The British Lion

by Tony Schumacher

  “What else did Sterling say?”

  “He says he wants us to give him the Yank upstairs.”

  She frowned and returned to staring at the hearth. She was worried.

  She could walk away, hand over the Yank, wash her hands, and leave Sterling and the Germans to their games.

  She could, but she wouldn’t, because if she did, she would look weak. She wasn’t worried about the boys in the room seeing that weakness; she was worried about the boys outside the room, around London, in pubs, warehouses, taxis, and cafés seeing that weakness.

  It didn’t do to look weak, not in her line of work.

  “He’s our Yank.” Ma Price scratched her head. “If Sterling wants him, he can either pay for him or try to take him. Sterling has the girl, she fell into his lap. But he only knows half the story.” Ma Price pointed at the ceiling. “We’ve got the important bit upstairs. The girl doesn’t know what is going on; all she knows is she was snatched. She is the riddle, but upstairs we’ve got the answer. Him upstairs knows what her old dad had to do to get her back, upstairs knows what was so important, and upstairs knows what was going to happen next. Upstairs is the key to all this, we just need to figure it out. Once we get to the bottom, we’ll know how much that information is worth, and I’ll wager what upstairs knows is worth a hell of a lot.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Ma Price lowered her hand and pushed past the driver.

  “We go and ask him.”

  ERIC WAS STILL lying on the floor facing the wall when they entered; Mustache was sitting on the same chair he had taken hours earlier. He rose and gave the seat to Ma Price, then joined his colleague by the door.

  “Prof?” Ma Price nodded to the old man who crossed the room and knelt down next to Eric and rested his hand on his shoulder.

  “You need to roll over and speak to us now,” he whispered.

  Eric turned his head and looked up. His cheeks were wet with tears and he sniffed loudly before slowly rolling over and looking at Ma Price, who smiled at him.

  “He started crying ten minutes ago,” said Mustache.

  “I hope you ain’t hit him?” Ma Price replied and Mustache shook his head.

  “He just started crying.”

  “You all right, my lovely?” Ma Price said to Eric.

  Eric nodded and wiped his nose again, pushing himself up onto his elbow as he did so.

  “Why are you crying?”

  “I don’t want to die.”

  “Oh, dear.” Ma Price tilted her head and looked at the others in the room. She turned back to Eric and smiled sadly. “What you told us about the girl was true. We checked.”

  Eric nodded.

  ­“People we know have the girl now. Seems like she scared you and your chum off, didn’t she?”

  Eric’s elbow was hurting on the floorboards, so he moved again, pushing himself up so that his knees were tucked under his chin and wrapped by his arms. He looked at the two men leaning against the wall, who both stared back at him impassively.

  “Now then, you need to tell us what you wanted her old dad to do,” Ma Price continued.

  “He is going to get someone from Cambridge, a scientist, and give her to us.”

  “What kind of scientist?”

  Eric looked at Ma Price and swallowed hard.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where in Cambridge?”

  “I don’t know, I wasn’t told. I just know that Koehler, the girl’s father, is going to get someone and then get further instructions on where to take them. When we got word that he had, we were to take his daughter and go to that address ourselves.”

  “What’s the address?”

  Eric looked at Ma Price and then the men by the wall. He knew he had to hold something back. He knew once he gave away what they wanted, he ceased to have a reason to exist. He had heard the horror stories whispered around the embassy, tales of careless or unlucky German soldiers captured by the resistance, then left hanging by piano wire from lampposts.

  He’d heard about the guts ripped from stomachs, about the burning tires jammed around necks.

  He wasn’t a German, but he also wasn’t English. These ­people were animals, and he didn’t want savaging. These ­people knew about the American government’s growing fraternity with the Nazis. Eric was aware that this had caused anger with the British both at home and abroad. Eric had seen KENNEDY IS A KRAUT LOVER daubed in white paint on one of the embassy cars, not long after the ambassador had given a long interview to the Daily Mail about his admiration for Nazism.

  The Americans were becoming enemies, which meant Eric Cook wasn’t among friends.

  He buried the information they wanted down deep inside, away from them and their questions, behind the last vestige of bravado he could muster, behind his watery eyes.

  He stuck out his chin.

  “You release me, take me to somewhere where I am safe, and I’ll tell you.”

  Ma Price raised an eyebrow, gave him a motherly smile, rose from the chair, and crossed the room. She rested her hand on the Prof’s shoulder and lowered herself down until her face was inches from Eric’s, so close he could smell a faint whiff of carbolic soap.

  “You aren’t getting released, my lover. I’m sorry, but you’re not leaving here alive. I wish I could tell you different, but I haven’t got time, so I’m not going to lie to you. Now, the only choice you’ve got left is the choice to make this easy or hard. So save yourself some bother and tell me the address before I have to ask you again.”

  Ma Price moved back a few inches and smiled at Eric.

  Eric started to cry.

