Nothing.
He looked back to the kids and stepped back from the window.
Something wasn’t right.
He put his hand in his pocket, took hold of the Webley, chewed his lip, and for the first time that day pulled aside the net curtains and pressed his face to the glass to look through the window.
Below him, looking up, was Ernst Koehler.
Rossett pulled back from the window as if he had been struck by lightning. His heart jumped so abruptly, he could feel it slamming his chest.
In less than a tenth of a second he was on his way out of the room toward the stairs.
Chapter 44
KOEHLER HAD DECIDED to finish his cigarette on the pavement, and was thumbing through the large ring of keys he’d picked up from his office for the padlocks of the emptied Jewish dwellings when something told him to look up at the front of the house.
Such was his shock at seeing the face above him that the cigarette fell from his mouth and the keys from his hands.
He didn’t pause to pick up either.
Koehler drew his Walther and launched himself at the front door in a flash. His shoulder slammed into the solid wood and he felt it lurch against the screws and padlock that had been used to secure it overnight in its frame, but not give way. He looked at the keys and then took a step back before firing two rounds at the iron lock.
He slammed into the door again, and this time it swung open under his weight, crashing into the hallway as far as its hinges would allow, then swinging back halfway toward him.
He crouched down in the doorway, using the frame to shield his body and training his pistol at the top of the darkening stairs.
It was then that Jacob and Chivers burst out of the back room to face him.
Koehler swung the gun toward the old man and the boy, and his finger twitched on the trigger before he saw that they were unarmed.
“No!” cried Chivers, raising his arms, the boy frozen in front of him, eyes wide, face pale, and mouth open in shock.
“Don’t move! Don’t fucking move!” Koehler screamed at Chivers, eyes flicking to the stairs and then back to the old man.
“Don’t shoot!” Chivers shouted back, his arms rising almost straight up in the air. He glanced up to the top of the stairs, and Koehler allowed his gun to follow the old man’s tell.
Rossett exploded round the bend at the top of the stairs, the big Webley leading the way, barely managing to stop himself from tumbling down them with the force of his movement. Instead, he hit the wall and skidded to a halt.
He crouched with his gun out in front of him, aimed squarely at Koehler. Koehler shrank slightly farther back outside so that barely half his face plus his gun arm were visible.
All four assessed the situation silently, like poker players, each waiting for someone to blink.
Chivers went first.
“Get back in the room, boy,” he said softly to Jacob.
“Do . . . not . . . fucking . . . move,” Koehler hissed, his eyes on Rossett but his gun now on Jacob.
“Koehler.” Rossett said one word, enough to convey his intentions.
“Don’t move, boy,” Koehler, said quietly, this time his eyes on Jacob, who balled his fists in fear, drawing them into his stomach and trembling slightly.
But not leaving the spot he stood in.
Koehler looked back up to Rossett, and then shifted his weight slightly, affording himself some comfort.
“Is this the old communist?” Koehler finally said.
Rossett didn’t reply, just continued to stare down the sight of the Webley, weighing whether he could hit Koehler before the German got a shot off at Jacob.
Koehler licked his lips and then tried again.
“Chivers? Is that your name, old man?”
Chivers looked up to his left, slightly lowering his hands. Unable to see Rossett because of the steepness of the stairs and the shape of the hall, he returned to looking at Koehler.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Me and the boy was looking for coal, that’s all. We didn’t know he was up there,” Chivers said, a little too quickly, embarrassed that it was all he could think of to say.
Rossett shifted his weight and shrugged the coat again. Moving forward slightly, he found that he could rest the Webley on the banister.
Koehler looked up again at him.
“Don’t, John. I’ll kill the boy. If you so much as breathe, I’ll kill him.”
Rossett swallowed, nodded, relaxed his arm as he raised the barrel of the gun a tiny fraction to make it look less of a threat. He lifted his empty right hand, aware that it wasn’t the first time in the past twenty-four hours that someone who wanted him dead had used his first name.
“Okay, Ernst, just . . . just take a minute, yes?”
Koehler nodded, relaxing slightly but maintaining his cover.
“The neighbors will have sent for the police, John, when they heard the shots.”
“The police aren’t that popular round here.”
Koehler smiled at Rossett from around the doorframe.
“You’ll be telling me the Germans aren’t, either.”
“The other resistance men will be here soon,” Rossett said.
“Are you telling me you’ve called for reinforcements?”
“I might have.”
“Yes, you might.” Koehler shifted his weight again, considering the outcome of a vanload of British resistance showing up.
“We’re in a pickle, Ernst.”
“So what do we do, John?”
“If I shoot, you shoot. If you shoot, I shoot.”
“And we all fall down? That’s how the nursery rhyme goes, isn’t it?”
“Something like that.”
The two men stared at each other for moment.
“We’re friends, John, do you remember?”
“You once told me war does terrible things to men, do you remember that?”
“We aren’t at war anymore. You lost, it’s over.”
