The British Lion

by Tony Schumacher

  Rossett nodded slowly, considering his options.

  “What about hitting them on the road to Cambridge with an ambush?”

  “They travel in numbers, and these aren’t just a bunch of conscripts, either. The men stationed here are SS, the best, all experienced and all highly motivated. You’d need three platoons to take them down in the open, and you could be certain they wouldn’t allow the scientists to be taken alive.”

  The candle flickered and then caught again.

  “Do you know Hartz?” Rossett asked.

  “Not well, but well enough.”

  “Will she be cooperative?”

  “She is aware moves are afoot to get her out.”

  “How?”

  “She just does. We have ways.”

  “Will she be cooperative?” Rossett asked again.

  James shifted in his seat then nodded. “She will, but . . . she’ll be worried. She won’t trust you. Ruth knows her value to the Germans, but she also knows her danger to the Americans if her escape is in doubt. If you and she were to be cornered, she’ll be wary of you.”

  “Why?”

  “If it looks like you can’t get her out, she’ll be expecting you to kill her.”

  “I’ll get her out.”

  “You’re very confident.”

  “I’m very good.”

  “That I don’t doubt.”

  ROSSETT LOOKED IN the mirror.

  A vicar who needed a drink and a shave looked back at him.

  “I’m not sure about this,” said Rossett, tugging his index finger around the black shirt collar in an attempt to find some more room.

  Rossett and James had retreated back to the vestry. In the few minutes they had spent together Rossett had told James the outline of the situation in which he found himself. James had listened quietly as they stood in the warm living room, steam rising off Rossett’s shoes and trousers in front of the fire.

  James initially offered food and drink, but Rossett wanted to get moving. He knew he was in the center of the wasp’s nest and had no wish to stay there longer than he had to.

  “I go there every night for my supper. It’s a tradition. I say grace, we eat, share a bottle of wine, and then I return here. I’ve done it for eighteen months now,” Reverend James said as he rummaged in a drawer looking for his spare dog collar.

  “They’ll see I’m not you a mile off.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  Rossett turned from the mirror and looked at him.

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Here, I’ve found one!” James held up a clerical collar for Rossett to see before crossing the bedroom, slipping it around Rossett’s neck, and folding the shirt collar down. “It could do with starching, but it’ll have to do, I’m afraid.”

  James stepped back, admiring his work.

  “If you help me they will kill you.”

  James smiled and gave a slight nod before stepping forward and dusting Rossett’s shoulders.

  “I’m afraid it’s the only way,” he said as he turned to pick up Rossett’s suit jacket. “The only way to get you in is to walk you in as my guest.”

  “You make it sound so easy.”

  “Security inside the cordon is considerably lighter than outside. I’ve taken colleagues to dinner there many times before, and it is accepted that I’m alone here; so the archdiocese often sends me company for a few days. The sentry will have no reason to think you’re anything other than just my guest and won’t think of challenging you; he’ll assume you were checked out at the emplacements on your way into the village.”

  “When I’ve gone, when Hartz is gone, they’ll come looking for you.”

  “I’ll be long gone by then. I’ll do my best to get to safety somewhere.”

  “Somewhere?”

  James smiled and tapped his own dog collar. “I’m in the biggest gang in the world. I’m certain of shelter if I knock on the right doors. I just need to put some distance between myself and here as quickly as I can.”

  Rossett shook his head, not sure who James was trying to reassure more, Rossett or himself.

  James seemed to read Rossett’s mind. He smiled and nodded before continuing.

  “I was in the Great War, 1914 to ’18, out in France. Absolute hell on earth, words can’t describe . . . they really can’t. All of it, every last bit of blood, all of it was for nothing. It was an absolute waste. Millions dead on both sides and in between, and yet here we are, whispering in case we’re overheard by Nazis through the window. I’m an English vicar who doesn’t have a flock, in a church nobody wants.” James lowered his eyes. “When we declared war to save Poland it all seemed so unreal, I don’t think anyone thought we’d be stupid enough to actually fight.” He shook his head. “Do you know the last time that church was full was when it was a field hospital? There were Germans on one side and English on the other. I prayed over the bodies of thirty men in one day, thirty men. Madness.”

  James sighed and held out Rossett’s jacket. Instead of taking it, Rossett bent and picked up the shotgun from the floor and slung it via the string back over his shoulder. He turned and allowed James to help him slip the jacket onto his shoulders before facing him again.

  “You’ve no chance of escape,” said Rossett.

  “The Lord is my shepherd.”

  “I’ll not be able to help you.”

  “He’s sent you for Hartz, and for the daughter of your friend, not for me.” Reverend James gripped Rossett’s biceps and smiled. “You’ll be all right, he’ll look after you.”

  Rossett looked at the floor.

  “I’m a very bad sort, Vicar, the baddest sort there is.”

  “You loved your family, you love your friend, and you’re risking your life for innocents caught up in this madness. You’re not a bad man, my son.”

  “You can’t imagine what I’ve done.”

  “Oh, I can, but whatever you have done, whatever has gone before, you can always try to make amends by trying to be better. The only way to overcome evil is to try to do good.”

