An Army of One: A John Rossett Novel

by Tony Schumacher

  Becker nodded to himself.

  “If Captain Bauer had a gun and was able to get out of the car, there is no way the resistance would have taken him alive.”

  “You sure?”

  “I know Captain Bauer. He’s the best.”

  “So he ran?”

  Becker looked around, then back at Rossett. “I wouldn’t put it like that, but he would make sure he got away. Captain Bauer would be a real prize for the resistance.”

  Becker shifted the MP40 a little on his shoulder, took a step closer to Rossett, and lowered his voice.

  “Liverpool has been difficult to control of late. We’ve done things that some might consider to be heavy-handed. Even by our standards. Do you understand?”

  Rossett frowned. “Like the hospital?”

  “Like the hospital.”

  Becker slapped his cap against his leg, then continued. “The Bear, Captain Bauer, he’s been at the forefront of those efforts. The resistance know that, so they wouldn’t treat him well if they caught him.”

  “Even by their standards?”

  “Even by their standards.”

  “So he ran.” Rossett looked off toward the garrison.

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t have done what he did.”

  Becker snorted and shook his head.

  “What?” Rossett turned to him.

  “I know about you, Rossett. I know you’ve been working with us to get rid of the Jews. You know you haven’t been sending them on a picnic, so don’t start pretending you can look down from where you are standing.”

  Rossett touched his head again. His hair was wet, and even though he was cold, the lump behind his ear felt warm to the touch. He stared at Becker for a moment, considering a reply, but instead of speaking he walked around the Jaguar to inspect the side that had taken the brunt of the explosion.

  The doors were buckled, and the roof had creased a little. The paint had lost its shine and seemed a little crazed where it had taken the heat from the bomb. The surface of the street seemed unmarked.

  A row of two-story brown brick buildings ran along the gentle arc of the street, all the way from the garrison to the gun emplacements.

  They were all empty, and most were boarded up.

  “The people who lived here?” Rossett looked at Becker.

  “We moved them out when we took over the garrison.”

  “All of them?”

  “We like our privacy.”

  Rossett chewed his lip, then turned back to the two buildings nearest to him. They were boarded-up shops, with what looked like residences above. The boards on the shop windows had held up to the blast, but the glass in one of the doors was gone, along with the windows of the upper levels. Rossett looked down at the pavement on this side of the street.

  There was blood on the pavement, amid the broken glass.

  A lot of blood, so much the rain hadn’t been able to wash it all away. He remembered the face of the lonely woman with blood in her lap, staring at him as she died.

  He turned to Becker, who was standing by the back of the Jaguar watching him.

  “How many were killed in the blast?”

  “Five in the bomb blast, eleven in the firefight. All Brits, assuming Bauer and Neumann made it away alive.”

  “How many prisoners?”

  “Fifty-odd, back at the garrison.”

  “Have you interviewed them?”

  “We don’t normally bother.”

  “Two Germans are missing.”

  “Resistance don’t allow themselves to be captured alive anymore.”

  “So then why are you holding people if you aren’t going to interview them?”

  “Like I said, sometimes we need to be a little heavy-handed.”

  Rossett took another look at the broken windows above him, shook his head, then headed for the garrison.

  The Bear smiled.

  The wait had been worth his while.

  The Lion was alive.

  Maybe he was better than he looked after all?

  It had started to rain again, fat drops this time.

  The Bear stepped back from the shattered glass as a few spots of rain landed on the windowsill and pooled in the dirt. He touched the water, lifted his finger to his tongue, and tasted it.

  “Dust to dust,” he said to nobody but himself. He was on his own again, doing what he did best.

  Chapter 10

  Michael O’Kane coughed politely on the other side of the desk.

  “If you’ll forgive me for saying so, Major Dannecker, and please, take this as an observation and not a criticism, some people would suggest that you are drinking with your mouth a little too close to the bottle.”

  Dannecker looked up from the brandy he was pouring and frowned at O’Kane.

  “What?”

  O’Kane shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

  “It’s just an observation, Major, no more than that.”

  “If I was worried I was drinking too much, the last person I’d ask for an opinion would be an Irishman.”

  “I’m a teetotaler myself. I took the pledge in 1930, and haven’t touched a drop since. I found it was getting in the way of my work, and I couldn’t afford for that to happen. So it went, before I did.”

  Dannecker went back to pouring, and once the glass was three-quarters full, set the bottle down gently on the desk.

  Dannecker leaned back in his chair and asked the question he’d been avoiding since O’Kane had turned up at the garrison, unannounced, fifteen minutes earlier.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’ve been sent to see what the problem is.”

  “There isn’t a problem. I have this under control, so there isn’t a problem.”

  “There is a problem, Major, and it appears to be a fucking big one.”

  “I’m telling you, there—”

  O’Kane held up a hand, waited to see if Dannecker was going to remain quiet, and then spoke so softly the German had to lean forward to make out the words.

