“Ah. Of course. I was there also. We didn’t have much time for prisoners.” The Bear sounded a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry about that.”
Rossett didn’t reply.
“So you didn’t like what we did, or what we do now?”
“Of course I don’t.”
“And yet you still work for us? What you do with the Jews?”
“Did.” Rossett looked into the fire.
“Do you think you should be punished for what you did?”
“I do, and I will be, one day.” Rossett looked back at the Bear.
“A death sentence?”
“Maybe.”
“I could carry it out for you now.”
“If I am to be punished, it’ll be by better men than you.”
The Bear nodded in the shadows. “I’ve just learned something about you.”
“What?”
“You like grand statements, but deep down, you’re a survivor. Just like the rat, and just like me.”
“I’m a coward, hiding in the rubble left after the invasion. Too scared to stand in the light, and too scared to die.” Rossett’s face was sharp with shadow, his eyes black in deep sockets.
The Bear’s face dipped into the weak pool of light, giving both men a better view of each other. They stared, sizing each other up, before the Bear sat back once more. Returning to the night, not giving too much away.
“Would you like a cigarette?” He produced a packet of cigarettes from his coat.
“I don’t want a cigarette.”
The Bear placed the packet carefully on the ground next to the bottle.
The Bear straightened his legs and crossed his left foot over his right. He was wearing civilian clothes under his overcoat. A suit, not sharp, but not shabby either. Just enough to go unnoticed. He flicked at the fabric near his knee, then nodded, like he was agreeing with someone Rossett couldn’t hear, before finally speaking again.
“We’re told that you people don’t matter. If you aren’t German, politicians, newspapers, film, radio, they all keep telling us that you are not worth our pity. Every day, over and over, they ram home the point that you’re there to fuel the Reich and to make Greater Germany greater still. We Germans, we’re in our rightful place, looking down, as you lift us up even higher.” He wiped a finger under his nose and looked out through the hole in the wall toward the river. “If Germans see refugees dying, crying, or going hungry, they see them on the screen. There is distance.” He held out his hands as if holding a box. “They are at arm’s length, just a by-product of how the world works. Somebody has to be shit on by the system. Someone has always been shit on by the system, and someone always will be shit on by the system.” The Bear stared into the fire. “It’s just the way it is.”
Both men remained silent for a while. A pigeon shuffled about in the eaves of the warehouse, and Rossett watched as a gray feather dropped down, changed color to warm orange as it neared the fire, then rose and drifted on the hot air before disappearing back into the shadows.
The Bear broke the silence.
“What the people back home don’t see is the children with lines on their faces like old men. They don’t see the beggars with ribs so close to their skin they look they are on the outside.” The Bear shielded his eyes a moment with his left hand. The pause went on for nearly half a minute until finally, like a magician lowering a handkerchief, his hand slid down and dropped into his lap. When he finally found the words to continue, his voice was low, like the taste of death was choking it off in his throat.
“If a mother loses a child, Lion, surely it hurts the same, no matter where you were born?”
Rossett nodded.
“I’m tired of it all, so tired I can barely think.” The Bear said it so quietly the crackle of the fire almost drowned him out. “I’m broken by it.”
“Why don’t you stop doing it?”
“What I do or want, it doesn’t matter. You can’t be saved, I can’t be saved, they can’t be saved.” The Bear lifted his chin as he searched for his next words. It took him a moment.
“Hell is empty; all the devils are here. Do you know who said that?”
“You.”
“Shakespeare.” The Bear rose off the stool and moved around the fire so that he could get in close to Rossett, who remained seated on the rubble. The Bear dropped to all fours, then edged closer still, only stopping when he was inches from Rossett.
“I can’t stop. I try, but . . . it is so hard.” The Bear was whispering. He tapped his temple as he stared closely into Rossett’s eyes. “I need the game, the excitement, the killing . . . I can’t stop. Are we really the same, Lion? Tell me you understand what I am saying.”
“No.”
The Bear nodded. The intensity faded, his eyes softened, and he stood again and moved back to his stool.
“So, Lion, that’s it. We are going to duel and I’m going to try to kill you.” The flames found fresh timber in the fire and snaked out of the drum between them. “Not here, but soon. Do you understand?”
Rossett stared back at him through the heat haze.
“You understand what I am saying to you?” said the Bear.
“I’ll not play your game.”
“You want to protect people?”
“I’m a policeman.”
“Good. Well, look at it this way. I’m offering you the chance to kill a murderer.”
“I’d sooner catch one.”
The Bear raised a finger. “The only option is kill. I’ll not be taken alive.”
“If I set out to kill you, I’ll be as bad as you.”
“Not if you are saving lives, lots of lives, tens of them, maybe hundreds.”
Rossett sighed. “Look, Bauer, if you want me to kill you, just say it. My arse is aching sitting here, and I can think of better places to be.”
The Bear frowned and pointed to the hole in the wall.