  “By more killing?”

  “By saving lives, millions of lives.”

  Rossett frowned.

  “You’ll succeed, and the Lord will provide for me, whatever he has planned.”

  “The Lord doesn’t drive a getaway car.”

  “There are many ways to escape. I’ll take whatever he decides best and pray for you.”

  Rossett nodded and looked at himself in the mirror. “Pray for those who are about to die,” he said. “Don’t worry about me.”

  CHAPTER 31

  FIVE MINUTES LATER Rossett and James were wandering down the lane that threaded through the thatched cottages and overgrown gardens of Coton. The hiss and rustle of the trees filled the air as the wind whipped at their coats and hair.

  The lane bent around the top of the village and Rossett saw the hall clearly for the first time. It was a three-­story, L-­shaped white building arranged around a courtyard. In the courtyard itself were the Opels and the Mercedes staff car he had seen earlier. The Blitz truck with a canvas back also hadn’t moved from where it was parked at the end of the lane.

  Reverend James rested a hand on Rossett’s arm, then stopped and removed his pipe from his pocket and began to fill it with tobacco. He idly turned to face Rossett as he worked on the pipe and spoke softly.

  “Do you see the center of the hall, by the lamp with the sentry?”

  Rossett looked over James’s shoulder at the hall, some one hundred feet away.

  “Yes.”

  “The door in the middle of the center building, that’s where we are going.”

  Rossett saw that the sentry had an StG 44 assault rifle over his shoulder; the man was kicking at the snow with the toe of his boot, moving about to keep warm.


  “You go through that door and there is an entrance lobby,” James continued. “Directly in front of you is the staircase. It rises one flight to a landing, off which is a corridor in either direction. On that first floor are the German quarters, left and right off the landing, officers to the left, enlisted to the right.”

  Rossett looked at the building and saw that lights were on in a few of the windows of the hall, and that smoke was rising from a number of chimneys along the roof.

  “If you continue up the stairs, the building has the same arrangement on the second floor. Except all of the rooms are full of scientists and occasionally guests. Some English, some German. You go toward the right-­hand end of the building as we are looking at it now. At the far end of the corridor, as far as you can go before it turns ninety degrees again to the right, are the rooms of Ruth Hartz.”

  Rossett ran his eyes along the windows until he reached the end two or three windows, then nodded.

  James struck a match, which lit his face as he held it to his pipe.

  Plumes of smoky breath mixed with the night air.

  “Is there another way out?”

  “Hmm.” James nodded as he tried another match on the pipe, cupping it in his hand to fend off the wind. He sucked and the match flared. “Turn right out of her apartment door, and there is a back stairway that takes you down to the kitchen on the ground floor. Nobody uses it, though; it may well be locked. There are lots of other stairs. The place is a medieval rabbit warren. That’ll work in your favor, though. I doubt there will be more than thirty men in the village, excluding scientists. It’ll be a nightmare to search quickly.”

  Rossett nodded. “Vehicles?”

  “Just what you will find in the courtyard and at the checkpoints.”

  “No private cars?”

  James shook his head. “Another thing, don’t rely on any of the scientists to help you. They have a pretty good life here. They can come and go as they please, and the Germans see to it they get everything they could wish for. While some of them are unhappy with the work they do, they’ve a lot to lose if they are caught helping someone like you. There are also some who don’t see themselves as prisoners; for them, this is where they live while they do their jobs, nothing more.”

  “They wouldn’t help Hartz?”

  James shrugged and took his pipe out of his mouth, “She is a Jew, kept mostly separate from her colleagues unless she is working. She is persona non grata due to her religion, I’m afraid. Jews aren’t very popular with the SS.”

  Rossett felt himself flush and was glad that James started to move again. He looked at his watch and glanced over his shoulder at the far gun emplacement. All seemed quiet, so he trotted a ­couple of paces, catching up with James.

  They entered the floodlit courtyard and the sentry watched them as they approached. The light above the sentry was swinging in the wind. Shadows appeared and disappeared as the light moved left and right, catching stray flakes of snow.

  Rossett casually looked around the building’s windows, checking for movement. Everything seemed still as they drew close.

  “Gutten Abend, Reverend.”

  “Good evening, Ritter. You got the short straw tonight?” James was smiling, holding his pipe up toward the wind as he spoke.

  “I always get the short straw, sir, you know that.” The sentry smiled at James and reached behind him to open the door for the two vicars in front of him.

  “Oh, bugger, I’ve forgotten my tobacco.”

  Rossett turned to see Reverend James patting his pockets.

  “I’ll just pop back to the vestry to pick it up. You go in without me, I’ll not be long.”

  Rossett nodded and stepped into the hallway of the building as James stood on the threshold.

  “They’re expecting you, old man. Just go up.” James smiled and pulled the door closed, leaving Rossett alone inside. The sound of the wind was almost gone as Rossett started up the red-­carpeted staircase directly ahead of him.

  He unbuttoned his coat and checked the shotgun was still hidden as he took hold of the Webley in his other pocket. His footsteps padded through the thick carpet, keeping time with the grandfather clock ticking in the hallway below.

