The Darkest Hour

by Tony Schumacher

  Chapter 21

  ROSSETT STARTED THE car, eyes on the mirror.

  “There is no reason to hold a gun to my head. I’ve just broken you out of prison,” he said as they drove slowly across the yard to the sentry point. One of the released prisoners raised the barrier and glanced up and down the street before beckoning them forward.

  “Stop.”

  Rossett did as he was told.

  The man leaned down to Rossett’s window, which dutifully dropped into the door as Rossett tried to lower it. Leigh leaned forward and beckoned the prisoner who was now acting as sentry over.

  “Tell the ones who know it to make their way to the warehouse and the rest lie low. I don’t want anyone making contact with their controller for at least seven days, understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Those who aren’t attached to us, let them know who we are and how they can contact us, then bugger off out of here.”

  The man nodded and stepped back from the car. Rossett half expected him to salute, but he merely waved them through and disappeared back into the fog. Rossett felt the prod of the rifle again and he gunned the engine, turned on his lights, and headed out onto the road. In his mirror, he saw the two big Mercedeses waddle out of the yard and shook his head.

  “What?” From the back.

  “Your friends won’t get far in those staff cars.”

  “They know what they’re doing.”

  “Is that how they ended up in jail?”

  “Just keep driving.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “Where were you taking the boy?”

  Rossett glanced in the mirror and then back at the road.

  “You did have a plan, didn’t you?”

  “Not as such.”

  The shadow in the back shook his head, and Rossett regretted confessing his lack of preparedness.

  “Head for Wapping.”

  “Wapping,” Rossett repeated flatly.

  “And put that bloody window up, we’re freezing in the back here.”

  “I can’t. It’s broken.”

  Rossett heard a chuckle and found himself squeezing the steering wheel tighter.

  “It seems you are better at putting ­people into prison than you are at getting them out.”

  Rossett didn’t reply.

  A fine drizzle was rinsing away the fog, and the streets shone as if they were covered in sooty varnish. Rossett kept to the speed limit and stuck to the main roads as they headed across the city. He knew to steer clear of the German quarter, aware that he could still use the main roads there, but conscious that there might be routine roadblocks and checkpoints. Whether those roadblocks would extend out across the city as a whole depended on how soon the bodies at the jail were found.

  They’d driven in silence for ten minutes when Leigh finally said, “I can see your mind working, Rossett.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “You told me who you were, old man, just after you kicked my face into the back of my head.”

  Rossett looked in the mirror again.

  “Wish you’d finished the job now?”

  “Yes.”

  “I should feel quite honored being chauffeured by the British Lion. It’s a shame this car stinks of Nazi, though. Sort of takes the fun out of it.”

  Rossett felt something rising in his chest; he swallowed hard and managed to push it down again.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’ve told you, old man. James Leigh.”

  Leigh spoke with apparent disinterest, looking out the window at the passing buildings. If it weren’t for the occasional dig of the rifle muzzle into the back of his seat, Rossett would have thought the other man was just enjoying a late-­night drive. He gave off an air of casual arrogance, the one favored by some of the English officer class. Rossett had seen it many times. In some, it was genuine, the result of having been brought up by nannies and having ­people fetch and carry for them. In others, it seemed to hide the coldness that had built an empire and streaked many a bayonet with blood. Rossett wasn’t fooled by the posh voice. He knew the man in the back of the car was a cobra. A cobra bred on the playing fields of Eton, but a cobra no less, to be treated with care and held at arm’s length, preferably by the throat.

  “And who is James Leigh?”

  “Let’s just say we are on opposite sides of this war.”

  “The war’s over.”

  “Is it? Some of us are still fighting, dear boy. Some of us didn’t give up.”

  “So you’re resistance?”

  “You really are a detective, aren’t you?” Leigh mocked Rossett and smiled at him in the mirror. The occasional streetlamp strobed across his face, and in the flash flicker of darkness the smile disappeared. “Just keep driving, British Lion. We can finish the chat when we get to Wapping.”

  Chapter 22

  KOEHLER WAS RIDING a bicycle along a narrow track lined with trees. It looked like Bavaria, and he could hear a woman laughing but couldn’t quite see her. It sounded like his wife, Lotte, as if she was nearby, maybe on another bicycle just behind him. He looked up into the trees at the shafts of sunlight that warmed his face, and he was happy, really happy, laughing with someone he loved, and for a moment he felt like he was going to soar off the ground and up into the trees to swoop and roll with the birds that were singing above his head.

  And then the phone rang.

  He rolled and pressed his face into the pillow as it rang again, clenching his fists and his eyelids, desperate to hold onto his dream. But it was gone and he was back in bed with a phone that wouldn’t stop.

  He groaned and picked up the receiver, face still pressed into the pillow.

  “What?”

  “Apologies for the call, sir. We have a problem at Charing Cross.”

  Koehler didn’t recognize the voice and he squinted at the clock next to his bed: 11:15. He’d barely been asleep. He tried to remember his dream again, but it was gone.

