Chapter 17
Michael O’Kane had been given very specific instructions before he left for Liverpool:
“Bring back the gold, or don’t come back yourself.”
Many people would have been put off by the direct threat, but not Michael O’Kane.
He liked simplicity; it left little room for confusion.
This was why they had chosen him. He was good at what he did. He worked for them, and he would die for them, but most of all, they chose him because he never failed.
He needed the gold, he didn’t have the gold, so he would get the gold.
Simplicity.
He sipped his tea and gently placed the cup back on the saucer.
Who had the gold? The Bear. He needed the Bear.
Maybe the Bear wasn’t as crazy as these people were making out? Maybe he could talk some sense into him?
If he couldn’t, it would have to be torture and then murder. Now, while that was a solution, it was a messy one, and messy was seldom simple.
O’Kane lifted a finger to attract the waitress’s attention.
It didn’t him take long to get it; he was the only customer in the hotel dining room taking afternoon tea.
“Could you get me a telephone, please?”
“Of course, sir.”
O’Kane picked up something that looked like cake off the tea trolley she had left next to his table. He sniffed it, tapped it twice on the side of his plate, and put it down when it sounded like it was going to break the china.
At least the tea was warm.
He took another sip and looked around the room. It reminded him of the liner upon which he had crossed the Atlantic. It was all high mirrored ceilings, gilded chandeliers, and wood paneling so polished it made the mirrors jealous.
They were trying, he had to give them that. The problem was that their efforts looked like makeup on a corpse. It worked from a distance, but if you got up close, you could see the cracks in the skin and the details being lost to decay.
There was a three-inch hole in the carpet by the door. In the corner, high up on the wall, a stain of damp was spreading like a frown. The chandelier had more bulbs missing than were there, and the string quartet in the corner was now down to three, because the cello player was taking a nap in his chair.
O’Kane watched them warming up for their second set of the lunchtime concert. The viola player had one loose string snapped and hanging from the instrument’s head. It wafted as he tuned up, like a horse’s tail swatting flies away from its ass.
There were no flies here, even though the band were shit.
“Hey, boys,” O’Kane called across to them. “Why don’t you take the afternoon off? There’s only me here.”
“If we don’t play, we don’t get paid.” The lead violinist shrugged like he meant it.
The sound of voices caused the cello player to wake up and look around confused. He seemed surprised to be there, and then a little disappointed that he was.
O’Kane knew how he felt.
“How about I pay you not to play?”
“Are we that bad?”
“Let’s just say I like my peace and quiet.”
“It’ll cost you a tenner.”
O’Kane took out his wallet.
“I’ll give you twenty.”
The quartet looked at each other and then nearly fell over themselves to get to the table first.
“Thanks.” The lead violinist took the four five-pound notes.
“It’ll be my pleasure.” O’Kane waved them away and watched as they packed up their instruments and left the dining room quickly, just in case he changed his mind.
The phone trolley squeaked across the empty hardwood floor as the waitress pushed it slowly toward him. He waited as she uncoiled its cable and plugged it into a socket by the wall.
“Anything else, sir?”
“Just some privacy.”
“You’ll get it here, sir. It’s about all we’ve got left.”
“What about more tea?”
“That’s the other thing we have.”
“Well, I’ll take some of that as well then.”
She almost curtsied, then primly left the dining room on a pair of legs so good he made a mental note to leave her a decent tip.
He waited till the gilded doors swung shut behind her, then dialed Dannecker’s direct number. It rang once before the admin corporal picked it up.
“Major Dannecker’s office.”
“O’Kane here, put me through to the major.”
“I’m afraid he isn’t here, sir.”
“Where is he?”
“He said if you called I was to tell you to wait for him to contact you, and to see if you required men for protection purposes.”
“I don’t need protection. Where is he?”
“With Captain Bauer being on the loose, he thought that—”
“Where is Dannecker?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, sir.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m only instructed to provide you with protection.”
“Is it the Bear?”
There was a pause.
“You met me yesterday?”
“I did, sir.”
“Do I look like the kind of man you want to withhold information from?”
“Sir, this is very difficult for me.”
“Son, your boss is so scared of me he can’t sleep at night, so imagine what I would do to you.”
Another pause, then the corporal broke.
“The major has received a tip-off as to Captain Bauer’s location, sir.”
“Tell me where he is, and tell me quick.”
Scotland Road was the main road to the north out of the city center. It was no grand boulevard in the European tradition, though. It was a jam-packed tide of humanity squeezed so tight it seemed to squeak every time somebody took a breath.
O’Kane wondered why so many people seemed to be loitering on the street, until he took a look at the housing.
Dirty brown buildings with tiny windows and ramshackle walls that looked in danger of collapse overlooked oil-slicked cobbles the color of eel skin. In the center of the road empty tram lines stretched off into infinity, while down the sides ran row after row of tall tenements, shops, and pubs, all full of dust and despair.