Rossett slowly and very carefully eased himself out of his crouch and stood up, still holding out his empty right hand while pointing the Webley with his left. Koehler watched him stand and then noticed the coat.
The yellow star of David was half hanging off, and Rossett felt Koehler’s eyes fall upon it. He subconsciously reached for it and gently tugged it, not wanting to rip the coat.
“You should leave it on. It suits you,” Koehler said gently.
Rossett took a slow, cautious step down the stairs, then another. Koehler watched and waited to see what would transpire.
“You could just let us walk out, Ernst,” Rossett said.
Koehler moved a few millimeters farther behind the doorframe.
“And let you have all the diamonds, John?”
“You know about the diamonds?”
“I know the lot.”
“I could do you a deal to let us go?”
“Or I could shoot you,” Koehler replied, deadpan.
“I thought we’d discounted that option.”
Behind him, Koehler heard an engine in the street. He took the quickest of glances and saw two men in work clothes climbing out of a car some hundred feet away. One looked back at him and craned his neck to see what was going on, gesturing to his partner to look, as well.
They weren’t police.
When Koehler turned his head back to the hallway, he saw that Rossett had taken three more steps down the stairs, and Koehler found himself having to lean back farther, pulling his arm with him to maintain safe cover. In doing so, he lost sight of Chivers and Jacob and had to adjust his aim to Rossett.
He blinked and Rossett stood now at the bottom of the stairs, gun still leveled, right palm still soothingly outstretched.
Koehler realized he
was losing momentum in the situation and tried to find a better position. Behind him he could hear voices, still distant, but closer than the two men had been before.
He considered looking, but decided Rossett was too close to risk it.
He was off balance, both physically and mentally, aware of threats both in front of him and behind and unable to deal with both at once. He felt like a chess player on the back foot and watching the game slip away.
“Is that my people, Ernst?” Rossett said quietly. At the bottom of the stairs now, he took a half step to the left and a half pace back, slowly, as if he were trying creep past a sleeping bear.
Koehler didn’t reply. He heard the voices call out something, then another voice, this time female, all out of sight behind him.
“I’ll not shoot, Ernst, we’ll just leave.” Rossett moved gradually toward Chivers, down the hall to the rear, covering both him and Jacob with his body as Koehler eased forward again, still looking down the sight of his Walther.
Chivers, in jerky slow motion, lowered his hands and pulled Jacob back a step or two into the kitchen. Rossett followed, taking slow backward footsteps.
“Rossett,” Koehler said, but then realized he didn’t know what else to say, and watched as the three of them grew smaller in his sights.
“We’ll go, Ernst. Nobody will know you saw us.” Rossett was by now well into the kitchen.
“John?” Koehler spoke again, this time softly, as if to a lover leaving for the last time.
“Watch your back, Ernst.”
Chivers had the yard door open. He took a step back and down. Once outside, he tugged Jacob hard, spinning the boy out of the line of fire and toward the back gate that led to the alley.
Koehler grimaced; he put pressure on the trigger to pull it, then eased off again, cursing himself for letting the situation get away from him so.
“ ’Ere!”
The voice behind him was harsh, threatening; he had to face that threat. Koehler slid back around the doorframe, away from Rossett, and turned to look at the two men, who were now less than ten feet away. They froze when they saw the gun in Koehler’s hand as he swung it to bear on them.
“Stop!” Koehler shouted, his voice sounding different as it echoed off the wide street.
One of the men dropped a crowbar, and the other threw his hands out to protect himself from the gun, even though it was well out of reach.
“Don’t shoot!” Crowbar shouted, arms going up.
Koehler yelled, “Who the fuck are you?”
“Landlord! I’m the landlord. I’m rent collecting. I thought you was breaking in!” cried the other man, hands still held out, eyes half closed with a knee raised.
“Fuck!” Koehler shouted as he turned and charged into the house.
Chapter 45
KOEHLER CHARGED THROUGH the house like a rampaging bull, head down, making for the backyard as fast as he could.
Once he reached the back gate he didn’t hesitate, but plowed straight out into the alley at the rear, where he skidded to a halt. He looked left, then right, gun up, unsure. The alley was deserted of people but littered with bins and rubbish; it stretched maybe one hundred feet in either direction: to the left, a main road, to the right, the quieter end of the street, then another alley that ran parallel to the railway.
He took a few paces toward the railway, then stopped.
I’d go where it was busy, he thought. I’d blend in.
He turned and started to run to the main road.
He had managed only four or five steps when Rossett appeared at the top of the alley ahead of him, leaning around the wall, gun in hand, aiming straight at him. Koehler dove behind some bins, barely hitting the ground before he heard the boom of the Webley.
He was half lying in a puddle, and he felt the cold brown water soaking his trousers.
The Webley boomed again, slamming straight through the metal bin, inches above Koehler’s head, which was pressed down hard on the flagstone paving. Koehler opened his eyes and lifted his head half an inch to take the pressure off his cheek. He listened for footsteps but heard nothing other than a distant rumble of traffic and the frantic beating of his heart.
