The British Lion

by Tony Schumacher

  “I love you, Anja.”

  “I love you, too, Mummy.”

  The breath rattled out.

  Lotte Koehler was dead.

  CHAPTER 7

  BY THE TIME Ernst Koehler got home the cat had shit on the rug.

  “Jesus Christ” was all Koehler could manage as he skirted the mess and opened the floor-­to-­ceiling French windows on the far side of the room. Clean, cold evening air wafted across his face as he looked out across the deserted South Kensington street, three floors below him, and then back to his feet, where Schwarz innocently stared back up.

  “What are they feeding you?”

  “Miaow,” the cat replied, ignoring the question.

  Koehler turned away from the window and dropped his SS greatcoat onto a chair. He cleaned the floor, washed his hands in the bathroom, then wandered back into the living room. He stopped, looked toward the kitchen, then to the half-­empty coat stand by the door.

  Anja and Lotte weren’t home.

  Koehler looked at his watch: 9:15 P.M. He turned to look into the small kitchen of the apartment again and saw that there was no food prepared.

  “Miaow,” Schwarz tried again.

  Koehler looked down at the cat.

  “Where are they?”

  “Miaow.”

  Koehler frowned and headed to the kitchen, followed by Schwartz, who high-­stepped behind with a patter of tiny padded paws, his tail almost overtaking his head.

  Koehler saw both the cat’s bowls were empty, water and food.

  “They’ve been out all day?”

  “Miaow.”

  Koehler fed the cat and picked up the water bowl. He was holding it under the tap when the phone rang in the apartment behind him. He put the bowl on the floor and went to the phone, picking it up with his wet hand.

  “Hello?”

  “Outside.”

  “What?”

  “Outside.”

  The person on the other end of the line hung up.

  Koehler’s hand holding the phone felt cold in the breeze coming from the open window. He put the phone down slowly, walked to the edge of the window, and gently eased back the net with his index finger. The snow was still falling; the street was Christmas card white, picture perfect. High, gray stone Georgian terraces stared back, sharp edges softened and frosted like cake.

  Koehler looked down, through the narrow, waist-­high wrought-­iron balcony, to the street directly below. A few cars were parked for the night, his included. He could see two German soldiers, trudging through the snow on a routine patrol, walking away from his apartment block.

  Across the street, like a figure out of a painting, stood a man. Hat pulled down low, collar up high, a cigarette in one hand, the other in his coat pocket.

  The man stared back at him.

  Koehler squinted and then stepped fully into the window, defiant, embarrassed at hiding to the side a moment before.

  The man took a drag on his cigarette, flicked away the butt, and stared back.

  Equally defiant.

  KOEHLER HIT THE stairs at a run, hard and fast, three at a time, hammering down as quickly as his still-­stiff calf would allow. On the ground floor the stairs opened out to a forty-­foot marble entrance hall.

  Koehler skidded, slipped, and then ran along the hall, one boot clapping on the marble while the other hit the long red carpet down its center. At the end of the hall was a dark-­wood-­and-­glass revolving door, to its left an equally dark concierge desk.

  The door was turning, slowing to a stop.

  Someone had just passed through it.

  “Major Koehler, sir?”

  Koehler heard the call as he hit the first compartment of the revolving door, pushing hard, fighting its inbuilt resistance with gritted teeth and a barging shoulder.

  The sentry on the steps flinched as Koehler erupted through, leaping down the four stone steps to the street, then sliding slightly to an ungraceful stop in the snow.

  He was just in time to see the back end of a long, low black saloon car drift away around the far corner. Koehler grabbed his pockets, searching for his car keys, then remembered he’d left them in his coat in the apartment.

  He felt impotent on the pavement in the falling snow. He looked at the sentry, who was now standing at attention, doing his best to ignore the panting SS major in front of him.

  “That car?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Who was in it?”

  The sentry turned his head to look toward where the car had gone.

  “A man, sir, he looked like a civilian, in a suit.”

  “How long where they here?”

  The soldier shrugged. “He arrived not long after you, sir, had a smoke, and went into the—­”

  The door behind the sentry started to turn again, slower this time. Koehler looked and saw through the glass that the concierge, an old Englishman whose name he could never remember, was leaning against the bar coming toward him.

  Koehler stepped up to the door and gave it a shove with his good hand, speeding up the old man, who barely managed to get out of the compartment without getting his heels clipped.

  The concierge held out an envelope. “I was calling you, Major. A gentleman left this, sir,” he said in English to Koehler, who stepped forward and snatched the envelope out of his hand.

  It felt empty and had no name on it. Koehler ripped it open and noticed that its gum felt damp.

  He looked back to the corner where the car had disappeared, then opened the flimsy piece of airmail paper inside, which read “MAYFAIR 6266.”

  He looked at the other side, then back at the front.

  “Did the man say anything to you when he gave you this?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Was he English?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “How do you not know? He must have spoken to you; there is no name on the envelope.”