“Out there, that will be our battleground. There are lots of people who want us dead, so there will be plenty hunting us. But, and this is the fun bit, we will have to concentrate on each other, or else we will die. How does that sound?”
“It sounds like the rambling of a madman.”
“It is; we’ve already established that.”
“What about the gold?”
The Bear waved a dismissive hand. “Gold doesn’t matter to people like you and me.”
“You’re the one who stole it.”
“I took it for the thrill of the game, not for the thrill of the gain.”
Rossett gave in and took the bait. “When I kill you, what do I get out of it?”
“I like your confidence, Lion. Let’s just say that if you kill me, the gold will buy your freedom.” The Bear reached into his pocket and produced a small brown envelope. “The location of the gold is written on this paper. When, or rather if, you manage to take it from me, you can retrieve the gold and either use it to make your way out of the country or, if you are stupid, you can hand it to the authorities here, prove your loyalty, and discredit Dannecker.”
“What if I don’t want to play your game?”
“I’ll kill you, and the gold will go to whoever kills me or finds it before I die. Imagine how much damage the resistance could do with that gold, Lion. Imagine how many other families like yours would be blown apart by the bombs it could buy.”
Rossett lifted his chin at the reference to his wife and son.
The Bear held out a hand.
“You and I, Lion, we are warriors lost in a forest and we can’t find the battle. We can hear it.” The Bear tapped his ear and lowered his voice to a whisper. “It is so close, but we can’t find it for the trees and the confusion. I need you, Lion, and you need me, so we can lead each other to Valhalla.”
“You need me to lead you to the psychiatrist.”
The Bear sat back, suddenly indignant, hands on his knees, a frown on his face.
The fire popped.
The Bear stood up, checked his wat
ch in the glow cast by the oil drum, then looked at Rossett.
“It’s time. We’ve already started.”
“I’ve not started anything.”
“You have, you just don’t know it yet.” The Bear took Rossett’s Webley out of his coat pocket. “Your old friend was pining for you like a dog left in the rain. I picked it up and brought it along, so it could find its master.”
Rossett eyed the pistol, then pulled at the handcuffs and rocked up onto his knees.
The Bear held out a calming hand and placed the Webley on the floor next to the fire. He checked his watch again and tipped his head in farewell.
“Some friends are coming for you. Good luck with them. If you survive, keep an eye open for me, and don’t forget our challenge.”
“I’ll not play your game, Bear.”
“You already are.”
The Bear set off toward the far corner of the room, where a rickety wooden staircase waited in the darkness. Rossett watched him head down it and strained to pull his wrist halfway out of one of the cuffs. The heel of his thumb was jammed tight against the metal. He shifted, bending double as he pulled at the cuffs, head dipped as he tried to drag his hand through the opening.
Too tight.
He was going to break his thumb.
He sat down again and drew his feet in close, then rocked backward as he forced them through the loop of his arms so that his hands were finally to his front.
He picked up the Webley and checked the load.
Empty.
He turned full circle, then started to head toward the stairs himself. He stopped as he heard the sound of footsteps coming up fast in the darkness. He looked around the warehouse for shelter but saw nothing but shadows. They’d be useful, but they wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny. Rossett walked quickly to the hole in the wall.
There was a fifty-foot drop, and with his hands cuffed, there was no way he could even attempt to climb down.
He turned to look at the staircase.
A head bobbed, dipped, then came back into sight again.
Rossett stood stock-still, a little off to the side of the fire, using its light to show he wasn’t a threat.
A Thompson trained on him as another two heads came into view, quickly followed by a couple of nervous-looking MP40s.
Rossett was aware that every gun in the place was pointed at him.
This was becoming a habit.
He dropped the Webley.
The first man ran up the last few stairs and started shouting conflicting commands. He was rattling them off as his heart raced and his eyes darted around.
“Get down! Turn around! Don’t move!”
Rossett didn’t like people who had guns and were panicking, so he stared at the man and complied with the final order and didn’t move.
Rossett had been a copper long enough to know that when times were stressful, it was often the simplest message that got through.
“Don’t shoot me,” he said in a clear voice, not too loud, not too soft, just enough to get the message across. “I’m not a threat.”
“Show me your hands! Show me your fucking hands!”
“I’m cuffed.” Rossett lifted his hands up.
“Turn around!”
Two of them were shouting now, adding to the confusion. Rossett looked at the first man, waiting for confirmation of what he was supposed to do.
They were edging toward him, baby steps behind the guns. They hadn’t cleared the rest of the room, as all their attention was focused on Rossett. It occurred to him that a single shooter in the corner would have been able to take them down without a problem.
He wondered if that was the Bear’s plan, and he cast a glance at the shadows.
“Get on your knees!” The third man was shouting and gesturing with his MP40. A fleck of spittle was on his lips and his eyes were bulging.
Rossett settled on a half turn, then dropped to his knees.
The Thompson guy kicked him between the shoulders and drove him down face-first into the dirt and small chunks of rubble on the ground. Rossett was winded but uninjured. He tried speaking again.
