The British Lion

by Tony Schumacher

  She couldn’t read German, but she knew what the letter meant.

  “Tote.”

  Dead.

  She had cried.

  Meyer had touched her arm, an unsure effort at consolation; it had seemed natural to step forward, natural for both of them.

  She had cried in Meyer’s arms the first night, and then lain in them the second, the third, and many nights since.

  Both felt doomed, as if the bomb she was making was ticking in the same room they lay in.

  Then he had told her he loved her.

  Words in the darkness.

  He reached for her hand under the sheets, and then held it tight through the night until he crept out of the room before the shame of the sunrise.

  All they had during the day was stolen glances, half smiles, and snatched brushes of shoulders. Of a night they had each other for minutes, in darkness and whispers.

  They were lovers, huddled around the only warmth of humanity left in their world.

  Playing a dangerous game.

  Ruth guessed that as time went on some of her colleagues had figured out what was happening; one had once winked when Meyer held open a door for Ruth as they entered the laboratory together.

  Now Ruth was scared; she knew time was running out.

  Whether she loved him or not, he was her anchor to self-­worth, her chance to be human. For those few snatched hours she was an equal, even more: she was raised up high in the eyes of another, and she could remember what she was. She was as good as the rest; she was a human being, a person.

  For all the guilt it inspired, Ruth loved her work. She had a passion for it, possibly her only true love. Her team was winning the race; they were close to the solution that the Führer was calling for.

  She had attended enough conferences, enough failed experiments, enough seminars to know that the pressure was mounting for one of the four teams—­two in Germany, one in France, and one in England—­to crack the riddle, harness the atom, and create the weapon the Führer so desperately wanted.

  Needed.

  “Your work will bring peace to the world. Your work will open a new chapter for the future of mankind. With this weapon we will be able to end the Bolshevik barbarism on the Eastern Front, and halt the aggression of America. We will say ‘no more’ to their attempts to undermine the greatness of the Third Reich. The Führer’s and the Fatherland’s destiny will be sealed in the power you will unleash. The world will finally know the security that only National Socialist strength of arms provides!”

  Ruth had tried to believe a weapon as terrible as the one that was about to be unleashed on the world would be a tool for good.

  She had tried so hard.

  She had failed.

  But she had carried on working to create it.

  Her life depended on it.

  They were nearly there; the formulas and equations were coming together. Theories were being proven. Her work, her hours of staring at numbers, her imagination, her dreams . . . her brain was the key.

  As time had passed, she had risen through the lab, climbing higher, becoming more important, more confident, and more relaxed.

  She was safe while she worked; she knew that. She knew that the only thing that would put her in peril was success.

  She wanted to succeed, to prove she was the best, but she knew that do so was the end.

  The end of her.

  She had a use; they had a need; she exploited them as they exploited her.

  Ruth had played a game. Like landing a fish, she had played out the formulas and then reeled them in slowly. Give and take, ebb and flow, sometimes right, sometimes wrong.

  Not too fast, not too slow.

  She was running out of line. Her colleagues were getting closer. Her time wasting was letting them catch up, and they were finding their own solutions to the problems she had seen through months before.

  She wasn’t stupid.

  She was a genius.

  She knew what was coming and she was struggling to stop it.

  She would be the first casualty of a working bomb.

  And she could hear it ticking.

  CHAPTER 25

  SO YOU THINK he’s killed his wife?”

  “I can’t say for sure that he has, sir, and, I must confess, he doesn’t seem the type.” Neumann stared at the top of his boss’s head across the table, conscious that March was rocking from side to side as he stood next to him.

  “They often don’t look the type, Neumann, you should know that.” Kriminalpolizei director Muller turned over Neumann’s statement, then rested his hands on top of the papers, as if trying to stop them blowing away.

  “I do, sir, which is why I’m here.”

  Muller looked up. “You do know Major Koehler is due to receive Oak Leaves for his Knight’s Cross quite soon?”

  “I am aware of that, sir.”

  Muller looked down at his hands for a moment, and Neumann took the opportunity to look at March and frown. He was staring back at his boss by the time Muller’s head rose again.

  “Is that why you want to release him? Are you worried about how his arrest will reflect on you?”

  “Not at all, sir.”

  “You should be.” Muller stared at Neumann. “Arresting senior SS men is a dangerous business, Neumann. It shouldn’t be done lightly.”

  “I didn’t take the decision to arrest Koehler lightly, sir.”

  “But you want him released with barely a charge against him?”

  “In light of developments in the case, I’ve decided to pursue other avenues, sir. The major will still be assisting our inquiries, but he is no longer a suspect.”

  “In your report you mention a British police officer who assaulted you. Is he to be charged?”

