The British Lion

by Tony Schumacher

  “We should tell somebody what is going on.”

  “You said you didn’t want to end up in a concentration camp?”

  March looked at Neumann and then shook his head.

  “I don’t.”

  “Well, then, you’d best not tell anyone.”

  “But we can’t just . . . we can’t just . . .”

  Neumann held up his hand, stopping a floundering March from continuing.

  “We’ve one chance, one way to make this work.”

  “What?”

  Neumann scratched his temple with the hand holding the cigarette, then looked at his junior officer.

  “You can get out of this car now. All I ask is that you go home, end your shift, and give me one day to see if I can sort this out. I’ll make no mention of you if it goes wrong. I’ll make sure you aren’t involved.”

  “I’m not going to do that, sir. I just want to know what is going on.”

  Neumann nodded, looking at the junior officer, letting him know how much he appreciated his loyalty without actually saying it.

  He took another pull on his cigarette.

  “When Koehler gets his daughter, we catch the scientist before she is handed over. The plan is we hang back, we wait for the handover, and then we move in. That way Koehler gets the kid, then he helps us recapture the scientist, and we all get to look like heroes.”

  “But Koehler won’t go for that. He’ll end up in jail himself—­he’ll probably be shot for being involved in the kidnap of the scientist.”

  “He won’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he has a plan.”

  “Which is?”

  “We’re going to blame the Englishman. We’re going to blame Rossett.”

  IT WAS AN hour before the black taxi pulled up at the warehouse. During that time the docks had started to come to life, and the road was now full of horse-­drawn carts, wagons, and cars.

  Neumann and March hadn’t spoken for the entire time. Neither moved when the taxi arrived. It came to a stop, but no one got out.

  A few minutes after the taxi, a box van pulled up, drawing to a halt just ahead of it. The van reversed slowly so that the taxi’s nose was a ­couple of feet from the van’s back doors.

  Three men climbed out from the back of the taxi and stood on the pavement.

  Neumann and March didn’t move an inch as one of the men on the pavement looked across at their car for a moment. Neumann thanked God that cars weren’t as rare in the docks district as they were in other parts of the city.

  He twisted in his seat, pulled his Mauser out of his pocket, and checked the clip. March did the same. Neumann had heard stories of Germans being kidnapped and tortured; he didn’t intend to be one of them.

  The door of the warehouse opened. The men by the taxi stepped out of the way as another unmarked box van pulled out of the warehouse and double-­parked next to the first.

  Neumann watched as a fat woman, wrapped up against the cold like a Russian babushka, waddled out of the warehouse and climbed into the taxi. Two of the men took up station on either side of the warehouse door as the third held open the door of the taxi. Anja Koehler, dressed in black and looking tired, pale, but not the least bit scared, emerged from the warehouse. Her left arm was held tightly by a fourth man, who seemed twice as big as the others.

  Anja was pushed into the taxi, where she took a seat next to Ma Price. The big man who had escorted her squeezed in on the other side of her as someone else shut the door. Neumann watched as Anja looked over her shoulder in the back of the cab, almost directly toward them.

  She seemed to stare.

  Neumann and March breathed out.

  “We could go and get her now,” said March. “She is right there.”

  “There’s too many of them.”

  He watched as the back door of one of the vans opened up and the men who had got out of the taxi climbed up and in, closing the door behind them.

  The first van pulled away, closely followed by the taxi, then the second van.

  Neumann started the car and watched the convoy head to the top of the road, then turned to March.

  “Last chance.”

  “Last chance for both of us.”

  The convoy turned right, away from the river, heading toward the maze that was London.

  Neumann looked at March and back at the last van, which was making the turn.

  “Drive,” said March.

  CHAPTER 46

  NOBODY SPOKE AT the table.

  In the early morning clatter and bang of a twenty-­four-­hour café, their table was a silent void that dripped with words unsaid.

  Koehler sat opposite King, who was squeezed against the window by Rossett, who sat across from Ruth.

  Ruth and Rossett had turned up moments earlier, after parking the Mercedes five minutes away from the café. Rossett had left the shotgun in the car and changed back into the white shirt he’d been carrying in his coat pocket. They had telephoned ahead to check all was clear. As they sat at the table, still buttoned up against the cold, Ruth’s cheeks glowed red. Her hands wrapped around the mug of tea in front of her on the table.

  She broke the silence, looking at King.

  “It’s good to meet you at last.”

  “Don’t speak to him,” Koehler said quietly.

  “You must be the Nazi.”

  Ruth tilted her head as Koehler looked at her.

  “I must be the man whose wife died because of him, and because of you.”

  Ruth nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Don’t be. Just do as I say when I say it.”

  “You’re not in a position to order me around, Major,” Ruth replied.

  “Oh, I am; believe me, I really am.”

  They stared at each other.

  Rossett tapped his index finger against a teaspoon, causing it to ring like a tiny gavel on the tabletop.

  “When and where are we meeting Ma Price?” he asked.

  Koehler stared at Ruth a moment longer, then checked his watch and looked at Rossett.

  “Finsbury Circus, in one hour. Do you know it?”

  “Yeah, it’s a good spot. Lots of ways in, lots of ways out.”

  “You can trust this man Fraser to not lead us into a trap?” Koehler was speaking to Rossett but still looking at Ruth.

  “I think so. We’ve known each other a long time.”