“I’m English.”
Nobody replied.
“I’m not a threat.”
They remembered to search him. Rossett felt the barrel of a Thompson drive into the back of his head, and someone dug into his pockets, twisting and turning him at the same time.
“I’m not a threat,” Rossett said again.
“Oh, come on, Inspector, w-we both know that isn’t the c-case.”
The barrel lifted off the back of his head, then Rossett was rolled onto his back.
He stared up.
The cripple from the alley stared down.
He tried to remember her name.
“Hello again . . .” was the best he could come up with.
She was in the middle of the men, all brittle bones and paper-pale skin, wrapped up by their brawn.
She smiled.
Somewhere on the docks someone was loading a steel-hulled ship. The bangs and scrapes rang out across the night, like a whale calling for a lost love across the oceans.
Rossett had a feeling he was the only one who had noticed the noise. He turned his head, looked out across the river again, and then back at the woman.
“Iris.” Her name came back to him.
She smiled and looked impressed that he had remembered.
“I was a prisoner.” He spoke slowly, clearly, careful to get his point across precisely. He looked from one face to the next in the hope of picking up an ally. “The man who was holding me, Captain Karl Bauer, left moments before you came in. He must have heard you coming.”
“The B-Bear?”
“Yes,” Rossett replied.
Two of the men looked over their shoulders at the stairwell behind them, then at each other.
“He was here?”
“He left a few minutes ago. He could be taking aim at you right now. We aren’t safe here.” Rossett tried not to sound like he was giving orders.
One of the men pointed his gun back at Rossett, who ignored him and stayed focused on Iris.
“I can help you.” His voice was still flat.
“You don’t look like you c-can help yourself.” Iris was the only one of the resistance who seemed calm.
“I have links to the resistance in London, and in Canada. You need to check them out. There is no reason to kill me.” Rossett showed her the cuffs.
The electricity that had been in the room moments before seemed to have been grounded by Iris’s demeanor. Her men settled down and watched her like well-trained dogs, waiting for her command.
She was good. Rossett was impressed.
“I h-heard D-Dannecker wanted you dead.”
“He does.” Rossett nodded.
“So that makes you my enemy’s e-enemy?”
“I suppose so.”
“So what should I d-do with you?”
“I’d take off these handcuffs and give me a gun.”
“I’m s-sorry, Inspector, but that just isn’t going to happen, I’m a-afraid.”
The ride in the back of the van had been a long one, and they’d killed the engine two minutes ago.
But they hadn’t killed Rossett.
Which he took to be the upside of what was turning out to be a rough day.
He could hear the rain pattering on the thin metal roof. It sounded like tiny taunting fingertips, reminding him that the world went on without him outside.
There was no light, no flicker of match or candle.
Just darkness.
He’d not bothered talking to the men seated to either side of him on the bench seat. In turn, they hadn’t roughed him up, but then they’d not been gentle either. Rossett had seen them give their guns to Iris before they climbed in the back with him.
That meant they feared him. Because even though he was cuffed, they were still worried he could overpower them.
They needn’t have worried.
&nbs
p; His will to fight was wearing thin.
And seeing as all he had left to fight for was to stay alive, he wasn’t sure it was a fight worth having.
He thought about his wife and his son, gone, lost forever. He didn’t even know where they were buried. He couldn’t visit a grave to weep, and it struck him that nobody would ever visit his.
One of the guards shifted his feet on the wooden floor. They sounded gritty, the studs of his heavy boots clotted with dirt.
Rossett felt the van rock again and heard the two cab doors up front slamming shut.
They were coming.
He hung his head.
The doors opened to his left. Rossett turned to look and saw the driver and Iris. Behind them was a long, dark, deserted street, with wet cobbles shining under the few streetlamps.
The rain was still falling hard.
The driver was wearing a flat cap and had lifted the collar of his coat. Over his shoulder was a canvas bag, through which Rossett could make out the shape of guns.
Iris was bareheaded, rain running down her face, and her short hair clinging to her forehead like wet grass on a china cup.
She nodded to Rossett.
He didn’t nod back.
“Get out.” The driver’s deferential tone made it sound less like a command and more like an invitation.
The guard to Rossett’s left slid off the bench and stepped down into the street. He gently placed his hand under Rossett’s arm and helped him down.
Rossett climbed out and looked around, ignoring the rain.
The street was empty. It was lined with warehouses. A few wooden crates and pallets were lying around, but there was no movement except for a straggly bare bush growing high up out of one wall, waving in the wind like it was seeing off a train.
Rossett could still smell the river, and somewhere in the night a ship’s horn blew into the wind.
He looked down at Iris.
She was tiny, frail, a waif washed clean by the rain. Her clothes hung loosely, like they were suspended on nothing but bones.
She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, pushing away the water that was running into her eyes.
She returned his stare, but she seemed to be looking into him instead of at him. It took a half minute before she spoke to the driver.
“T-take off his cuffs.”
An Army of One: A John Rossett Novel Page 18