The British Lion

by Tony Schumacher

  It took a moment for what he was looking at to sink in.

  King looked up at the broken window and saw a big man with a mustache staring down at Eric in the street below. King stood up, pulled his pistol out of his pocket, and crossed the tiny room to the front door. He turned the handle and then stopped.

  Crouching slightly, he stepped back to the edge of the window, trying to see through the curtains without disturbing them.

  The snow around Eric was staining crimson. King’s heart thudded in his chest, and he fought the urge to rush outside to help.

  He swallowed, waited, and watched, knuckles white as they gripped the pistol, the old lady on the floor behind him forgotten for now.

  He didn’t wait long.

  The front door of the house opposite flew open and the man with the mustache, a second heavy, and a fat woman charged out into the street.

  MUSTACHE HAD WATCHED Eric go out of the window and barely believed his eyes. He hadn’t thought the American capable of standing unaided, let alone running to the window and jumping through.

  He had been shouting for help before the Yank had hit the ground, and he was halfway down the stairs when he saw Ma Price and the other man coming out of the kitchen at a run.

  Mustache had had to pull the sticky front door two or three times to get it open, and as he’d run onto the street, he could see the American lying still, staring at the sky.

  KING WATCHED THE three of them running to Eric; he worked the slide on the gun, waiting for the right moment.

  As he saw the first big man crouching down, King went to the front door and twisted the handle.

  One . . . two . . . three . . .

  He burst out into the street lifting his pistol as he ran, shooting the man with the mustache twice as he looked up with open mouth and wide eyes.

  Two in the chest.

  Mustache tried to rise and then stumbled backward, ending up sitting in the snow, looking down into his lap.

  The woman slipped as she stumbled back toward the door. King ignored her and shot the second man high on the left side of his chest, and then once again, hitting him just above his right hip as he spun.

  Sending him down, sprawling in the snow.

  Something caught King’s attention off to his right; he spun dropping to one knee. Three children were running as fast as they could in the opposite direction up the street, away from the shooting and the blood-­soaked snow.

  King processed them and turned back to his main threat.

  The house opposite.

  The woman was being bundled through the door by another man, older, tall and spindly, in a dusty old black suit.

  King stared down the sights, took a breath, and then lifted the pistol. They weren’t a threat. The old man turned and stumbled into the hallway, kicking the door shut behind him, only for it to bounce half open again.

  The second man King had shot rolled onto his back and fired his revolver. The boom of the shot caused King to flinch before he redirected his aim and fired once.

  The revolver dropped into the snow.

  The second man was dead.

  Mustache slowly keeled sideways onto the ground from his sitting position, just as the door opposite King finally slammed shut. King adjusted his aim and pointed his pistol at the door, then realized that the slide was back.

  He was empty.

  He released the magazine and in one quick movement inserted another and dropped the slide.

  A second and a half and he was ready to go again.

  Silence.

  Nothing moved.

  King was panting as he stared down the pistol sights at the front door. He looked quickly left and right, up and down the street. Several houses down, somebody poked out a head and then ducked back in, but all else was quiet.

  He rose up from his knee, which was wet from the snow. He moved quickly, half crouching, with the Mauser still pointing at the house opposite. He snatched up the heavy revolver that was lying on the ground next to the second man, dropping it into his overcoat pocket as a reserve. He moved back toward Mustache, his gun still trained on the door, and quickly patted him down in a search of a weapon.

  Nothing.

  Mustache was watching him with strong, steady eyes, giving no sign of the pain he was in, struggling to control his breathing.

  Frank stared back at Mustache and then went to Eric. He looked down at his friend, the young inexperienced clerk who did nothing but talk about girls, and saw the faintest flicker of life on his lips.

  King dropped to his knees, one eye on the door opposite.

  “Eric?”

  Eric opened his bloodshot eyes and searched the sky for King.

  “Frank?”

  “Yes.”

  “I told her nothing, Frank.” Eric’s voice barely carried the few inches between them.

  “Her?”

  “The woman, I told her nothing.” Eric paused. His mouth moved but no sound came out.

  “Eric?” King leaned forward slightly.

  “I’m so glad you came for me.”

  King looked down at Eric and stroked his hair, and Eric died.

  The blood around him had painted the snow, framing him with butterfly wings that sparkled with broken glass.

  King gently touched Eric’s cheek.

  He’d gotten a dumb kid killed.

  Shit.

  He breathed, he looked at Eric, and then in the distance he heard a policeman’s whistle.

  He took another look at Eric and then the house.

  The whistle sounded again, ghostly, seeming to come from the gray cloud above.

  King wanted to go into the house to make them pay.

  He gritted his teeth and let out a low moan.

  The whistle sounded again, and then he heard another from the other direction, coming to assist.

  He had to go.

  He started to jog away, looking once over his shoulder at Eric, and then running faster.

  MA PRICE AND the Prof crouched behind the front door. She held a Browning Hi Power pistol as she pressed the wound on the Prof’s shoulder, trying to slow the bleeding.