  The old man wrinkled his nose and looked worried at the question, trying to think of the right answer to give.

  “He just walked in, sir. He said ‘Major Koehler,’ gave me the envelope, then walked out. I couldn’t say where he was from, sir.”

  Koehler looked back to the corner of the road, then ran a hand across his mouth before looking at the note again.

  “Should I call for the officer of the watch, sir?” the sentry asked nervously.

  “No,” Koehler replied, crossing the street and looking up at his apartment.

  The snow was falling hard again and he blinked as flakes dodged and danced in front of his eyes. Some landed on his face. He wiped his cheek, then looked down at the pavement, where he saw the half-­hidden cigarette butt the man had dropped.

  He bent to pick it up; it was smoked low to the end. Across the street the sentry and concierge watched him. Koehler stared back. The concierge looked away and ran a nervous hand across his waistcoat.

  Koehler looked down at the snow again; he squinted, then flicked a finger across where he had found the cigarette butt.

  There was a bullet.

  He picked it up; it looked like a 9mm round.

  Shiny, new, unfired.

  Koehler stood up, squeezing the round tight in his hand. He looked up to his window, imagining how he would have looked staring down moments ago.

  He shook his head, angry all over again that he had stood to the side. He walked back across the street, then stopped on the steps.

  “Have you seen my wife today?”

  “Yes, sir. She wanted a cab for one o’clock this afternoon, sir,” replied the concierge, still rubbing his stomach.

  “Where was she going?”

  “She didn’t say, I—­”

  “She hasn’t been back?”

  “Not that I’m aware, sir.” />
  Koehler checked his watch again.

  He looked back across the road, as if expecting the ghost of the man he’d seen earlier to still be watching him.

  “Thank you.” Koehler pushed against the revolving door.

  “I can call the officer of the watch, sir; he won’t mind.”

  Koehler didn’t reply; he was already back in the building.

  THE APARTMENT SMELLED of cat shit. Koehler closed the door and crossed to the window, followed by a still-­complaining Schwarz.

  Koehler pushed the window open wider, checking the street outside again.

  The breeze blew the net back into his face and he swiped it away like a cobweb.

  Everything was back to normal. No silent watchers, no smoking men.

  Just bored sentries and snow.

  Koehler took the note out of his pocket and went to the telephone next to the settee. He sat down, but before he could reach for the phone Schwarz plopped into his lap, head butting his hand while pawing his stomach. Koehler reached for the phone with one hand while stroking the cat with the other.

  The phone rang four times before it was picked up.

  “Hello?” a voice answered in English.

  “Who is this?” asked Koehler, also in English.

  “Major Koehler?”

  “Who is this?”

  Schwarz nuzzled his chin, so he pushed the cat down, twisting his head as he did so, struggling to hold the receiver against his ear.

  “We have your wife and daughter.” The voice switched to German.

  “What?”

  “We have your wife and daughter. They are safe as long as you do exactly what we say. Do you understand?”

  Koehler sat forward, squeezing Schwarz down tightly into his lap.

  “Who is this?”

  “You are to leave your apartment and drive to the corner of Bayswater Road and Queensway. There is a public telephone there. Enter the call box. There will be an envelope for you. Bring nobody; tell nobody. If you break these rules your family dies.”

  The phone went dead.

  Koehler looked at the receiver. He leaned back an inch and then realized Schwarz was digging his claws into his leg. Koehler put a finger over the cradle of the phone, killing the call before dialing the number again.

  The phone rang, unanswered, eight times before he put the phone down.

  He stood, pushing Schwarz onto the floor. Koehler paused, looking around the apartment for ideas as Schwarz rubbed his head against his boots.

  Koehler looked at the phone.

  “Should I phone the police?” he said out loud.

  “Miaow.”

  Koehler pushed a hand against his forehead and crossed to the window again. There was nobody there, just as he knew there wouldn’t be. He looked back to the phone and then down at Schwarz, who had followed him to the window.

  Koehler knew he had no choice. He closed the window, grabbed his cap and coat, then left the apartment to go and get his wife and child.

  KOEHLER GUIDED HIS car into the curb and killed the engine. The sudden silence seemed to drop the temperature inside of the car.

  Queensway was thirty seconds’ walk from the north side of Hyde Park, in an area not dissimilar to the one he lived in himself. The drive had taken him less than seven minutes, and he was now sitting outside Queensway tube station, staring at the phone box on the corner of the street.

  He wanted to get out and run to the box.

  He wanted to search the area, look for clues, bang on doors, ask about strangers and strange cars. But he was too much of a soldier; he’d set and seen too many ambushes to run anywhere, regardless of how desperate he was.

  He scanned the park.

  Iron railings, dark hedges topped with a layer of snow.

  Full of shadows, which were potentially full of snipers.

  He took his Mauser out of his pocket and worked the slide.