Kids darted through legs, bone-bag urchins scratching a life in the grime. Black-swaddled women wandered with empty string shopping bags, and men stood on street corners, glassy eyed, hands deep in pockets, fags in slack mouths, wrinkles full of shadows and shame at their worthlessness.
O’Kane watched the world pass outside the taxi window.
“You sure you got the right address, mate?” the taxi driver called over his shoulder.
“Just go there.”
“It’s rough round ’ere, y’know. Do you want me to wait?”
“No.”
“You might want me to look after yer coat and that. Good stuff stands out a mile here, and there’s plenty who’ll want it.”
“How much farther?”
“These aren’t bad people, but they’ve got nothin’.”
O’Kane leaned forward to shut the flap between him and the driver, but stopped when he saw a line of SS troops blocking the road maybe one hundred yards ahead.
“Stop here.”
“’Ere?”
“Here.”
“But we’re—”
“Here.”
The cab pulled to the curb. O’Kane paid, climbed out, slammed the door, and looked around.
He’d been dropped outside what passed for a fruit and veg shop. A small glass sign was in the window: tommy your grocer.
Tommy the grocer was leaning against a wooden rack that in better times might have contained brightly colored fruit, but today contained three cabbages and two trays of soft green potatoes.
He looked at O’Kane, then took his cigarette out of his mouth.
“Cabbage?”
“Back entranc
e?”
Tommy looked at the troops up the road, then back at O’Kane.
“It might be locked.”
“How much to open it?”
“Ten bob?”
“Go find the key.”
The alley was medieval in its stench.
Down the center of the smooth flagstones was a stagnant brown river of filth, lying like foul gloss paint in the gully.
O’Kane picked his way through the rubbish until he was well clear of the backyard from which he had emerged. He looked up at the tenements that crowded him and layered him in shadow.
O’Kane took out his Browning and worked the slide. He was in bandit country, and he could feel it.
He walked slowly, working parallel to Scotland Road, using the alley to keep off the streets until he could outflank the roadblock.
He wanted to find a spot where he could observe the operation to find the Bear and not be part of it.
He wasn’t a rusher. Rushing got you killed, just the same as trusting got you killed.
O’Kane wanted to watch from the sidelines. He knew that if Dannecker had found something, he had found it, and there was nothing O’Kane could do about it.
But he also knew that if Dannecker was following a lead—or, even worse, a hunch—O’Kane would be able to learn more from the people who lived in the area if he wasn’t seen hanging around with Germans.
He stepped over a puddle and then was blown backward into it as a building sixty feet in front of him exploded.
Rossett could write a book on patience. He was a man who knew all about biding his time, and he knew his time had come the second the message arrived in Iris’s living room.
Neumann was dead.
He’d been executed in public with a single shot to the head in a wet car park. Left lying facedown, bleeding out till he was cold on the concrete. Just like one of the rabid dogs that sometimes turned up on the streets and had to be dealt with and then thrown away.
Death and Rossett.
Like an old unhappily married couple, tied together and hating each other every time they walked into the same room.
Death and Rossett.
Same old same old.
“The Bear killed seven of our men at the warehouse, plus the two German prisoners, two civilians nearby, and then, finally, Neumann, a few miles away.” Cavanagh said it quietly, as if he couldn’t believe it was true.
“Why take N-Neumann so far from the warehouse just to kill him? Why not kill him with the others?” Iris looked at Rossett.
Rossett took a moment to steady his breathing before he replied.
“He changed his mind.”
“Who did?” Cavanagh this time.
“The Bear. He took Neumann as a prisoner, then changed his mind and killed him.”
“How do you know?”
“Neumann must have told him that I wouldn’t be interested in rescuing him. The Bear realized that Neumann was no good to him alive, so he wants to see if he is good to him dead.”
“How can he be?”
“The Bear wants me angry. He wants me to hunt him.”
“It’s just killing for k-killing’s sake.” Iris had sat down in the armchair and rested her chin in her hand. “It makes no sense.”
“He’s pushing me, squeezing the pressure on and making it personal.” Rossett was sitting at the table next to a half-full ashtray.
“Those men were my friends. It is personal,” Cavanagh said quietly.
“Make it personal and you make mistakes.”
“You don’t care that he killed Neumann?”
Rossett slid the ashtray away from him, then looked at Cavanagh. “I care. I feel responsible for Neumann’s death and I want justice, but I’ll not play the Bear’s game. He shot Neumann to make me come after him. He wants me angry with him. He wants to draw me out into a careless fight.”
“But you’re not going to fight him?”
“I’m going to catch him.”
“So you’re not angry with him?”
“I’m angry with him, but not for killing Neumann. That death is on me.”
“Why?”
“I should have made you release him. I should have stood up for him, but I didn’t.”
“And now he is dead.”
“And it is my fault.”
The clock ticked on the mantelpiece for a few moments, and then the bomb, a quarter mile away on Scotland Road, went off and shook the room. Everyone looked toward the window—everyone except Rossett, who was heading for the door.
