of whoever was sitting behind the desk.
He released the bell push for a second, then leaned on it again. It wasn’t long before he heard the clump of boots coming down the corridor toward him. After a second, the fat German jailer he had seen earlier hove into view around the corner; he didn’t look happy.
“Was ist’s? Bin doch nicht taub!”
“What? I’m not deaf!”
As he’d guessed, the German wasn’t happy. Rossett smiled and shrugged by way of reply.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak German,” he lied, and the German stopped at the gate and scowled at him.
“I am not deaf! You must not ring the bell like that!”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know if anyone was there.”
“Of course, there is someone here! What do you want?”
Rossett smiled again. “I need to come in; I have to speak to a prisoner.”
“You can’t. Rules. We don’t allow anyone in after eight unless it is on the express orders of the commandant.”
The German was already turning away as he spoke.
“This is on the orders of the commandant. One of the prisoners needs to be spoken to urgently. It’s vital that I speak to him now. Just a couple of questions and then I’ll be gone, two minutes at the most.”
The jailer paused, then turned back to the gate. He held out his hand and tilted his head while resting the other on his hip.
“I need a written order. Do you have one?”
Rossett nodded and reached into his raincoat pocket. He took out his hand and, opening it, revealed five of the gold sovereigns. He held them just the other side of the gate, so that the jailer could see them through the bars.
“Just two questions, that’s all.”
The jailer stared at the coins and then at Rossett, who was banking on the fat man’s greed extending to more than just strudel.
The jailer rubbed his chin and rested his other hand on his belt, tucking his thumb into the tight leather.
“Two questions?”
“That’s all. I can speak to him through the flap; you don’t even have to open the door.”
“My boss is here.” The German took a step toward the gate and played with the chain that hung from his pocket, the chain that Rossett knew held the keys to the complex.
“He won’t even know I’ve been here.”
“I’m not sure . . .”
Rossett flicked his head, beckoning the German to come close so he could whisper. The fat man took a step toward the gate, so that his face was twelve inches from the bars, as Rossett did the same.
“There are more of these, thousands. One of the Jews has hidden them and we don’t know where. I need to speak to him. This’ll be great for all of us.”
“All of us?”
“Me, you, Koehler, your boss as well, if you want. Just open the gate. I’ll be two minutes.”
The fat man licked his lips and glanced back down the corridor before turning back to Rossett, who, like a cobra striking, leaned his right arm through the bars, grabbed the back of the jailer’s neck, and pulled him forward, slamming his forehead onto the bars of the gate, which clanged like an alarm.
The jailer’s head hit hard, but the blow didn’t knock him out. He managed to grab the gate with one hand and with all his might pushed back as the trickle of blood from his forehead ran down into his confused, blinking eyes. Rossett allowed him a couple of inches before pulling with the German’s movement, grasping his collar and jerking him away from the bars. The fat man almost overbalanced backward, and Rossett, sensing this, waited a microsecond for the jailer to lean forward again. As soon as he did, Rossett used his momentum and pulled full force on the back of his neck, causing the German’s head to hit against the cold steel one more time.
Something cracked inside the jailer’s skull, so loudly that Rossett heard the bone splinter over the clang of the metal gate and the noise of the sovereigns falling to the floor. The German’s legs gave way. Rossett reached through with his other hand, grabbed his tunic, and lowered him to the ground, where he lay glassy eyed, not quite dead, but on his way.
Grabbing the chain from the trouser pocket, Rossett snapped the keys free, then rattled through eight keys before finding one that looked likely to work. He tried it in the lock and cursed when it wouldn’t turn.
The German on the floor made a gurgling sound, and Rossett looked down to see that clear fluid was leaking from his nose and onto the linoleum floor. The German’s eyes were moving side to side, as if watching a tennis match but not quite seeing the ball.
Rossett tried another key, but that one didn’t work either.
“Which fucking key is it, you fat bastard?” he said to the German, who mumbled, then shut his eyes.
Rossett fumbled again and finally the lock turned. He pushed hard against the gate to slide the German out of the way. This time, he didn’t mumble.
There was no going back now.
R
OSSETT
WALKED, SCANNING
the locked cell doors. He was dismayed to see that the Germans didn’t use the small chalkboards to note who was in which cell. He’d been hoping he wouldn’t have to approach the desk at the center of the complex, and that he would be able to find Jacob and get him away without meeting anyone else.
He checked cell 14, the one Jacob had been allocated that afternoon. The cell was empty, door open, beds bare.
He stood in the doorway and wondered if he was already too late. Maybe the boy had gone, been tossed into the system or, even worse, tossed into a pit. But then reason returned. The hour was late and the jailer was fat. It would be easier to keep the prisoners in cells together than dotted around the complex. It meant less walking when checking them. Only the ones who were to be questioned would be kept separate.
Not knowing where Jacob was made his task much more difficult. Now he had to overcome whatever the German equivalent of the custody sergeant was, and that wouldn’t be easy, especially if a German custody sergeant was as obstinate as an English one.
As he approached the custody desk, he tried to appear confident, which was made easier by the fact that there was only one man there, and that the man was tucking into a massive sandwich with a plate of cake waiting as the next course.
Rationing hasn’t reached the Reich, thought Rossett as he smiled broadly and nodded toward the cake.
“I’ve come at the right time!” Rossett noticed another, half-eaten sandwich in front of the empty seat to the custody officer’s right. His friend from the gate wouldn’t be finishing that tonight.