  “No, sir. That was an honest mistake on his part. I’ve accepted an apology and decided that is the end of the matter.”

  Muller sighed, then shook his head as he picked up the first sheet of the report, holding it up to Neumann.

  “You’re setting dangerous precedents here, Neumann, and not only that: you’re making this whole department look incompetent.”

  Neumann became aware of March rocking backward and forward again.

  “I’m sorry, sir; I can only follow where the investigation leads. I’m genuinely sorry if that causes embarrassment.”

  Muller put the sheet of paper back on the pile and then picked up a pen from his desk, which he held an inch from the page.

  “You’re sure Koehler isn’t going to make a fuss?” He looked up again.

  “He genuinely wants to help us find his daughter, sir.”

  “The SS are a strange breed. Neumann, you are absolutely sure of this?”

  “One hundred percent, sir.”

  The pen wavered; Muller shook his head as he looked at the sheet. Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, he signed with a flourish. The full stop at the end of the signature sounded like a twenty-­one-­gun salute to Neumann, and he had to resist the urge to punch the air.

  Muller lifted the report and held it out for Neumann to take.

  “Find this girl quickly, alive or dead, do you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.” Neumann took the report from his boss’s hand.

  “And don’t make a habit of letting Englishmen hit you and get away with it.”

  “No, sir.”

  “The whole country is getting out of hand; we need to be firm with these ­people. I don’t want any of this ‘genuine mistake’ rubbish, do you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Muller nodded and then waved them away as he continued to mutter, almost to himself. “Letting them charge around, doing what they want to, only leads to trouble. Trouble means ­people get hurt . . . ­people like those poor soldiers just outside Cambridge this morning.
”

  Neumann, who had turned from the desk, stopped and looked back at his boss.

  “Cambridge, sir?”

  “Two of them, in a checkpoint. It’s letting the locals get off with the little things that gets them thinking they can do what they want. Next thing you know ­people are being killed. Little things can easily get out of hand.”

  “Do we know who was behind the attack, sir?” Neumann’s mouth felt suddenly dry.

  “Not yet. The report came in an hour or so ago. The locals are looking into it. We were notified in case whoever was responsible was heading here.”

  “Here?”

  “It was on the main road to London, although we don’t know which way they were traveling.”

  “They?”

  Muller leaned back in his chair, irritated with the questions.

  “The checkpoint was on the phone to London, checking an ID and travel warrant, when the line went dead.”

  Neumann’s stomach dipped and went cold.

  “Oh . . .” was all he could think of to say.

  Muller stared, and Neumann heard the sounds of his boss’s outer office behind him. He finally nodded, swallowed again, and turned to March, who was still holding the door open.

  “Neumann?”

  Neumann stopped and turned back to Muller.

  “Find that girl, do you hear me? The department needs something to show for all this mess.”

  “Yes, sir, of course.”

  NEUMANN HAD TO fight the urge to lean against the wall as he made his way along the corridor back to his office. Once or twice he caught March looking at him, about to speak, but each time Neumann held up a hand to silence him.

  Now wasn’t the time.

  March held open their office door as Neumann entered and slumped into the chair at his desk. He slapped down the file Muller had signed, then rested his forehead in his hands.

  Finally March spoke.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Go get Koehler.”

  March stared at the top of his boss’s head, then exited the office wordlessly.

  Neumann heard the click of the door closing, looked up to check he was alone, then lowered his face into the palms of his hands again and groaned.

  His fingertips made tiny circling motions on his forehead. He sighed once more before picking up the heavy black telephone receiver and dialing the switchboard.

  He waited less than two seconds before the operator came on.

  “Switchboard.”

  “Communications room supervisor, please,” Neumann said in English.

  “Hold on, please.”

  A click, then a crackle, then a different voice came on the other end of the line.

  “Communications room supervisor.”

  “Generalmajor Neumann here. What can you tell me about the incident today at the checkpoint in Cambridge?”

  “Sounds like a bad one, sir. Two dead, a German and a Brit. Preliminary reports suggesting that it was a lone gunman.”

  “What else do we know?”

  “Not much at this time, sir. The army are looking into it themselves. You know what they are like; they don’t really trust us to follow things up fully. There is someone on his way over shortly to interview the operator the checkpoint was talking to at the time of the attack . . .”

  “The operator is still here?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s a bit shook up, to be honest.”

  “Put her on the line.”

  “I think the army’s investigator would want to speak to her first, sir.”

  “Get her and put her on the line now.”

  There was a pause, then the sound of the phone mouthpiece being muffled, and then the supervisor came back on.

  “Someone is fetching her now, sir.”

  “Who is she?”

  “A young English girl. Smith, Ellen Smith. One of the new ones coming through who are bilingual.”

  “How long has she been with us?”