  Like the life he’d been enjoying in it.

  “What problem?”

  “A breakout and a fire.”

  Koehler was awake now. He pushed himself up onto one elbow and rolled onto his side.

  “How many?”

  “Eight prisoners, sir, the resistance operatives who were due to go to Paris on Monday, all gone, sir.”

  “Oh God, no.” Koehler rolled out of the bed and sat naked with his head in his hand. He pressed the earpiece of the receiver into his forehead, then put it back to his ear. “What about the fire?”

  “It appears they created a diversion of some sort, sir, two jailers dead and one sentry. ­Couple of trucks burnt, but the building is undamaged.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Staff Sergeant Werner, sir.”

  Koehler could almost hear the man springing to attention at the other end of the phone.

  “Have you notified anyone else of this, Werner?”

  “The army and the local police, sir, as soon as I found out. I’ve broken out the guard, but to be honest, I’m not sure it’ll do much good; I think they are long gone.”

  Koehler vaguely remembered Werner from the occasional inspections he’d been roped into performing: efficient, unobtrusive, his men well drilled, no more, no less. The man seemed old school and assured. The only thing that made him stand out was the Knight’s Cross with oak leaves he wore at his neck, an old hero who was still fighting for the Fatherland.

  “Who is the duty officer, Werner?”

  “Lieutenant Brandt, sir.”

  “Is he any good, Sergeant?”

  There was the slightest of hesitations before Werner answered, “He is the duty officer, sir.”

  “I didn’t ask you that, Werner.”

  “He is very young, sir.”

&n
bsp; “Jesus Christ.” Koehler rubbed his eyes. “Make sure you are with him when I get there. No matter what he says, make sure you are with him. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry for waking you, sir.”

  “Don’t be. I would have had you shot if you hadn’t.”

  Koehler put down the phone and clicked on the bedside lamp, which threw a twenty-­watt shadow as far up to the high ceiling as it could manage.

  “What is it?” Kate spoke behind him, in smooth German.

  “You’d better go,” Koehler replied in English, already crossing the room to collect his uniform from the back of the chair where it was draped. Behind him, Kate slipped out of the sheets and picked up her clothes from the floor.

  “Have I got time to wash, or do you want me to walk out naked?”

  “No and no.”

  Kate stopped and looked at Koehler. Stung by his abruptness, she paused, then turned her back and started to dress. The silence dropped around the room and caused Koehler to look up as he pulled on his trousers. He glanced across to Kate and for the first time noticed how thin she looked. Her ribs pushed against her skin when she bent forward to collect her clothes. He sighed, stopped dressing, and crossed the room to her.

  “I’m sorry, that was rude. Forgive me. You can wash after I’ve gone. Just make sure you lock the door as you leave.”

  Kate stopped and turned. In the dim light of the lamp she looked beautiful, naked and unashamed as she stared at Koehler, her blond hair hanging across her face. Koehler felt an urge to scrape it away from her eyes and tuck it behind her ear.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Koehler kissed her forehead and felt a stir as she smoothed her hands across his chest; he tilted his face forward, wearily, and rested his lips against the top of her head.

  “Do I matter to you?” Kate spoke softly and Koehler felt her lips moving on his chest.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’m not just some girl from the typing pool you fuck?”

  “No, you matter to me.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “I have to go. There has been a breakout at Charing Cross. The resistance we rounded up last week: all of them are gone.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “I have to go.”

  Kate lifted her head from his chest, and this time Koehler did brush away the loose hair. He smiled, and Kate chewed her lip and then smiled back, without confidence. As if the smile was a signal for him to carry on getting dressed, he let go of her and quickly gathered his things. It was only as he finally pulled on his tunic and hastily rubbed his boot toes against the back of his legs that he noticed that she was still standing, naked, watching him.

  “Make sure you lock the door when you go. Leave the key with the guard downstairs.”

  Kate nodded, and Koehler picked up his cap from the table next to the door, placed it on his head, and turned to her. The Nazi at the door made Kate suddenly feel very naked, and she held her dress up to her breasts to cover them. Koehler nodded, as if he understood, then opened the door. He paused, looking back at her.

  “I like you very much, Kate. You make . . .” He looked at the floor as if the words could be found there, then back at her. “You make my time here . . .” He paused again, not wanting to trap himself in a lie. “Better. You make my time here better.”

  “Thank you,” Kate said. Koehler nodded and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  Kate stood still for moment and thought she might cry. Instead, she sighed, sat down on the bed, and rested her head in her hands before scraping her hair back and pinning it up away from her face. She looked back toward the door, picked up the telephone from the nightstand, and dialed.

  The phone rang only once before it was answered by an English voice.

  “Yes?”

  Kate flinched at the harsh voice. “It’s Kate. I’m in Koehler’s room.”

  “You shouldn’t ring me on that line. What do you want?”

  “There has been an escape from Charing Cross. Koehler has just left to go there.”

  “Who has escaped?”

  “The resistance. All of them, I think.”

