The British Lion

by Tony Schumacher

  “Once they have the scientist, they won’t care about Anja.”

  “We won’t give the scientist to them until we have Anja. I promise you, we’ll get her back. I promise.”

  “You took her, and now you want to bring her back?”

  “I never thought, not for a minute, that Anja and your wife would be hurt, I swear to you.”

  Koehler frowned and then sighed deeply. This time it was his turn to look at the table.

  “I’ll do all I can for you. Once we’ve got the scientist and Anja, I’ll be able to help you further,” King tried again.

  “To do what?”

  “I can get you out of here.”

  “Here?”

  “London, Germany. I know you aren’t happy with what you’re doing, the way things are turning out in Germany. I can get you to America with Anja. You can start again, in a free country; you can leave all this behind you.”

  “You just concentrate on my daughter, King. That’s the only thing you need to worry about.”

  “You think after this your life will go back to normal?”

  “My wife is dead, so no, I don’t.”

  King shook his head and then leaned forward. “Aside from that, do you think you will go back to business as usual? I know about what happened last year with you and Rossett. I know all about it. I deal in gossip, Koehler. I’m a spy, and it’s my job. I know you barely hung on last year, after the mess Rossett made with that Jewish kid and your secretary.”

  Koehler looked at the cigarette packet on the table but didn’t pick it up.

  “You’re tied into this, Koehler. Sure, you’re sitting here now, but whatever havoc Rossett is causing in Cambridge, and if I know Rossett that’ll be a lot, it’s going to end up landing at your feet eventually. I can get you away from that.”

  “And what do you get out of it?”

  “I get to make some attempt at making up for . . . for what has happened.”

  “And you get to live?”

  King tilted one hand above the table and dipped his head slightly.

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe not,” Koehler replied and picked up the cigarettes. “Now be quiet.”

  KOEHLER HELD UP his mug to the waitress. He looked back at King, who was now looking out of the window as he smoked. Koehler followed his gaze out toward the taxis and then saw himself looking back, reflected in the glass and the night beyond it.

  King had been right. Koehler couldn’t look into his own eyes sometimes. For a while, not long ago, he thought he might one day be able to. When he’d sat with Hahn and asked for a transfer he thought that by at least trying, by at least making an effort to distance himself from what he was doing, he might be able to excuse himself from what he had done.

  Now, as the night went on, he realized that when he looked into his reflection too many ­people stared back at him.

  And whatever he did, they always would.

  Condensation ran down the inside of the glass, cut his face in half, then trickled down his mirrored cheek.

  He turned to King.

  “If you think I am dangerous, just wait until Rossett gets back to London.”

  King looked up.

  “You think he will make it?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  King nodded.

  “Nothing more than I deserve.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What about you?”

  “What?”

  “What do you deserve?”

  Koehler looked out of the window, through his reflection, and didn’t reply.

  There was nothing to say.

  CHAPTER 37

  THE AMERICANS WERE late.

  Sterling twisted in his seat so he could look out through the back window of his Alvis saloon car, and then turned back to his driver.

  “Five more minutes, then we go.”

  The driver nodded and checked his watch.

  Sterling had said the same thing twice in the last twenty minutes.

  They weren’t going anywhere.

  The snow had stopped and this part of London looked beautiful, as good as it had looked in the last few years.

  Clean and fresh, as if the population had painted the town white for a special occasion.

  Normally Sterling would have enjoyed the view, but not tonight, not after losing Anja.

  Sir James Sterling was a man who was normally in control. He was the kind of man who pulled strings, smoothed paths, greased palms, and made the wheels of government go round in a manner that suited him.

  He was a manipulator, a plotter, a survivor, an acquaintance to many but a friend to none.

  He liked being in control.

  And tonight, he wasn’t.

  Tonight things had spun out from under him. The girl had escaped. The girl who knew his name, the girl who was a German officer’s daughter, the girl who could have him shot, was out there somewhere.

  He wasn’t in control.

  He might already be a dead man.

  He had money.

  The Germans had steered clear of Switzerland, with its chocolate, its mountains, and, most important, its banks.

  Switzerland was the money cog the wheel of the world rotated round, and as long as it toed the Nazi line, it was safe from the Nazi jackboot.

  So that was where Sterling had his money.

  He guessed he would be able to get out of the country; his resistance contacts would see to that. A small boat to neutral Ireland, and then it would be easy enough for a man with his connections to acquire a false passport for a flight out of the country. Even if that route was barred to him, he was senior enough to enlist what was left of the Royal Navy and obtain a berth on one of the rusting subs that still sulked around the Atlantic monitoring shipping. Once in Canada he could get his hands on his money and take up a position with the government in exile.

  He’d survive.

  He just didn’t want to run away to do it. He didn’t want to be the little man abroad; he wanted to be Sir James Sterling, senior British civil servant by day, leader of the royalist resistance by night.