  ­“Couple of months, sir. I can get her file if you like?”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Will you be handling the investigation, sir?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Where is she?”

  “I’ve sent someone up to the second floor, sir. She is in the canteen. I thought it best. She was rather —­”

  Neumann slammed the phone down and rushed to the door. His office was on the third floor, while the communications room was in the basement. It would be quicker and better to speak to the girl in the canteen, away from the prying ears of bosses and colleagues.

  He almost ran through the outer office and small squad room and then out into the corridor. A few long strides and he was on the stairs heading down to the canteen. He charged through the double swing doors and saw Smith immediately, nervously sitting alone at a small table on the far side of the half-­full canteen. Smith looked up and seemed to instinctively realize Neumann was coming for her. She stood up from the table, crossed her arms over her chest, and took a small step backward.

  Neither had ever seen the other before, but each knew the other was equally concerned about Cambridge.

  “Miss Smith?” Neumann said in English.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Please sit down.” Neumann struggled to control his breathing and pointed to the chair Smith had been sitting in moments earlier.

  He briefly gave thought to ordering tea but decided it would take too much time. Neumann took the seat opposite to her, realizing its back was to the door and immediately regretting it.

  “I want to ask you some questions about this morning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You speak German?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you mind if . . .”

  “Not at all, sir.” Smith switched smoothly to German.

  “You took the call?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me about it?”

  Smith folded her hands on the table, gripping her left thumb in her right hand.

  Neumann realized that she had been rehearsing this speech in her head.

  “I received a call at about—­” Smith broke off and looked over Neumann’s shoulder.

  He turned in his chair. A man in civilian clothing was approaching, slightly out of breath.

  “Ellen, the boss wants you downstairs; someone wants to speak to you on the phone,” he said in English.

  “That was me.” Neumann held up his hand.

  “It’s about Cambridge,” the man said, resting one hand on his hip.

  “I know,” said Neumann.

  “I ran up here for nothing?”

  Neumann half turned in his seat and looked at the Englishman, who slowly took his hand off his hip, then nodded and turned away without speaking.

  Neumann watched the man go and then faced Smith again, forcing a smile.

  “Where were we?”

  “I took a call this morning, sir, from the checkpoint.”

  “Yes, go on.”

  She smoothed a hand over her neat dark hair before touching a fingertip to her lips as she thought. Neumann felt like screaming at the girl, but instead made do with clenching one fist so tightly his knuckles hurt.

  Eventually Smith spoke again.

  “The English Home Defense trooper came on the line, sir; it was him who made the call.”

  “Do you get many calls from outside of London?”

  “We get some, sir, mostly checking papers and warrants and such.”

  “Go on.”

  “He said he wanted to check the identity of a policeman, and a travel warrant.”

  Neumann’s heart thudded.

  “A warrant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Neumann couldn’t get
the next question out, so he merely gestured that she should continue with the story.

  “He said it was a travel warrant issued by Scotland Yard. He’d just given me the warrant number when I heard the . . .” Smith paused and then lowered her eyes a fraction before continuing. “The shooting start.”

  It was Neumann’s turn to smooth his hair. The number on the travel warrant would correspond to the duplicate sheet in the book that was kept in the inquiry desk safe downstairs. Neumann knew that his signature was in that book, next to that number.

  He needed to get the book.

  “Did the trooper give the name of the policeman carrying the warrant?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Smith didn’t answer Neumann; she was too busy looking over his shoulder again. Neumann opened his fist, placed his hand flat on the table, and irritably pushed himself in a half turn to face whoever was interrupting again.

  Technically Neumann was part of the RSHA, the Reich Main Security Ser­vice, a bloated whale of an organization filled with various factions fighting for space, each standing on the other’s toes and thrusting elbows into ribs with varying degrees of fierceness.

  None of this had ever been Neumann’s concern. He wasn’t even a party member; he was a policeman, a Kriminal Polizist, a Kripo, a detective who fought crime wherever he was sent.

  On the other end of the elbow was the SiPo, the security police, and as far as Neumann was concerned never the twain should meet.

  What the SiPo did was their business. If they left Neumann alone, he was happy to leave them alone.

  Unfortunately, today, they weren’t going to leave him alone.

  Two Gestapo officers were walking across the canteen toward the table where Neumann and Smith were seated.

  Neumann stood up as they drew near.

  “Miss Smith?” the older of the two Gestapo men asked in German.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You are?” the Gestapo officer looked at Neumann, the question as rude as the stare he was giving.

  “I’m leaving,” Neumann replied.

  “Your name?”

  “Generalmajor Neumann, Kripo.”

  “Why are you talking to Miss Smith?”

  Neumann looked at Smith and then back at the Gestapo man.