He tried to think.
He’d been under fire before. Some people had called him a hero, he’d saved lives and he’d taken lives, but never like this. In the past he hadn’t had time to think; in the past he’d operated on instinct, reflex, and wits.
No time to think how stupid the brave sometimes were.
Now, he had time to think.
And he was scared.
He turned his head and looked at the Walther, a useless lump of metal gripped by a frightened man hiding behind a bin.
He shivered as the water leached farther up his legs, then breathed deeply.
One breath.
Exhale.
Another breath.
Exhale.
Deep breath.
Pause.
He rolled over and away from the bin, arms outstretched, Walther pointing down the alley at the corner, as if he had spun out the end of an unrolled carpet.
There was nobody there.
Just the odd passing car, glimpsed and then gone.
Koehler quickly got to his feet and, hugging the wall, moved toward the end of the alley. Arms outstretched, he half crouched, half jogged forward.
When he reached the main road he leapt out, looking left and then right.
Rossett, Chivers, and Jacob were gone.
And so was his car.
“DID YOU HIT him?” Chivers was shouting as he accelerated the Mercedes and pushed his way into the late-afternoon traffic.
Rossett didn’t reply. He was twisted in his seat, still holding the Webley, which filled the car with the sickly smell of cordite. Behind them someone beeped a horn as Chivers squeezed into a tiny gap, reckless in his attempts to put distance between them and the German.
Rossett looked at Jacob, who was sitting in the middle of the big backseat, hands on his lap. The boy looked serene, almost too serene. Rossett had seen that look before on men who retreated into themselves just before their minds gave way.
“You all right?” he asked, smiling as he did, trying to reassure.
Jacob nodded but didn’t look at him. Rossett continued to stare for a moment before he swiveled in his seat to face forward.
“You did good back there.” Chivers glanced at Rossett as he spoke.
“What about you? All right?” Rossett said.
“I’ll live. Where are we going now?”
“We need to get rid of this car.” Rossett opened the Webley, fished out the two spent cartridges, and loaded two more. He looked at his two remaining spare shells.
Chivers glanced down at the gun and then at Rossett, easing off the accelerator.
“I know where we can get rid of the car, and I can get you some bullets, too.”
They slowed to a stop at a traffic light. Rossett felt self-conscious in the Mercedes and pulled at the star of David again. This time he succeeded in yanking it off the coat, ripping the material slightly so that a small flash of gray inner lining could be seen against the black wool.
“Is it far?” Rossett replied, fingering the hole he had just made in the coat.
Chivers shook his head and pulled away as the light turned green.
“It’s a place we use.”
“We?”
“Yeah, we.” As Chivers spoke he looked at Rossett. “I’m trusting you, do you understand?”
“Yes.”
They drove for about fifteen minutes in silence, heading east, away from the center of London in the slowly building traffic of late afternoon, until Chivers steered the car to the curb in front of a parade of small shops.
“Wait ’ere.”
Chivers got out of the c
ar before Rossett could protest. Chivers walked into a butcher’s shop and spoke to the butcher, then Chivers and the butcher rounded the counter and disappeared into the back of the shop.
“Come here,” Rossett said to Jacob. The boy obediently climbed over the back of the front seat and squeezed close to Rossett, who slid his arm over the boy’s shoulder as he continued to scan the area, the Webley in his free hand resting in his lap.
People seemed to pay them no heed while they waited, but Rossett wasn’t fooled by the lack of interest. He knew, in that Mercedes, they stood out like a sore thumb among the working-class streets of the East End. Just because he couldn’t see people staring didn’t mean they weren’t.
After a few minutes he thumbed the hammer of the Webley for no reason other than his own nerves. The click of the hammer made Jacob stiffen next to him, and Rossett squeezed the boy a little around the shoulders.
“It’s all right,” he said soothingly, even though he didn’t believe it.
It seemed an age before Chivers reemerged from the butcher’s and climbed back into the Mercedes. He tossed some sandwiches wrapped in paper to Jacob as he started the car, and the boy stared at the package on his lap as if it were toxic.
“Eat them,” Chivers said, looking over his shoulder for a gap in traffic. “They’re good.” He clutched his own half-eaten sandwich in his free hand.
Jacob looked at Rossett, who nodded, and the boy unfolded the paper and picked up the bread.
“Beef drippin’, put ’airs on yer chest.” Chivers smiled at Jacob, who stared back before taking a bite and chewing it slowly.
After a moment, Jacob nudged Rossett and held out the sandwich.
“Are you hungry?”
“It’s for you.”
“I can share.”
“I’m all right.”
The boy looked down at the sandwich and took another bite before carefully folding the paper back around the bread and stuffing it into his pocket.
“You might be hungry later,” he said to Rossett, who looked away because he thought he might cry.
A few minutes passed as they steered their way off the main road and into a maze of back streets filled with houses, occasional bomb sites, and tall, narrow warehouses and workshops.
The Darkest Hour: A Novel Page 27