  “A month or so ago, my organization came to you with an opportunity. We explained that this was an opportunity we needed your help to exploit, but that it was an opportunity for both parties, just the same. With that in mind, you agreed to help us sort out some issues, so that we could all end up better off. Do you remember that?”

  Dannecker scratched at his temple but didn’t reply.

  “And now, another man who was also helping us in this matter, U.S. Consul Hawthorn, is dead. On top of this, we also have two detectives from London sniffing around and opening boxes we don’t want opened.” O’Kane leaned back from the desk and held out his hands palm up. “Now, some people would say that is a big problem, but not me.” He waggled his left index finger, dropped it into the palm of his right hand, and closed his fist around it. “For me, and this is only a personal opinion, the biggest problem we have is that we, and by ‘we’ I mean ‘you’”—the index finger popped out again and pointed at Dannecker—“have gone and lost our gold bullion.”

  O’Kane dropped his hands onto his lap.

  “Now, Major, I’m sure, whichever way you look at it, that is one big fucking problem.” He flicked his head to the glass on the table. “Now would probably be a good time to take a drink.”

  Dannecker went for the glass, slowed when he realized how desperate he looked, then speeded up when he saw O’Kane had noticed the hesitation.

  “There isn’t a problem.” Dannecker took a sip of the brandy.

  O’Kane stared at Dannecker with sullen flat eyes that showed nothing but the green of the ocean.

  He was a big man, not as big as Becker, but big all the same. His suit was brown flecked wool, expensive, good quality. Handmade, Harris Tweed, the best. Fitting where it was supposed to and relaxing where it wasn’t. His skin was the same, taut on wide cheekbones, but easy around lips that looked like they were used to laughing.

  O’Kane’s hands were the only things the suit didn�
�t seem to fit. They were wide, with fat fingers that looked like they would fold into useful fists thrown by the big biceps that smudged the suit’s sleeves, like sharks swimming just under the surface.

  O’Kane’s soft Irish accent sparked up again.

  “My people are concerned, and, in fairness to them, I think they have a right to be when you consider what it is at stake. This isn’t a few crates of guns that you are selling out the back door to pay for your prostitutes and bar bill. This is gold. Bullion worth millions of dollars.” O’Kane let the words hang, then repeated them like an echo to drive their weight home. “Millions of U.S. dollars. Now, that gold was in this city last week. And as we speak, a U.S. Navy ship is waiting to collect it. A U.S. Navy ship that I have gone to a lot, and I mean an awful lot, of trouble to get to help us. So my people want their gold, Major, and you”—O’Kane pointed across the table—“have gone and fucking lost the lot of it.” O’Kane folded the finger back into his fist. “So what are you going to do about it?”

  “It’s under control.”

  O’Kane blinked, watched Dannecker take another drink, and then spoke again.

  “Do you know my name?”

  “O’Kane.”

  “My full name?”

  Dannecker searched his desktop for a memory, then looked up again.

  “Michael O’Kane.”

  “No. Do you know my name?”

  Dannecker stared back at O’Kane in silence.

  “Michael Mad Dog O’Kane,” O’Kane said.

  “Mad Dog?”

  “Mad Dog.” O’Kane scratched an ear, then shifted a little. “Of course, my mother never christened me ‘Mad Dog.’ There was no way the priest would have allowed it. And besides, the Mad Dog bit didn’t come along until I was growing up, finding my way in the world, fighting my way through the world, battling battles, battling men, right up until I ended up here, in this office, right now. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “I earned it, the name, the hard way. First off, by fighting in the old country of Ireland, and then, fighting the G-men in the new country.”

  Dannecker nodded that he understood, so O’Kane continued.

  “What I’m telling you, in case you haven’t already got it, is that I’m a killer. Initially for the love of Ireland, and then, God forgive me, for the love of money. I do it for the money, and for the people I work for, who are like my family. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can do it close up with a brick just as well as I can do it from afar with a bomb. Either way doesn’t bother me.” O’Kane leaned forward a few inches conspiratorially. “Some fellas don’t like the close-up bit, they don’t like to see the eyes. But sure, if you’ve done it once you can do it a thousand times. It isn’t as hard as some folk make out.”

  O’Kane leaned back.

  “Now, I know you’ve done a bit of the topping yourself. I can see that from all the medals, and your red eyes, and the rattle of the bottle and the glass. But I can also see it from the respect that your men have for you. Sure, that big fella, the sergeant outside, what’s his name?”

  “Becker.”

  “Becker,” O’Kane repeated. “I can see that he’d walk through fire for you.” He smiled again. “Anyway, what I am saying to you is that I’m a killer. A proper killer, and a very good one at that. Now, this is the point that I’m getting to: I’ve been sent over here to kill someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Whoever is the problem.” O’Kane rested his hands in his lap and tapped his thumbs together like a bank manager as the words sank in. “So, when I asked you a minute ago what the problem was, and you replied there wasn’t one, well, that makes me wonder if you’re the problem I’ve got to fix, and you just haven’t realized it yet.”

  Dannecker put the glass back carefully on the desk.

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I would say that was a fair summation of the situation.”

