Anja looked at him, holding his eyes with hers until he could bear it no more and looked away.
CHAPTER 12
KOEHLER PULLED ON his coat, then took forty pounds out of the small wall safe that was hidden behind a picture in his bedroom. He counted the money, then reached back into the safe and took out three passports—his, Lotte’s, and Anja’s.
Just in case.
He closed the safe, switched off the light, and went back into the living room.
Rossett was standing behind the settee, upon which sat the handcuffed Neumann and March. Rossett looked at Koehler and tapped his wrist.
Time was ticking.
Koehler went through to the small kitchen and opened a can of food for the cat; he knelt down as Schwarz bounced into the room, summoned by the sound of the opener.
He looked into the living room from the kitchen and saw Rossett watching him.
“I can’t let him starve,” Koehler said, shrugging.
Rossett returned to watching the two policemen.
“Be safe, little boy, they’ll be home soon,” Koehler said softly before leaving the kitchen to join Rossett and the two policemen.
He grabbed his overcoat off the arm of the chair, then started toward the door of the flat, but he stopped when Rossett spoke.
“What are we doing with these two?”
Neither policeman looked up.
“Leave them. They are handcuffed.”
“They’ll raise the alarm.”
“What else can we do?”
Rossett didn’t reply, and it took a moment for Koehler to realize what that silence implied.
Koehler shook his head. “We’re better than that.”
“You might be.”
“I can’t hurt them.”
“They’ll get in the way.”
March risked a half turn of his head to look at Koehler but didn’t speak.
“I can’t do that.”
“Anja and Lotte?” Rossett said quietly, leaving the question for Koehler to ponder.
“No,” Koehler eventually said. “Get up.” He dragged the still-groggy Neumann to his feet. Rossett followed his lead, pulling up March.
Koehler led the group into the small bathroom of the flat and sat Neumann down on the toilet seat; he rested a hand against the side of Neumann’s face and inspected the lump on his head. The wound was superficial. He looked at March.
“No noise, nothing at all. Sit quietly and wait till we have left the building; otherwise your men downstairs will pay a heavy price. Do you understand me?” Koehler still held on to Neumann but spoke to March, who nodded before sitting down on the edge of the bath.
Koehler leaned Neumann back against the wall, where his head lolled before coming to rest on the cold tiles. Koehler crouched in front of him for a second to make sure he didn’t fall off the toilet, then stood up and turned to March.
“Do you have a wife?”
March nodded his head.
“Children?”
March didn’t reply.
Koehler nodded. “My wife and child? I haven’t harmed them. You have to believe me; I’m trying to save them. I can’t let you get in the way. They are precious to me and I will kill you if you put them in danger or try to stop me. This is your only warning: I’ll kill you stone dead and walk away without a backward glance. If you’ve got a child, you’ll understand that.”
March stared back and Koehler nodded before walking past Rossett out of the bathroom.
Rossett remained in the room for a few seconds. He stared at the lowered head of March and then Neumann.
“Hey,” Rossett called to March, who looked up. “Make sure you feed that cat.”
ROSSETT OPENED THE apartment door and looked down the corridor.
“Is there a fire escape?”
“No.”
“Front door, then?” He looked at Koehler.
“The car is at the front. It’ll be the quickest and easiest.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“Thanks for coming for me,” Koehler said as the door clicked shut behind him.
Rossett didn’t reply. He was already halfway down the corridor, coat billowing, feet soft on the carpet.
They hit the stairs at a run, quickly and quietly, two, sometimes three at a time, traveling fast without words.
At the bottom they burst into the entrance hall of the building and took the hard right that led to the revolving door.
Neither slowed when they saw the two uniformed German policemen leaning against the concierge’s desk drinking tea. The policemen turned at the sound of Rossett and Koehler approaching. One of them put his mug on the counter and pushed himself upright, unsure whether to stop the two men jogging toward him or not.
His colleague half lowered his cup but relaxed slightly when Koehler smiled and said, “Warmer in here than out on the streets?”
“Yes, sir. May I ask, is the generalmajor finished upstairs?”
Koehler and Rossett kept moving briskly toward the doors, full of purpose.
“Very nearly. He is questioning a few other people. He’ll not be long.”
The policemen saluted as Koehler and Rossett exited through the revolving door.
The cold hit them hard on the steps as the sentry snapped to attention, eyes ahead, a dusting of snow still on his shoulders. Koehler and Rossett ignored him and made their way to the car.
It was then they heard the smashing of glass.
Shards landed around them, falling stars catching the light and landing in the snow.
They both looked up toward Koehler’s flat.
March was half leaning out over the balcony, straining to look down past the window ledge toward where the sentry was standing.
“Stop those men!”
The sentry took a half step forward, still looking up, trying to see where the shout was coming from.