  CHAPTER 21

  THE SNOW WAS coming down hard and fast by the time Rossett made it to the café. The morning had passed at a snail’s pace since he and Koehler had parted. He’d taken a taxi back to his lodgings, paying the driver to wait while he had skirted the property on foot, checking for any sign that his house was under surveillance. Ideally Rossett would have stayed clear, but he had little money and no transport, both of which were waiting for him at home.

  Once inside, he had made a call to Wapping Police Station and tentatively inquired whether anyone was looking for him. The desk sergeant there had sounded bored, tired, and uninterested in Rossett. This meant that so far, he wasn’t a wanted man after the previous night’s incident involving Neumann and March.

  Maybe Koehler had been right? Maybe they weren’t interested in him?

  Rossett had taken the precaution of setting up a mutually agreed rendezvous, where they could leave messages in the unlikely event that they had been split up.

  That unlikely event had arisen, and in the minutes before he was due to set off to Cambridge after eating and changing into warmer clothes, he had telephoned the café. They were used to him checking in through the day; he’d used the café for years as a meeting place and message point, in an attempt to stay out of the pubs and clubs where police work was so often done. In truth he hadn’t expected to hear from Koehler. In fact, he wondered if he would ever hear from him again, so when the waitress told him there was a message, he wondered if it was a trap.

  “Meet Ernst at one P.M.”

  “That’s what it says?”

  “Yes, Mr. Rossett.”

  “Who took the message?”

  “Ethel, sir.”

  “Is she there now?”

  “Gone home, sir.”

  Rossett had placed the phone down and stared at the wallpaper in the hallway.

  If it was a trap, why not stake out his lodgings and arrest him there?

  He looked at the frosted stained-­glass front door and half expected a team of storm troopers to come kicking their way into the hallway.

  They didn’t.

  Maybe Koehler had been released?

  Maybe the joint mission wa
s back on?

  He’d picked up the phone again and rung around a few police stations, checking overnight logs. He spoke to the few detectives and sergeants who would still speak to him, checking for anything out of the ordinary.

  He came up blank.

  He’d had a few hours before the scheduled meeting at the café, so he had driven around the dark side of the city, rolling a few old underworld informants out of bed in search of information about Lotte and Anja, but again, nothing had come to light.

  All of which led him to believe Koehler was right: the kidnappers weren’t locals. This was something that went beyond the usual villains and resistance operators.

  He was in uncharted waters, alone and surrounded by sharks.

  And he loved it.

  HE’D WALKED AROUND the block four times before deciding to enter the café himself. Everything seemed normal, so he bit the bullet and went inside to get out of the cold.

  The waitress spilled his tea when she put it on the table in front of him; he wiped the spill with a napkin and checked his watch: quarter past one. Koehler was late.

  Nothing new there.

  Rossett glanced out the window at the growling blizzard outside. He could barely see the other side of the street, it was coming down so thick and fast. A taxi driver was scraping some snow off the roof of his cab next to the window, head buried in his shoulders, sweeping armfuls into piles next to the cab. Rossett wrapped his hands around his hot tea in sympathy.

  Maybe Koehler hadn’t made it through the snow? He took out his cigarettes, put one in his mouth, and started to pat his pockets for matches.

  “Do you mind not lighting that?”

  Rossett looked up.

  Neumann looked down.

  Rossett stopped patting his pockets and took the cigarette out of his mouth. Holding it in his left hand, he tilted his head, checking to see if March was loitering around.

  Neumann read Rossett’s mind. “He’s waiting in the car. May I sit?”

  “I’m waiting for someone.”

  “I know: me.”

  Neumann put his hat down on the table, which was still damp from the tea spill. Rossett thought about telling him but didn’t bother, and instead went back to patting his pockets looking for his matches, eyes all the while on Neumann’s.

  Neumann sat down after growing tired of waiting for the invite. Rossett found the matches and put the cigarette back in his mouth. He took out a match and struck it against the side of the box, letting it flare, and waiting for a reaction.

  “Please, Inspector, I’d much rather you didn’t. I have a chest complaint.”

  Rossett touched the match to the cigarette, shook out it out, and dropped it in the ashtray.

  They sat in silence, Neumann leaning back from the smoke, as the bustle of the café crashed around them. Rossett took another drag and then removed the cigarette from out of his mouth, smoke drifting between them.

  “Can I get you anything?” The waitress hovered.

  “No, thank you,” Neumann replied without looking at her.

  Neumann turned to the window, then back to Rossett.

  “I’d heard you were an arsehole,” he finally said.

  Rossett didn’t reply, so Neumann continued. “We’ve all heard of you, even before this case. Everyone knows that you are impossible to work with.”

  Rossett still didn’t reply.

  “I have to add, I don’t buy all this ‘British Lion’ bullshit, either. The British were desperate for a hero and you came along. You were lucky.”

  “You were lucky,” Rossett echoed impassively.

  “What?” Neumann raised an eyebrow.

  “You were lucky I didn’t kill you last night.”

  “You’re lucky I don’t arrest you right now.”

  “You’re lucky you haven’t tried.”

  The boiler behind the counter started to hiss and Neumann looked across toward it, and then back at Rossett.