  Dead eyes stared back across the desk.

  “You’re in my garrison, surrounded by my men, and you are threatening me?”

  “I am that, yes.” O’Kane smiled, pushed himself up the chair a little, and adjusted his right shirt cuff, so that it was hanging out of his sleeve by just the right amount, before continuing.

  “I know you could pull a gun on me and have me dead in a ditch inside of ten minutes, Major. You’re the fucking SS, it’s what you fellas do for a living.” O’Kane lifted his hands. “Sure as hell, you’re good at it. If there is one nation better than the Irish at digging ditches and filling them up again, it is you Germans.” His hands dropped back onto the arms of his chair. “Which is why, when I was asked to come and speak to you today, I put certain guarantees in place. You see, Ireland is a small country, but your High Command value our position with the Americans, and the Americans value our proximity to Europe. So the Irish government, and my family on the East Coast of America and back in Dublin, we are like the little cogs spinning in a big fucking gearbox.”

  O’Kane held up the fingers of both hands, then meshed them together to make his point.

  “Now, I’m not a government man. What I am is a shadow, a man who is connected on both sides of the water to people you don’t ever want to meet. Now, a lot of people on both sides are invested in this gold.” O’Kane dropped his voice again, then glanced theatrically over his shoulder at the door behind him before turning back to Dannecker. “Including a few who wear the same uniform as you do, but of a significantly higher rank.”

  Dannecker wasn’t used to certain matters being spoken of so loudly. He shifted his feet under the desk but didn’t speak.

  “Now, a lot of folk will know that if I’m not back in my hotel room tonight, with a full belly and a warm cup of cocoa on the bedside table, you’ve been a bad boy. If they want to keep making money for their pension funds, they will come looking for you, and they’ll make sure you’re lying in that fucking ditch next to me come dawn.”

  O’Kane leaned back in the chair and smiled again.

  “So when I threaten you, boy”—the big broad index finger rose up and pointed squarely into Dannecker’s face—“you are well and truly fucking threatened. Do you understand me now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” The finger dropped and O’Kane smiled. “So, I’ll ask you again, who is the problem here, so I can get on and kill them, and then get back to home to a bed without bugs?”

  Dannecker stared back across the table.

  O’Kane sat silent; he knew when a man was best left alone to make a decision.

  It didn’t take long.

  “The Bear. Captain Bauer. He killed the men who know where the gold is.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s what he does. His job is to operate independently in bandit country. He keeps the resistance’s heads down. He disrupts them, hunts them, kills them, kills their associates, and generally ties them up so they can’t focus on us, the regular troops.”

  “He terrorizers the terrorists?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “So he killed these men thinking they were terrorists.”

  “Well, technically, they were, but I don’t think that was the reason.”

  O’Kane gestured that Dannecker should elaborate, so he did.

  “I think he killed them for fun.”

  “Fun? Why?”

  “To cause me, or rather us, trouble. Captain Bauer has been a little unstable of late.”

  “Unstable?”

  “Mad. I think he found about the gold, about what was happening, and then took matters into his own hands for the fun of it.”

  “How did he find out? Did you tell him?”

  “It’s his job. He interrogates people. If Bauer found someone who knew about the gold, Bauer would know about the gold not long afterward. But how he found it doesn’t matter. The fact that he found it, then moved it, is what counts.”

  “Has he told London about it?”


  “No.”

  “You know this how?”

  “Because if he had, they’d be here by now and I’d probably be dead.”

  “So only he knows where it is?”

  Dannecker shrugged. “He says so, and the fact that you are sitting here rather proves him right.”

  O’Kane pondered this information, then looked up.

  “You were approached by my organization because we needed you to turn a blind eye.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Well, you’d better get that eye open and find this fucking gold quick. I’ve a ship waiting, and it can’t wait for long, do you understand me?”

  “I know about your ship. It was I who let it dock, and it is I who wants to sail out on it.”

  “Have you still got communication channels with the British resistance?”

  “Not since the shooting. Our contact died with the consul, and as I’m sure you can imagine, we don’t have a telephone number for them. I take it the resistance are out looking for the gold themselves?”

  “They will be.”

  “I’ve enough men. If we search the docks and find it before them, I’m sure we can cut them out of the deal and increase our margins.”

  O’Kane shook his head.

  “There are seven miles of docks in this city. It would take a year, and that is based on the assumption he hid it in the docks.” O’Kane steepled his fingertips and rested his forehead on them. “We need to find this Bear character. He’s the only one who can lead us to it before my ship has to sail.”

  “The problem with the Bear, Mr. O’Kane, is that he has a habit of finding you first.”

  Chapter 11

  Rossett could hear them screaming long before he could see them.

  They weren’t being held in the cellblock where the Bear had been held. There was no brushed floor, no folded sharp sheets, and no fresh paint for the poor souls swept off the street after the explosion.

  It was also a different jailer who led the way down the steps into the darkness. This one was a Brit in a too-tight uniform and boots that creaked like coffin lids as they made their way along a corridor that reminded Rossett of a drain.