Rossett backhanded him hard on the jaw. The sentry went sideways and down in a heap at the bottom of the steps, a pile of military gray, his helmet dislodged. Rossett grabbed the sentry’s rifle before it hit the ground and, turning in one fluid motion, worked the bolt, driving home a round, then bringing the gun to bear on the revolving door.
The two policemen stared openmouthed on the other side of the glass.
Nobody moved.
Rossett heard Koehler’s shoes crunch in the snow as he took a backward step to the car. He stared at the two policemen on the other side of the door, aiming his rifle through the glass, shifting the sights from one to the other.
“Somebody stop them!” the shout from above came again.
Rossett heard the car door slamming shut. He watched the eyes of one of the policemen, the younger one, flicking from the car to Rossett and then back again.
These men weren’t going to wait.
Damn them.
Rossett tightened his grip on the rifle, pulling it into his shoulder, ready for the kick when it came.
The young policeman took a quick step to the left, ducking slightly as he went, half turning, right hand rising to the leather holster high on his belt.
Too high for a quick draw.
Rossett fired through the door, the bullet slamming through two sheets of thick glass. Spinning, off target, the bullet was still close enough to catch the policeman high on the shoulder, half turning him as he ducked.
Rossett didn’t bother taking time to work the bolt for another round; he threw the rifle into the door to jam it and shook his Webley free from his pocket. The young policeman had hit the floor, showered in glass, scrabbling to get clear and out of sight of Rossett and his Webley.
The second, older policeman stared at the pistol, mouth open, hands half raised, as Rossett took aim at his chest. The policeman didn’t move as the car started behind Rossett;
he just stared at the gun.
Koehler shouted for Rossett to get into the car, so he took a pace backward, Webley still high. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw that Koehler was holding his Mauser, pointing it at the revolving door. Rossett walked quickly around the car, checking up and down the street.
A few curtains were flicking on either side of the road. A curious concierge appeared, nervously watching them from a building farther up the street, squinting through the falling snow, one hand shielding his eyes.
Rossett opened the passenger door as a bullet slammed into the front of the car twelve inches from where he stood. He felt the door handle twitch in his fingers as the car shook from the impact. His reflexes caused him to dip his head as another round fizzed past. Rossett felt the shock wave as the bullet missed him and ricocheted off the building behind. He ducked, looking for whoever had fired the shot, hoping to mark a target before the shooter could fire again.
He spun, checking windows, unwilling to get in the car until he was certain he wouldn’t be a sitting duck.
“Come on!” Koehler shouted, but still Rossett spun, searching for the shooter.
Another shot.
Rossett felt the car buck next to him and turned once more, looking for the shooter, wanting to shoot back.
He looked toward the door of the building they’d just left, but neither policeman was in view. The sentry outside was still on the ground, stomach in the snow.
Koehler gunned the engine.
“John!”
Rossett held his ground, looking left and right, up and down the street. He’d once been in the passenger seat of a car when the driver had been shot dead traveling at thirty miles an hour; it wasn’t an experience he wanted to go through again.
There, top of the street. A soldier, crouching down near some railings about seventy yards ahead. Rifle poking round the corner, not wanting to expose himself. Rossett guessed he was probably a sentry from another German officer’s apartment block who’d heard the shot and the smashing glass and come to investigate.
“We need to turn around. Shooter ahead,” Rossett said as he got into the car.
“Fuck’s sake.”
Koehler revved the engine, slammed the car into reverse, and started a J-turn away from the threat.
The two policemen opened up with their pistols through the revolving door, closer than the sentry but firing fast and loose.
“You might want to get a move on,” Rossett said quietly.
Koehler eased off on the accelerator as the rear wheels found some grip, then the car pulled away from the curb.
The younger policeman appeared at the top of the steps and Rossett aimed at him with the Webley, causing him to duck back out of sight.
Finally the car made its way across the road, turning away from the soldier on the corner, who fired again, this time hitting the back door on the driver’s side. The bullet passed through the thin metal before lodging in the dashboard, missing Koehler’s arm by half an inch. Neither he nor Rossett registered it; both men had been in combat enough times to know that the ones that missed didn’t matter.
They’d worry about it later, if later ever came.
The two policemen in the apartment block opened fire again. Window glass shattered around them and Rossett involuntarily ducked, then returned fire at the doorway with the Webley. Its mighty boom deafened him as the car finally started to pull away down the street.
As their speed picked up, Rossett watched out of what remained of the back window as the policemen, and the now distant sentry, ran into the middle of the street still firing. One round pinged off the inside of the roof, into the back of Rossett’s seat. He felt the heavy thud and for a moment thought he had been shot.
The car skidded in the snow around the corner and Koehler slowed slightly before looking across at Rossett and shaking his head.
“Jesus.” Koehler whistled and took a deep breath. His face broke out in a broad smile.
Rossett just stared blankly back at him.