  “All of them?”

  “I think so. Koehler was shocked when he took the call. This isn’t good for me; it puts me in a bad situation.”

  “It puts all of us in a bad situation, but especially Herr Koehler,” the man replied.

  “What should I do?”

  “Do nothing.”

  Kate heard the click of the other phone disconnecting. She sat staring at the receiver in her hand, then gently placed it back into the cradle.

  “Do nothing,” she said to the empty room. “If only it were that easy.”

  Chapter 23

  WHEN KOEHLER ARRIVED at Charing Cross he was dismayed to see several trucks unloading bleary-­eyed troops onto the pavement. NCOs dashed around shouting and pointing while junior officers stood clustered, waiting for meaningful instructions from someone who knew what he was doing.

  Koehler told his driver to stop before turning into the yard, got out of the car, and stared at the chaos.

  So much for German efficiency, he thought as he watched the scene. Through the crowd, he saw Werner and waved for the senior NCO to join him.

  Werner arrived with a crash of stamping boots and a salute. Koehler lazily saluted back and then gestured with the same hand toward the crowds of men.

  “What’s going on, Werner?”

  “Lieutenant Brandt thought it best to call out the local garrisons, sir, to track down the escapees,” Werner replied flatly.

  “Where is Brandt?”

  “He’s in the jail, sir. He’s . . .”

  “He’s what?”

  “Flustered, sir. I told him you wanted him here, but I think he felt it best to keep things moving.”

  Koehler looked at the old soldier and then shook his head.

  “Where did it all go wrong, Werner? What happened to the finest army in the world?”

  Werner didn’t reply, and Koehler took out a cigarette and lit it, watching the crowds of soldiers form up into ranks, rain reflecting off their helmets and boots.

  “Have the men mount the trucks again, then join us in the jail.”

  Werner saluted and Koehler walked through the yard past the still-­smoking frames of the trucks until he noticed two soldiers standing guard over the body of the sentry. The two soldiers sprang to attention, and Koehler leaned into the shadows to look at the young man, who sat with eyes open and dried blood covering his face. His tunic was unfastened and his guts sat in his lap, raw and exposed, where they had been placed by whoever had sliced him open and by gravity. It looked like the boy had tried to push them back into his body before he died, as his hands were still clutching at the bloody mess.

  Rain was falling heavier now and spotting the blood on the boy’s face, causing it to look like red tears flowing down his cheeks. Koehler shook his head.

  “Jesus.” He looked at the two young men who stood over their dead colleague like bookends. “Cover him up with something. Don’t let anyone else see him like that.”

  He entered the jail and walked down the steps and through the gate, where the custody assistant lay facedown and dead. Another German soldier snapped to attention next to the corpse, and Koehler noticed that the man was standing in the blood on the floor. He saluted and passed. No point in looking any closer than he had; he’d seen enough corpses to last a lifetime. Instead, he made his way to the custody desk.

  As he approached, he heard someone talking loudly and excitedly.

  “We need to get boots on the streets, as many ­people as possible fanning out looking. Get me more troops!”

  Koehler turned the final corner and saw a young lieutenant on the phone. Around him stood three junior NC
Os, who noticed Koehler first and sprang to attention. Koehler could have sworn he sensed relief on their faces that someone else had finally turned up to take command, but he decided maybe that was just his imagination or his ego talking.

  “Don’t have more troops come here,” Koehler said quietly but firmly. As he mounted the steps up to the custody desk, he looked down and was amazed to see the body of the senior jailer still lying on the floor, a knife poking out of his side.

  The lieutenant turned at the interruption and immediately snapped to attention when he saw Koehler; comically, he held the phone to his head as if he were saluting with it.

  “Are you Brandt?”

  “Yes, Herr Major!” Brandt stiff-­armed a Nazi salute, which Koehler returned. It suddenly struck him how often soldiers tended to salute when things were falling down around them.

  “What is this man doing here on the floor?”

  “I thought you would want to see him, sir!”

  “Well, I’ve seen him. Now get all the bodies moved to the morgue.”

  Brandt turned to the NCOs and gestured to the body on the floor impatiently.

  “Get this moved! Now!”

  Koehler rubbed his face and turned to Brandt.

  “Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Could you please stop shouting?”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Brandt took a half step back from Koehler, who took the seat that had been occupied by the jailer before he had died. The cake was still on the desk in front of him, and Koehler absentmindedly prodded it with a fork. He noticed it was slightly stale and wondered how long it had been waiting to be eaten before he had got there.

  The NCOs were making heavy work of moving the body until Werner appeared and whispered a few instructions, getting the job done. Just Koehler, Brandt, Werner, and the pool of blood were left at the desk.

  “How long is it since the escape?” Koehler asked.

  “We think it is about one hour, sir!” Brandt shouted, then flinched before adding quietly, “The sentry was discovered at eleven ten by a routine patrol of the perimeter. The guards noticed nobody was manning the yard post, so they entered to look for him. He was found barely alive.”