  He wanted to be in control, fighting for his country.

  He looked at his watch, twisted in his seat, and then settled once more.

  But then, beggars can’t be choosers.

  “Five more minutes,” he said, as much to himself as to the driver.

  The driver spoke for the first time since they’d left the warehouse.

  “They’re here, sir.”

  Sterling spun again to look out the back. Behind them, approaching slowly with its headlamps switched off, was one of the American embassy’s fleet of Chrysler saloons.

  It pulled in behind Sterling’s car, gliding to a halt some fifteen feet away, its nose pointing out from the curb a few inches to ensure a swift departure if required. The low rumble of its engine switched off and the street suddenly fell silent. Sterling heard the bolt easing back on the Thompson his driver had brought along.

  Sterling stared at the Chrysler out the back window, waiting for someone to get out.

  Twenty seconds passed, then he finally blinked and turned to his driver.

  “I’m going to them. If they leave with me inside, you make sure you follow, understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t care where they take me; you come and get me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sterling looked back at the Chrysler again, and then shook his head before getting out the Alvis. He stood on the sidewalk, squinting toward the Americans, trying to see how many ­people were inside. He lifted a hand, trying to look past the reflection of the streetlamp on the windscreen as he walked forward. His feet crunched in the snow, the cold forgotten as he bent slightly, trying to make out a friendly face.

 
The back door of the car opened silently as Sterling drew near. He looked toward his own car and then leaned into the Chrysler, one hand on the door, the other on the roof of the car.

  “Get in.” Kennedy was sitting in the shadows.

  Sterling climbed in the back of the Chrysler. Aside from the driver there was one other man in the front, turned in his seat, looking at him with the kind of confidence Sterling found the Americans so often seemed to have.

  Sterling frowned at the man, irritated by his impudence, then pulled the door closed behind him. The Chrysler started up and Sterling rested his hand on the door handle.

  “We’re better off moving. The Germans won’t stop a car with diplomatic plates,” Kennedy said as they eased away from the curb.

  Behind them Sterling’s own car followed; Sterling nervously watched it through the back window.

  Once they had edged out of the side street Kennedy spoke.

  “You were right about Frank King being involved in the kidnapping of the girl.”

  “I was,” Sterling replied as if it had never been in doubt.

  “He’s become quite a problem for us.”

  “Us?”

  “My government . . . me.”

  “So he wasn’t operating under orders?”

  “He’s made a considerable error of judgment.” Kennedy was looking out his side window as he spoke to Sterling, unable to look at him as he admitted a failing under his command.

  “I take it your calling this meeting has something to do with rectifying that mistake?”

  For the first time since Sterling had gotten into the car, Kennedy turned to him. “It does.”

  “You’re going to have to tell me what is going on before I can help you.”

  Kennedy nodded and looked out the window again; he then surprised Sterling by sighing heavily.

  “There are factions in the U.S. government who are unhappy with the thawing of our relationship with the Germans.”

  “There are more than factions in the British government who are unhappy about it.”

  “I am not one of the unhappy ones.” Kennedy looked at Sterling, his face heavy with rolling shadows from the streetlamps outside. “I have sympathy for your situation, of course, I genuinely do, but I’m also a realist, a realist who has an amount of respect for what the Nazis are doing here and in the rest of Europe.”

  “Killing ­people?”

  “Killing communists and bringing order.”

  “Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Ambassador,” Sterling said flatly, not meaning it.

  “If you want me to be truly honest, Sir James, I think Great Britain is dead in the water and that my country has no choice but to accept that and get on with building relationships.”

  “We have a strong resistance.”

  “You have nothing. Really, believe me, you have nothing. You ­people are a gnat on the ass of an elephant. Let’s not pretend that ambushing the odd truck on a back road or blowing up trash cans in train stations is going to change anything, because it isn’t, and you know it.”

  Kennedy turned back to the window but kept on speaking.

  “I met Churchill, before I came out here, back in the USA. He asked to come and see me. Do you know what he said after he sat down with a Scotch in my office?”

  “No.”

  “He said, ‘Get me some decent tea from Fortnum and Mason.’ ” Kennedy looked at Sterling. “Tea . . . tea is all he was interested in.”

  “I’m sure he had more to say than that.”

  “Oh, sure, he did.” Kennedy turned back to the window. “He talked about noble fights, British history, his war record, weapons, explosives, U.S. support, and a vocal ambassador in London standing up for the oppressed British ­people and what is right. But—­and this is the crux of it—­he knew one thing.” Kennedy lifted a finger. “Despite all the bluster, all the pacing back and forth, he knew there was only one thing he had a chance of getting: that tea from Fortnum and Mason.”

  “Even though your government has ‘factions’?”