Rossett had seen it a thousand times, the laughter of soldiers who’d just survived by the skin of their teeth. Men rejoicing because they’d lived to fight and die another day.
He’d once worried that he never experienced that postbattle euphoria. He fought, he finished fighting, and then he fought again.
No emotion, no terror, no rush of adrenaline, no glory.
Just do the job, kill or be killed, and if you are still alive, do it again.
Koehler finally spoke, his voice almost level again.
“We need another car; we can’t drive around in this thing full of holes.”
Rossett didn’t reply as he removed the spent cartridges from the Webley, replacing them with fresh rounds. He clicked the revolver shut and looked over his shoulder again before settling into his seat more comfortably.
“Pull over.”
Koehler did as he was told. The car slid the last few feet into the curb. Rossett got out and jogged across to the line of cars parked on the opposite side of the street. In the distance the sound of police-car bells rang out as they made their way to Koehler’s apartment block. Rossett guessed they had minutes to get moving again; he signaled for Koehler to stay in his car with the engine running as he made his way along the line of cars, pulling on door handles.
The fourth car, a tiny, battered, dark blue Austin Seven, was the only one he found to be unlocked. It sat like an ugly duckling at the end of the line, half buried in snow and barely the size of a shoebox.
Rossett waved Koehler across, then went to the bonnet and pulled up one of the side panels.
“This? We go in this?” Koehler said as he approached.
“Pull the choke and I’ll try to start it.”
Koehler shook his head and climbed in. Inside of three seconds the little engine turned over a few times and then caught. Rossett dropped the bonnet and quickly brushed the snow off the windscreen before jumping into the passenger seat.
The car was so narrow that their shoulders banged together as Koehler looked down at the gear lever and fumbled for first.
“As soon as we can, we ditch this thing,” he said as the gear ground home and the car dug its way out of the four inches of snow that had half buried its narrow tires.
They had barely got moving when the first police car sped past, not slowing to take a look at the comical little car and its occupants. Rossett looked over his shoulder and then wiped at the windscreen with the back of his hand before lowering his window an inch or two.
“What do we do now?” said Koehler.
Rossett lit a cigarette and took his time blowing the smoke out of his nose and mouth, then turned to look at Koehler.
“We go get your family back.”
CHAPTER 13
ALLEN DULLES TOOK another drink from the glass on his desk. His mind was wound like a spring. He’d already drunk a quarter bottle of brandy, but his shoulders and back still ached as if he’d been beaten with a bat.
He stood up and walked to the window.
All was quiet; the snow cast a pink glow on the street outside as he watched two guards share a cigarette at the checkpoint barrier. The barrier was a new addition, set up to protect the embassy from threats unknown.
Dulles didn’t like it. He argued it sent out the wrong signal; it was as if they were under siege, hiding from the Germans, scared.
Dulles stared at the barrier and realized he was scared.
The telephone rang on his desk. He crossed the room and picked it up before it had the chance to ring twice.
“It’s done, she’s gone,” King said, his voice faint, echoing in the call box.
“What about the girl?”
“She’s fine. Cook is with her.”
“That boy is an idiot. I want both of you to be with her. We can’t lose her as well. Do you
understand?”
“What happened to Koehler’s wife wasn’t Eric’s fault.”
“I don’t care. I want both of you with her, do you hear me?”
“Yes.”
Dulles sank down into his chair and leaned forward, resting his forehead in his hand.
“I’m sorry, Frank.” He lifted his eyes and stared through his fingers at the brandy glass.
“I understand, sir.”
“This has to work, you understand?”
“Yes.”
“We can’t afford any more mistakes. The future of our country depends on it.”
“We’re very exposed here, sir. Maybe if I could take her to one of our safe houses?”
“We’re off the books, Frank; you know that.”
“Maybe if I had some backup out here, sir?”
“You knew there was no backup when you signed up, Frank.”
“I didn’t sign up to kidnap children, sir.”
Dulles lifted his head out of the palm of his hand.
“You listen to me, Frank, and listen well. You signed up to defend the United States by whatever means necessary. What you are doing now is those means, you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
KING PUT DOWN the phone and checked the street outside the booth before exiting. The door creaked loudly behind him as he crossed the pavement back to the house.
He stopped.
Did he hear something?
He waited.
He watched the darkness, not sure what he was waiting for. He waited so long he felt the chill start to eat into his bones; he shook his head, and then headed back up the stairs to the bedroom at the back.
Anja was back under the sheet on the mattress, and Cook was sitting, arms folded, hands tucked into his armpits, dozing in the tattered red armchair next to the door with a Thompson machine gun in his lap.
The ceiling light was off. King had been worried it might leak through the loosely nailed boards across the window, so a fat stub of a candle was flickering at his feet. Cook opened his eyes and looked at King as the floor creaked under him.
“Did you speak to him?”
“Yes.”
“What’s happening? Can we go to the embassy?”
The British Lion Page 11