  The dark wood paneling and the bloodred carpet seemed to press in on Rossett. He moved up twelve steps to a turning, then another twelve to the first floor.

  Each landing was lit by a large chandelier that hung from the ceiling like a crystal stalactite. Fine cobwebs laced the lights, and on all the walls hung paintings darkened by years of grime, in dirty gold frames frosted with dust.

  The whole building seemed like England itself: old, falling into disrepair, and full of Germans who didn’t care.

  Rossett didn’t pause on the first-­floor landing. He knew that floor belonged to the officers and men. He made sure he moved quickly, but not too quickly, stepping in time with the clock down below.

  The second-­floor landing was identical to the first. Even the large landscape painting in the heavy gold frame looked the same as the one he had passed on the landing below.

  This corridor on this floor was narrower. Small windows to his left every ten feet or so looked out onto darkened fields, pink in the glow of the snow and slashed with dark hedgerows. The corridor ran along the back of the building, and Rossett tried to imagine where his car was in relation to his current position.

  He realized it was a long way away.

  Maybe getting in was the easy bit, he mused as he tapped politely on the door he believed to be Ruth’s, before taking a few more steps along the corridor to take a look around the corner.

  It was almost exactly as James had described, the same layout of rooms and windows. The only difference seemed to be the one dark wood door on the left-­hand side of the corridor, with FIRE ESCAPE written on it in gold lettering.

  Rossett heard Hartz’s door open and walked back to face the person who had opened it.

  “Miss Hartz?” Rossett smiled at Ruth, who was half hidden behind a door that was open barely six inches.

  She nodded, blinking her oval eyes at him as an auburn lock of hair dropped forward as low as her cheek. She chased it away with a flick of her hand.

  “Yes, Reverend?”

  “May I come in?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  Rossett smiled, pushed the door open, and took a step forward.

  Hartz surprised Rossett by pushing the door back against him with her shoulder. He had to shove almost full force to get her to move out of the way. Ruth stepped back, letting the door swing wide.

  “What do you think you are doing? You can’t just—­”

  Hartz stopped speaking as Rossett raised a finger to her lips and then used his heel to close the door behind him. He looked over her shoulder at the living room of the apartment she had been given. It was surprisingly large and well furnished. A solid, overstuffed couch dominated the floor in front of a blazing coal fire.

  A fire so hot it possibly accounted for Hartz wearing a fine silk negligee, the sort you wore for show, not for sleeping in.

  The problem was, Rossett knew the warmth of the fire wasn’t why she was wearing a fine silk negligee.

  The extra glass of red wine on the floor alongside hers was the reason she was wearing the fine silk negligee.

  Or rather, the person who had just been drinking it was.

  Rossett looked at the doorway off to his right and pointed to it.

  “Who is in there?” he whispered, finger still on Ruth’s lips.

  She shook her head as Rossett lifted the finger half an inch.

  “Nobody,” she said softly.

  Rossett looked at the door again, then lowered his hand and half slipped the Webley out of his pocket.

  Ruth caught sight of the pistol and then calmly looked into Rossett’
s eyes.

  “I’m here to help you. Call him out before this situation gets out of hand.”

  He gestured that Ruth should go before him and open the door; he took a pace to the side and put his left hand on her shoulder.

  He leaned forward so that his cheek was next to her ear.

  “Do it.”

  He was so close, Rossett felt her hair brush his cheek. He could almost hear the blood pumping through Ruth’s veins as he pulled back the hammer on the Webley.

  Its solid double crack was loud in the quiet room.

  She didn’t speak until he gently squeezed her shoulder as encouragement.

  “It’s okay.” Her voice seemed to catch in her throat, so she tried again, louder this time. “Please come out.”

  Rossett held the Webley behind Hartz’s back, staring along a dark corridor with three doors leading off on its left-­hand side.

  A shadow emerged from the end room; it paused before slowly making its way toward them.

  Rossett stepped out from behind Ruth, moving her aside, gun out, finger still on the trigger.

  The man, half dressed, frowned when he saw the dog collar and the pistol; he stopped walking, but kept his hands out where Rossett could see them.

  “Who the hell are you?” Rossett said.

  “Captain Horst Meyer, SS,” the man said.

  “Horst knows why you are here,” Ruth said. “I told him someone was coming for me and he wants to help.”

  Rossett risked a glance at her and then went back to staring at Meyer.

  “Please.” Ruth touched Rossett’s arm. “He can help us.”

  Rossett narrowed his eyes and then released the hammer on the Webley as he lowered it to his side.

  “Put your trousers on.”

  Meyer looked at Rossett but didn’t move.

  “Anytime today would be nice,” Rossett added before turning away and pointing to the couch.

  Ruth followed his direction and took a seat on the edge.

  “We thought you might not be coming. We hadn’t been given an exact date, and with the weather . . .”

  As if on cue the wind sounded in the chimney and the old wooden window frame rattled in sympathy. Rossett watched as Meyer hopped around in the doorway, pulling at his SS britches.