  The street was quiet, the snow keeping ­people at home. The tube station was still open, but aside from a light in the ticket office, there was no sign of life. A red London bus hove into view in the distance, coming toward him slowly. Koehler could make out the top deck’s milky white lights over the headlamps as it drew closer.

  As the bus crept past at ten miles an hour on the empty street, Koehler rolled out of the car door, using it to protect him from any potential threat in the park. By the time the bus had gone by, Koehler was standing in the shadows of the entrance of the tube station, being watched warily by the ticket seller in the window.

  The ticket seller’s eyes took in Koehler’s uniform and then dropped to the Mauser. He slowly slid off his stool, disappearing behind the CLOSED blind he lowered as he went.

  Koehler stood behind the pillar at the left side of the entrance, eyes back on the park. He frowned, wondering if it was too late to call in the police to help him.

  Some snow blew in from the street, tumbling over his feet.

  He’d spent the drive over silently debating the pros and cons of what to do next. In the end he’d taken the easiest option and done as he was told.

  He’d play along, learn what he could, wait and see, and then make a decision.

  He dodged out of the station entrance and ducked around the corner toward the call box.

  There were no snipers.

  Why would they shoot me? he asked himself, embarrassed at his extra precautions but keeping hold of the pistol all the same.

  The telephone box, like the bus, was bright red, and like the bus it was lit inside by the same milky white light.

  Koehler pulled back the heavy door and stepped inside. He looked down at the concrete floor and saw that someone had been there recently. Wet footprints: he wondered how long they would last on a damp cold night like tonight. He looked through the windows at the intersection outside.

  Both roads were major thoroughfares, but tonight they were deserted, the shops all closed. In the distance Koehler could see a green neon sign blinking on and off, as if the city had a pulse. He checked the upper windows of the nearby buildings, but even the ones that were lit revealed no movement in the flats behind them.

  He turned to look at the phone, which sat on a shelf in front of him.

  There was no message, no envelope, nothing.

  He ran his hand under the shelf, bending to look as he did so.

  Nothing.

  He picked up the telephone directory that sat next to the phone and flipped through the pages.

  Nothing but numbers.

  He lifted the receiver, holding it to his ear. It purred, and he thought of Schwarz.

  He put the phone down and took a tiny step back, as far as he could go in the tiny call box.

  He looked up.

  A brown envelope was jammed into the frame of the door just above his head. He pulled it down and ripped it open.

  Another sheet of airmail paper: “WHITECHAPEL 6168.”

  Koehler put the note in his mouth as he searched through his pockets for change; he came up empty.

  He pushed the call box door open and charged out into the snow, running toward the tube station through the steady fall that had started again. He skidded around the corner, then skidded again on the wet floor tiles, before tapping the muzzle of the Mauser on the glass of the ticket office.

  He waited five seconds and then tapped again, harder and faster this time. Beneath his feet he felt the vibration of a passing tube train and he turned to look toward the steps that led down to the platforms.

  Adolf Hitler stared back, holding a laughing child in a sunlit pasture; behind him a tractor tilled the land and some farm laborers waved toward whoever was looking at the poster they were in.

  “WORKING FOR THE FUTURE TOGETHER, WORKING FOR A UNITED EUROPE!”

  Koehler looked at the laughing child, t
hen hammered on the window with the Mauser again.

  The blind shot up and the ticket collector stared back, first at Koehler and then at the Mauser.

  “Give me money for the telephone.”

  The man nodded dumbly and then grabbed some change and notes out of his cash drawer. He tossed the money through the slot at the bottom of the window, then raised his hands.

  Koehler slid the change off the counter into his palm, then looked at the ticket collector’s raised hands.

  “This isn’t a robbery, you idiot.”

  The man lowered his hands as Koehler ran out of the tube station, back toward the phone box.

  He dialed the number, waited for it to answer, then dropped the money into the slot and pushed the call lever.

  “Hello?”

  “You took your time.”

  “I had to be careful.”

  “No, Major, not had: have. You have to be careful. You have to be careful that you don’t mess me around. You have to do as I say, exactly as I say, and when I say it. Do you understand?”

  “I do.”

  “Good.”

  “Lotte and Anja?”

  “They are well.”

  “I want to speak to them.”

  “In good time.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You to do something.”

  “What?”

  “We want a Jew.”

  “You can have them, any of them. If I can get them you can have them.”

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Major.”

  “I want you to know, I don’t have a problem with the Jews. I just do my job. I don’t hate them, I just do my job; do you understand?” Koehler realized he was babbling. He took a breath and looked around the street outside through the windows of the box.

  “We don’t care about the Jews, Major. We care about a Jew. I want you to get me that Jew and bring her to London, and then you can have your wife and daughter back.”

  “Who is it? I’ll get her. Just tell me who it is.”

  “Ruth Hartz.”

  Koehler searched frantically for a pencil in his coat, jammed the receiver under his chin, opened the phone book, and wrote the name in a space on the first damp page.

  “The address?”

  “Cambridge.”