  “I think it went through Kenny and hit me.” The Prof’s voice was high. Shock was setting in.

  Ma Price listened to the police whistles. They sounded close.

  “I feel faint . . .” The Prof shivered.

  “I’m going to go check to see if he’s gone,” Price whispered, and the Prof nodded.

  He choked back another shiver, slid down the door, and lay with his head resting on the back of his hand.

  Ma Price made her way as quickly as she could up the stairs and into the front bedroom. She hung back as far as she could from the window, standing on tiptoes to look out into the street, the Browning pointing up at the ceiling, next to her ear.

  By the time she could see out of the broken window, she was certain whoever had been shooting at them was long gone.

  The whistles again, closer. Time was ticking. Below, down in the snow, lay three men, surrounded by blood that looked like ink dropped into water.

  She saw Mustache kick a leg, trying to push himself up and failing, no doubt aware of the approaching whistles and trying to get away.

  The shooter was nowhere to be seen. Curious neighbors were coming out of their houses now. Ma Price cursed and quickly headed downstairs. She ran as fast as her chunky legs could carry her into the back room of the house, grabbed her coat and bag, and then went back to the hallway.

  The Prof looked terrible.

  He was shaking as he held his hand against the hole in his shoulder. He held the bony, bloody hand up and gestured that she should help him up from behind the door. Ma Price obliged. Taking a grip with two hands she dragged him clear, then helped him sit at the foot of the stairs.

 
The Prof coughed, his head drooped forward, and some blood spattered his grimy white shirt.

  “Give me a minute.”

  “We ain’t got a minute.”

  “I just need to catch my breath.”

  “You need to get up; I can’t leave you here for the police to find.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  Another whistle, so close that they both looked at the door, as if it was about to crash open.

  The Prof looked at Price and raised his blood-­soaked hand to her. “Help me up.” He wafted with his hand again, less than convincingly.

  Price sadly shook her head and shot him dead before he could realize what was happening.

  “I’m sorry, Prof,” she said as he slid off the step onto the floor.

  Ma Price tugged at the door handle to free it of the jamb and stepped out into the street, slipping her pistol into her coat. The bystanders had scattered slightly at the sound of the final shot. Ma Price ignored them and took in the scene in the street. Nobody was moving now. She stared at Mustache, trying to see if he was dead. Ma Price didn’t like loose ends.

  She looked at the few onlookers still floating around but keeping their distance and avoiding eye contact. She held her ground, letting them know she wasn’t scared, that she knew who they were, where they lived; letting them know she could snuff them out now or later.

  It was up to them.

  Another whistle.

  Ma Price walked away.

  Not too fast, always in control.

  CHAPTER 27

  SOMEONE, A LONG time ago in a country even farther away, had once told Allen Dulles that no matter where you were in the world, the air you breathed in an American embassy tasted of freedom.

  That person had wafted his cigar and leaned forward in his seat; spilling some whiskey on his leg, he had looked deep into Dulles’s eyes and pushed home the point.

  “We are the future, we are the hope for the world, and we’ll make it a better place so that one day everyone will know the taste of good old American free air.”

  Dulles had watched the cigar jabbing the American air and nodded.

  He’d nodded because back then, he had believed it to be true.

  Right now?

  Right now, he wasn’t so sure.

  He drew on his own cigar, looked at his own glass of whiskey, and shook his head.

  Dulles got out of the chair and walked to the window of his Mayfair apartment. Somewhere out there was King, somewhere out there was Dulles’s future, and somewhere out there was America’s future.

  He sighed again, turned away from the window, then stopped, paused, and then turned back, looking down into the street below.

  Two long, fat, beetle-­black American cars were double-­parked outside the apartment block. Dulles had guessed they’d be coming, but he hadn’t thought it would be so soon.

  He opened the front door of the apartment and waited, listening to the echoing steps of the men trotting up the stairs. He recognized Captain Bryan from the embassy security team leading the way, all square jawed and certain. Dulles had known Bryan’s father back in New York; he was an asshole as well.

  At the back of the group came Kennedy, taking his time, methodically working his way up till he got to the top.

  Kennedy all over.

  “Allen.”

  “Joe.”

  “May we come in?”

  “Please.” Dulles stepped back and let the five of them into the small hallway.

  Before Dulles closed the door he looked down the stairs, feeling a strange loneliness that he wasn’t expecting. The click of the latch sounded louder than he remembered it ever sounding before.

  The air tasted the same, though.

  Cigars and whiskey, the smell of freedom.

  Only Kennedy and Dulles entered the sitting room; the rest of the men took up station in the kitchen with instructions to help themselves to whatever they wanted.

  Kennedy took the offered Scotch from Dulles, then sat at one end of the floral and gilt settee nearest the window. Dulles placed his cigar in an ashtray and took his seat on the armchair in the center of the room, directly opposite Kennedy.

  “You were expecting us, Allen?”

  “I saw your cars out the window.”

  “So you weren’t expecting us?”

  Dulles smiled. “You’re sharp, Joe.”

  Kennedy smiled back.