  “Look,” Neumann tried again, shifting in his seat. “Koehler sent me.” He lowered his hand from his mouth and placed it flat on the table next to his hat.

  “Where is he?”

  “Scotland Yard.” Neumann lifted his hand, inspected his palm, and then looked at the damp patch on the table.

  “Is he in custody?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I had him arrested.”

  “But you’re here.”

  “Indeed.” Neumann slid his hat away from the damp spot and then looked at Rossett.

  “And you haven’t tried to arrest me.”

  “No.”

  “So what do you want?”

  “To pass on a message.”

  “What message?”

  “Koehler’s wife is dead.”

  “How?”

  “Shot. Found by the Thames, east of St. Katharine Docks.”

  “Koehler didn’t do it.”

  “I know.”

  “But you’ve arrested him?”

  “After issuing a countrywide warrant I couldn’t do much else, could I?”

  Rossett didn’t reply, the cigarette now at his lips.

  “We don’t know where his daughter is.” Neumann’s voice took on a gentler tone.

  “Anja?”

  “Anja,” Neumann repeated.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I have a daughter.” Neumann shrugged and looked at the table. “If she was hurt, or in danger, I’d do anything to help her. I think Koehler is a fool, but . . . it is his daughter, so I did as he asked.”

  Rossett nodded. “Koehler wanted you to come to me.”

  “To give you a message.”

  “Go on.”

  “It’s all up to you now.”

  Rossett stubbed out the cigarette. “That’s it?”

  Neumann reached into his pocket and then passed an envelope across.

  “A travel warrant. You’ll need it to get past the checkpoints in London. It’ll be reported stolen or missing, but that won’t matter for a few days. I can’t afford to be tied to this if you fail. Do you do have a car?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t do much to help you, you understand that?”

  “You could release Koehler.”

  “I can’t. It would leave me embarrassed, especially with his wife being found dead. We circulated his name, stating he had assaulted me in the course of an inquiry into her disappearance. He has to be charged, at the very least, with my assault, and he’ll probably face some sort of fine and disciplinary action, but he’ll live, don’t worry.”

  “So he stays in jail because you’re embarrassed?”

  “Embarrassment is a dangerous thing. I have to hold him for an acceptable period, then I have to get my superiors to agree to his release.”

  “Will they?”

  Neumann shrugged and Rossett nodded.

  “I trust you’ll be discreet?” Neumann lowered his voice.

  “I will.”

  “It’s time for you to go and be the hero.” Neumann leaned back from the table.

  Rossett didn’t reply.

  “Will you do it? Get his daughter?”

  “Has he told you what is going on?”

  “Enough to know it isn’t going to be easy, enough for me to question if you’re the man for the job. I still think Koehler is a fool. He has the whole of the German occupying forces to call on and he chooses you.”

  “He chose right.”

  The two men stared at each other in silence until Neumann nodded, picked up his hat, and stood.

  “Thank you,” said Rossett.

  Neumann scratched his forehead and took a half step away from the table.

  “Don’t thank me. You’re his last chance.”

&nbs
p; “Tell Koehler I’ll make it, and when I have Anja, I’ll deal with them all.”

  CHAPTER 22

  ANJA TRIED TO turn herself to take some of the pressure off her left shoulder, but failed. The weight of the boots resting on her back increased the second she tried to shift, hurting her, pushing her down.

  She tried to speak through the rag that had been stuffed in her mouth, and failed all over again. She felt sick, dizzy, scared, and a long way from home.

  She blinked, turning her head in the sack in the hope that gravity would help her in her struggle with the gag, but it didn’t.

  She wanted to scream.

  Her arms felt cramped and she couldn’t straighten her legs. The urge to scream and twist herself free tortured her as the drone of the engine squeezed her head, filling her ears.

  “Is she all right?” she heard the mechanic say in front of her, but nobody answered.

  They hit a pothole, and the car made another one of the thousand turns it had seemed to make for the last however long she had been in it.

  However long.

  It seemed so very long, and Anja felt the panic rising inside again.

  She tried to look inward, tried to see the fear and reason with it.

  The fear washed close to her, like a wave on the beach she was teasing, just missing her; ebbing away, about to catch her next time.

  She took some comfort from Jack and the mechanic being in the car with her. Even if the mechanic had sold her out to the men who had turned up, tied her up, stuffed her head into a bag, and then thrown her on the floor of the car, he was still worrying about her.

  “Are you sure she can breathe in that?” Jack had said as the bag had gone on in the garage.

  Anja thought about Jack’s eyes, the last thing she had seen as the darkness was inflicted on her. He was upset and confused.

  He wasn’t a bad boy. He cared.

  Another pothole slammed her hard; she used the bounce from the blow to turn slightly, easing her shoulder, lessening the pain, lessening the panic.

  The feet pushed again.

  The gag shifted.

  She wanted to cry.

  The brakes whined, the car slowed, and she felt herself rolling in the footwell as it lurched to a halt. The engine died. Silence, then the handbrake ratcheted and Anja forgot about the gag, the pain, and the fear.