The explosion knocked Dannecker off his feet behind his staff car. He lay there, staring at the sky for a moment, before finally managing to push himself up onto an elbow. He looked around for Becker as dust and debris slowly fell to earth all around him. He saw his men and the nearby civilians either running for cover or lying in the road.
He was confused, struggling to process what had just happened.
He lay down again. He realized his ears were ringing. He wiped a hand across his nose and looked at his fingers.
There was blood.
He pushed himself back up to his elbows.
It was a bomb.
Some of the men around him were also getting to their feet. He could see one soldier emerging from the front of the blown-up property minus an arm. He looked even more confused than Dannecker and was covered in red dust. A thick, matte daub of blood was running down the soldier’s face and onto his uniform.
He fell.
Dannecker wanted to help the kid. He tried to get up. First onto all fours and then, staggering, to his feet. He rested his hand against the roof of the car and felt grit dusting the paintwork.
He looked at his hand and saw it was gray, then noticed his uniform was the same color, coated in dirt thrown by the blast.
He swiped at it to clean it and looked at his car. The windscreen was smashed through, and several lumps of rubble were on the front seats and hood. He wiped his face. The explosion had nearly got him; he’d been lucky.
This time.
He remembered the boy with one arm, who hadn’t been as lucky, and walked toward him.
Dannecker’s ears were whistling. He dug a finger into his left ear and waggled it. It didn’t work. He was still deaf by the time he reached the soldier on the ground.
The soldier had gone into shock. His teeth were clamped, his eyes shut tighter still, and he was shaking. Dannecker tried to remember the kid’s name as he squatted, patted him lightly on the shoulder, and shouted that everything would be okay.
He looked around the scene as the kid grabbed his tunic tightly.
“Medic!” Dannecker didn’t know how loud he was shouting, so he tried again. “Medic!”
There was no medic, there was only chaos.
Civilians, soldiers, men, women, and children lying all around. Dannecker felt like he was waking from a dream, only to find himself in a nightmare as his senses slowly cleared.
There were a few tending to the dead and dying, but not many. The wounded soldier shook him, and Dannecker looked down.
He was mouthing something, but Dannecker was still deaf. He tried to pull free, couldn’t, so used his free hand to unpeel the kid’s fingers from his uniform.
Dannecker stood, looked around again, and realized he had fucked up badly.
He had rushed when he should have taken his time. The tip had come from someone he had considered reputable. Well, as reputable as an English informant could be, and the wording had been clear and concise.
“The Bear is holed up on the top floor of the derelict Parrot Pub, and he is there right this minute.”
Dannecker had moved fast because the operation had seemed simple enough.
The pub had long been closed for business. The informant had told him the rear was boarded up, and that there was only one way in.
Through the front door.
Dannecker had known that the Bear posed a risk, so he had brought fifty men with him and they had hit hard and fast.
He looked around him.
He reckoned twenty of his men were dead all around.
Shit.
He looked down.
The soldier had stopped moving.
Twenty-one.
Dannecker started walking toward the pub. He stumbled on some debris, then leaned in through what was left of the doorway. Smoke and rubble, but no fire, thank God. His ears were whistling now, and he could hear shouting, muffled, far away, as he rubbed his right ear and tried to clear it.
He looked up at what was left of the front of the building, decided it wasn’t going to fall down on him, and entered the pub. Half of the floor was pretty much totally gone, along with most of the ceiling above. Some of the front wall and all the windows had blown out onto the street, and here and there loose bricks hung at angles like ribs sticking out from a carcass.
It had been a trap laid for an idiot. The Bear had lured him, and Dannecker had come running like a fool and tripped the wire that had blown it all to hell. He guessed the Bear had wanted him in the building when the bomb went off. Maybe to get him out of the way. Maybe to prove he was a superior soldier, a better man, and not the fool he thought Dannecker had taken him for. Or maybe, and this was the option that worried Dannecker the most, the Bear wanted the gold for himself, and he knew the only two people who could stop the ship from sailing with it on board were Dannecker and Becker.
There was an arm in the corner of the pub. Lying there without a body, bent at the elbow like it was hitching a lift. Dannecker looked back at the kid in the street and decided to leave it where it was.
It wasn’t like the kid was going to need it.
The dust and smoke were clearing a little on the breeze, but Dannecker still had to cover his mouth with his hand as he moved through the debris. He saw movement on the far side of the bar, over by where the back wall was. He skirted the hole in the floor, and as he drew closer, watched as a blinking gray ghost came staggering out of the gloom.
Corporal Lange, wide eyed, covered head to foot in dirt and dust, except for the whites of his eyes and what looked like yellow teeth. He was confused and had one hand out in front of him like an Egyptian mummy from the movies. He was being followed by a few more men who had somehow survived the blast, and at the rear of the line was Becker.
An Army of One: A John Rossett Novel Page 24