  Kennedy chuckled to himself. “I said ‘factions,’ but what I should have said was ‘fools.’ Fools who think they can stop the inevitable, fools who still think Germany is our enemy.”

  “They aren’t fools for trying to stop the Germans from becoming too powerful.”

  “You’re talking about this superbomb?”

  “I am.”

  Kennedy studied Sterling before continuing.

  “That bomb won’t be aimed at us; it’ll be aimed at the Japs and the commies. Hitler knows that in Lindbergh we’ve got a president who understands what he is trying to do. We aren’t Hitler’s enemy. He knows that. He might be crazy, but he isn’t stupid.”

  “And what if the next president isn’t as accommodating to Hitler?”

  “Germany needs us, and we need them; any politician worth his salt knows that. In ten years’ time it won’t be bombs that keep us from going to war, it’ll be money. Lots of money. Already Germany is investing billions in the USA. We’re building a . . . a special new sort of relationship here. Lots of ­people are getting rich on both sides of the Atlantic, and rich ­people like getting richer. War is bad for business, and rich ­people are influential. Rich ­people make good politicians on both sides of the Atlantic. The USA is safe from superbombs and doesn’t need one for itself. Frank King and the ­people he is working for just haven’t realized that yet.”

  “So?”

  “So we need to stop them from risking the new U.S. and German relationship. Matters are thawing, we don’t need them to cause an incident and freeze the whole situation all over again. There is a lot riding on this.”

  “A lot of money.”

  “Damn right. That money means jobs, industry, and that’s all that matters now.” Kennedy nodded to himself as much as to Sterling, who spoke again.

  “It would be in my country’s interest to . . . destabilize this special relationship. I’m surprised you think I’ll help you in this matter.” Sterling noticed the eyes of the driver watching him in the mirror.

  “You may think that, Sir James, and you may be right. But let me assure you, if it is not in the interests of the British government in exile to help me in the matter, it most certainly is in yours. You’ve had dealings with us over the years, back when my government’s policies were somewhat different than they are now. Through this we have learned an awful lot about you and your organization. You can rest assured your cooperation in this matter will ensure our future discretion.”

  Sterling didn’t reply, so Kennedy continued.

  “That cooperation would also ensure that we would do our best to support you, or your organization, in the short term.”

  “How?”

  “Money.”

  “How much?”

  “Twenty thousand dollars.”

  “And weapons?”

  “No weapons. Just the money, in a Swiss account, in your name.”

  “What form would you expect my support to take?”

  “You make all this go away.”

  “How?”

  “You make this an English problem and nothing to do with America.”

  “What about King?”

  “Like I said, you make it go away.”

  “What about his sponsors?”

  “Once the mission fails, they’ll skulk off to plot something new, but that won’t be my problem. My problem is this problem, and that makes it your problem.”

  “How would you explain the disappearance of King?”

  “King and his sponsor in this country are due to return to the USA with fresh passports in a few hours’ time. Once we find two ­people who look sufficiently enough like them.”

  “Would it be possible for you to arrange one of those fresh passports for someone else?”

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p; “Who?”

  “Me.”

  Kennedy stared at Sterling a moment, then nodded.

  “I’m sure something could be arranged.”

  Sterling smiled and scratched behind his ear.

  “The Germans won’t like this; the death of the scientist will result in severe repercussions.”

  “So be it. This has to be a visibly British operation. Anything that links it to the U.S. will ensure there is no compensation for your work . . . or for you.”

  “The rich get richer?” Sterling looked at Kennedy.

  “The rich get richer,” Kennedy replied, signaling that the driver should pull over to let Sterling get out.

  CHAPTER 38

  THEY’D BEEN DRIVING for twenty minutes and Rossett still hadn’t managed to get out of second gear.

  Not that Rossett really wanted to get out of second gear.

  The Austin Seven they had taken from the farmer was nearly twenty years old, smelled of pigs and piss, falling apart, prone to stalling, and bereft of brakes.

  If the German army didn’t kill them, the Austin probably would.

  “Does this thing go any faster?” Ruth shouted over the rattle of the engine.

  Rossett dipped the clutch and revved the engine once more, a desperate attempt to coax life from another wheezing cough and stutter.

  “I hope not.”

  “They’ll be setting up roadblocks. We need to speed up.”

  Rossett tried for third, snatching at the gear stick and dipping the clutch again. The car slithered to the edge of the road on some drifted snow. He swung the steering wheel as branches from roadside trees clattered against the windscreen and the passenger window.

  Rossett changed his mind about third and returned the stick to second, wheel still slewed to the right, car still sliding to the left.

  The tires gripped, the car lurched, and the center of the road came back into view as Ruth braced herself with one hand on the dashboard and the other on the roof.

  “Are you sure you can drive?” she shouted, lowering her arm slowly.

  “I can. I’m not sure if the car can, though.”