  Dulles swirled his Scotch, listening to the ice rattle in the glass. The two men sat quietly for a minute, listening to the clock on the mantelpiece.

  Finally Kennedy broke the silence.

  “You’ve been a good advisor to me, Allen. I’ve enjoyed your counsel. We’ve worked well together.”

  “You haven’t listened to me, though.”

  “Oh, no, I’ve listened, Allen. I really have. You’re a smart man, and I’d be a fool not to.”

  “But?”

  “You can be smart and still be wrong.” Kennedy sipped his whiskey.

  “So can you, Joe.”

  Kennedy chuckled. “I’m not smart, Allen, not like you. I see things simply. I play the game in front of me. I don’t try to change the rules as I go along.”

  “It isn’t a game, Joe.”

  “See? That’s where you are wrong again.” Kennedy chuckled and shook his head. “It is a game, that’s exactly what it is.”

  ­“People are dying.”

  Kennedy raised a hand and nodded. “You’re right, you’re right. Although ­people have always died, ­people always will, it’s what they do.”

  ­“People are being crushed.”

  “They always have been. It’s up to them to do something about it if they don’t like it.”

  “It isn’t a game for them.”

  “Chess wouldn’t work without pawns.”

  “Jesus, Joe.”

  Kennedy put his glass on the arm of the settee, then shifted slightly in his seat, pulling his jacket from under him.

  “Why did you get into politics, Allen?”

  “I’m a diplomat.”

  “Ah, don’t give me that shit; seriously, I don’t want to hear it. There is no such thing as a diplomat. A diplomat is just a politician who is scared to voice his own opinion.”

  “Speak for yourself, Joe.”

  Kennedy shook his head and looked back out the window. The light from the window bounced off his glasses, making his eyes hard to see.

  “You’re not seeing the bigger picture, Allen, which is the sad thing for me; you’re just not getting it.”

  “Getting it?”

  “The world is changing. Politics, diplomacy, ­people, all of it, the whole thing is changing.”

  “I see that, Joe.”

  “No, you don’t. You think you do, but you don’t. President Lindbergh? He gets it, I get it, Washington gets it, and the American ­people get it, but you don’t. You and the ­people behind you, you just don’t get it. The fascists have won, and they did us a favor on the way to victory, when they saw off Stalin with his communists and his Jews. Okay, we’ve got Hitler to deal with now, and I’ll grant you he is a . . . a curious man, but he wants to be our friend. He needs America. We’re brothers. And this is the thing I want you to remember, the thing you don’t understand: we need him.”

  “America needs Hitler?”

  “You’re damn right we do.” Kennedy leaned forward and lifted a finger toward Dulles. “He’s showing us how to get things done. He’s showing us how to deal with those who don’t work for what is best for the country.”

  “Like who?”

  “The communists, the colored, and the kikes. The bastards working behind the scenes, those who want to undo what has taken us generations to get right. He’s shown us how to deal with them.”

  “By locking the
m up and throwing away the key? By killing them?”

  “Yes!” Kennedy held out the palms of his hands, and for a moment Dulles thought he was going to knock the Scotch onto the floor. “It’s for the good of the country, for the good of the ­people. Hitler and Lindbergh know what is for the best.”

  “Taking away freedom?”

  “Oh, come on, Allen.” Kennedy sat back again, picking up his drink. “Freedom? What is it, really? You think those Brits out there feel any worse off under Mosley than they did under Chamberlain?” Kennedy was pointing with the Scotch toward the window, and Dulles looked out, even though he knew what was there.

  “The rich are still rich and the poor are still poor. Only difference is there is nobody trying to spoil that balance.”

  “They were free under Chamberlain.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “They could vote him out if they didn’t like him.”

  “And vote another one in to take his place. You’ve seen them. They’re all the same. How many of those guys swept the streets before they got elected?”

  Dulles didn’t reply.

  “Yeah . . . that many. At least with Hitler and Mosley at the helm they know where they stand.”

  “What about us then, Joe? Would you have the same for America? President for Life Lindbergh?”

  “I can think of worst things. America would be working, ­people would have their place, they’d have their lives, and their future would be secure. The country would be secure, run by ­people who knew what they were doing.”

  Dulles shook his head as Kennedy continued, lowering his voice slightly. “You’ve been to Germany; you’ve seen how it is there. The new Berlin is taking shape. ­People are happy, now that things are settling down.”

  “You really believe that, Joe?”

  “I’ve seen it!”

  “What about the rest of Europe and Africa? Does that look happy to you?”

  “You have to give things time. ­People will find a level as they adjust.” Kennedy waved his hand toward the window. “Once they know their place, they’ll settle into it.”

  “You’re wrong, Joe. ­People will never settle into it.”

  “They will, they already are. Oh, sure, you’re going to have your troublemakers, I understand that, but if enough ­people get the message . . .” Kennedy removed his glasses and gestured at Dulles with them. “If we can show them what we want, push it till they see the truth, till they understand that we know best . . . they’ll do what they have to and thank us for our work. We just need everyone at the top to be on board. Which, I’m afraid, brings me to you.”