The custody officer glanced over Rossett’s shoulder, looking for his assistant, and lowered his food. He didn’t reply right away, chewing the thick crusty bread, but looked quizzically at Rossett, wanting an explanation for the disturbance of his supper.
“I need to speak to that Jewish boy,” Rossett said, reaching into his pockets as if searching for the written order. “I’ve an order here somewhere, just a couple of questions.”
“Where is Muller?” A few crumbs came out of the packed mouth along with the question.
“He’s talking to my driver outside. I think they know each other,” Rossett lied smoothly, still looking through his pockets.
The custody officer stood up and brushed some crumbs off his tunic, frowning at the inconvenience. He started to pull his key chain out of his own pocket and consulted a clipboard that hung on a hook behind his chair, turning his back on Rossett as he did.
“Will you need an interview room, or will . . .” He turned back to see that Rossett, still smiling warmly, had stepped behind the desk and was only a couple of feet away.
Rossett had picked up a bread knife, intending to reach the German before he turned around. Once the custody officer saw him, Rossett moved quickly, spinning the knife in his left hand and keeping it low as he drove it in hard, feeling its serrated edge slide home, scraping on a rib as it went.
The German grabbed at Rossett’s arm and tried to reach for the knife, which was already out and about to plunge into his body again. The two men fell to the floor, and Rossett drove his forearm up under the German’s chin and across his throat. Pushing up onto his toes to use his full body weight to hold the German down, he stabbed the knife home again. This time he felt a rib snap as the knife plunged in to its hilt. Rossett twisted it, feeling the blade resist and then spin freely inside the chest cavity.
Spittle and blood frothed from the German’s lips as he gasped for air to fill his punctured lungs. Rossett pressed again with his forearm, face inches from the German, who was trying to shout but unable to make a noise.
Rossett pushed again at the knife, trying to end the struggle, but the German thrashed again and managed to grab a handful of Rossett’s raincoat and pull. Strength flagging, but not spirit, he tried to punch with his free hand as Rossett stabbed again, feeling flecks of frothy blood blow onto his face from the German’s mouth.
The German didn’t want to die, and Rossett marveled at the strength he was still showing, even as his life faded away. The final push of the knife seemed to hit something critical, and the German suddenly let go of Rossett and exhaled deeply. More blood bubbled from his mouth, and his eyes looked upward toward his forehead, confused, as if feeling something inside he couldn’t understand.
Rossett pushed onto his neck again, and this time the German didn’t push back; he croaked a last breath, sighing as he went, sounding disappointed to be dying.
Rossett rolled off and knelt next to the body. He realized he was panting. He tried to control his breathing, and to not look at the man who lay before him, leaking blood on the floorboards.
Blood soaked Rossett’s hand, and it took him a moment to realize some of it was his own; his hand must have slid down the handle of the knife when it was wet with the German’s blood. He’d sliced his palm, and as soon as he looked closely at it, it began to hurt. The wound wasn’t deep, but it opened as he flexed his fist, releasing more blood.
“Shit,” he said out loud, looking for something to wrap the cut with as he stood up. He found a tea towel next to the cake and wound it tightly, clenching his fist to hold it in place. His fingers held it tight, and he took some solace from the fact that he didn’t appear to have severed any ligaments or tendons.
He stepped over the German and checked the board, looking for Jacob’s name.
Cell 6. He’d walked past it on his way to the desk.
If you’d used the cell chalkboards you’d be eating cake right now instead of staining the floorboards, thought Rossett as he pulled out the keys he’d taken from his first victim. He knew the biggest would be the cell door key; it always was, making it easy for the jailer to find on the big loop.
He dashed around to cell 6, opening the lock and pulling back the iron door. The cell was in darkness. About nine feet square, it held two iron bunk beds on either side of the room, and the light from the corridor lit a vivid rectangle on the floor. A thick smell of urine and body odor hung in the air, and Rossett squinted from both that and the lack of light.
“Jacob?” Rossett called to the bunks, remaining by the door not wanting to be jumped by a prisoner who thought he was a German.
“Yes?” came a small voice from the bottom left-hand bunk. Rossett reached into the gloom and pulled back the sheet. Jacob lay in the bed, clothed, alongside a man in his thirties, who had an arm around the boy, both of them blinking up into the light.
Rossett stared at the other man for the briefest of moments, then grabbed Jacob and pulled him from the bed and onto the floor. Gripping the top bunk, Rossett swung a leg into the bottom bunk and kicked the man hard in the face, once, twice, three times with the heel of his shoe.
Other men in the cell half rose from their beds but didn’t intervene.
“You bastard!” Rossett kicked again. “He’s a fucking child!”
“No!” Jacob scrabbled to his feet and pulled on Rossett’s raincoat, desperately trying to stop him from kicking into the bunk. “No! Please, he’s my friend!”
Rossett stopped kicking and looked down at Jacob, who was crying.
“What?”
“I was scared,” the boy sobbed. “He let me sleep with him . . . I’m sorry, I was scared.”
The little voice trailed off as the sobs grew louder. Rossett looked into the bottom bunk. The man was bleeding from the nose and mouth, holding his hands up to prevent further attack and nodding furiously at Rossett. Behind him, Rossett heard the other bunk bed squeak. He turned and saw the two occupants had got up, unsure of what was going on.
Rossett grabbed Jacob off the floor and pushed him toward the door as he threw the cell keys at one of the men.
“Release everyone and get out.”
“Who the hell are you?” The man on the bunk wiped his face as he blinked up toward Rossett, lips thick with blood.
“I’m the British fucking Lion.”