  “You’re friends?” Ruth asked.

  Rossett shrugged but didn’t reply.

  “It’ll be difficult for them to ambush us there,” Koehler said to Rossett, as if Ruth hadn’t spoken. “It’s wide open in the park, and this time of the morning there will be lots of traffic. It’s a good spot for both sides for the same reasons.”

  King spoke up for the first time since Rossett had arrived.

  “If you would let me make some calls, I can maybe help here. I can put a lot of pressure on this Price woman, make this work out right for all of us. I can get some money down here, whatever she wants.”

  Koehler turned to King.

  “Be quiet.”

  “Listen to me, I know—­”

  “No, King, you listen. You have to be quiet. Seriously, you have to be very quiet. I want to blow your brains out. I want to put my hand in my pocket, pull out my gun, and kill you. If you think because we’ve sat here all night and talked, that we are now friends and I’ve forgotten what you have done . . . you are wrong. You’re walking a tightrope made out of piano wire, so be quiet, and be thankful that you still have a use, because I swear, the second that use expires, I’ll make you pay for what you’ve done.”

  King sat back in his chair and placed both hands flat on the table.

  Koehler turned to Rossett.

  “How should we play this?”<
br />
  “Who is this Price?” Ruth interrupted.

  “She has my daughter,” Koehler replied.

  “Am I to understand you are handing me over to her instead of him?” Ruth pointed at King.

  “Yes.”

  “That isn’t possible.”

  “It is, because it is what is going to happen. Once I have my daughter, you can do what you want with whom you want, but until then, you do as I say.”

  Ruth looked at Rossett.

  “You know how important this is, how important I am. Tell him I have to get out with King as soon as possible, and with no complications.”

  Rossett looked at Koehler, who nodded that he should answer.

  “You are important, but he is my friend. My priorities lie with helping my friend. I’m sorry. Once we have Anja, then I’ll help you, but until then . . .”

  “Price will arrange a deal with him.” Koehler pointed at King. “Assuming he is still alive.”

  King looked at Ruth but didn’t speak.

  Ruth looked first at Rossett, and then back to Koehler.

  “You can’t risk me. I know it is your daughter, I truly understand how important this is to you, but—­”

  “I’m afraid you don’t get a say.”

  “I need to explain—­”

  Koehler dropped his hand onto Ruth’s arm, holding it so tightly that she stopped speaking and looked down, and then up into his face as he moved closer.

  “Be quiet,” Koehler whispered.

  “Ernst.” Rossett stared across the table at Koehler. “Let go of her arm.”

  Koehler looked at his hand, then at Ruth. He lifted his arm and shook his head.

  “My daughter, she is all I have now, all I want. Nothing, none of you, is going to get in the way of that.”

  “We need a taxi,” said Rossett, and everyone at the table looked at him.

  “You want to go by cab?” Koehler sounded surprised.

  “I’m going to steal one.” Rossett nodded to the ten or so taxis parked outside the café, on both sides of the street. “This place is a shift changeover spot. Night drivers pass the cab on to the day man; some cabs stay here all day and all night if the driver isn’t working. I’ll find one with a cold bonnet and it won’t be missed, plus it’ll help us keep a low profile. There isn’t a better way to blend in than being a black cab in London.”

  Koehler looked at the taxis outside. “Can you get one quickly?”

  “Most of them are push-­button starts. We can pick one away from the window. None of these drivers will realize what I’m doing.”

  Koehler nodded.

  “Ernst, remember.” Rossett flicked his head at King. “If something goes wrong, we need him.”

  “How long have we got?” Koehler asked.

  Rossett looked at his watch. “Forty-­five minutes.”

  “Let’s go steal a taxi.”

  Koehler stood up, gently taking hold of Ruth’s arm and helping her to her feet.

  She looked at him once they were both standing, and he leaned in close to whisper in her ear.

  “Don’t try anything, don’t try to get away, and don’t risk my daughter’s life. If I have to, I will blow off both of your kneecaps to keep you with me, do you understand?”

  Ruth nodded, all the while watching Frank King, who was pulling his overcoat on behind Koehler. King returned Ruth’s gaze and smiled, barely a millimeter’s worth of movement.

  But Ruth read it.

  The smile said, Don’t worry, I got this.

  Ruth didn’t have the heart to let him know she had “this” herself.

  THEY WALKED TOWARD the farthest taxi in the rank; Koehler glanced back at Rossett and King, who were coming out of the café after paying the bill. Rossett walked a few paces behind King, and everyone except Rossett passed the cab and stopped a ­couple of doors down. Rossett casually stepped into the street and jumped into the driver’s seat.

  His head dipped beneath the steering wheel.

  Koehler looked up and down the street and then fixed his eyes on King, who was standing between him and the taxi.

  King turned to look at him, almost as if he had felt the weight of Koehler’s gaze upon his back. King’s face was white, like the snow on the streets, his eyes partially bloodshot. He looked tired and dispirited.

  Koehler squeezed the grip of the pistol in his pocket.

  The pistol felt light in Koehler’s hand. It wanted to slide out, slip free, do its job.

  King looked down at the pocket, as if reading Koehler’s mind.

  The world was silent.

  King looked into Koehler’s eyes.

  Koehler’s thumb circled the hammer.

  King’s eyes.

  Watching, waiting, almost willing.

  The pistol rose, lighter than air, as if it had a mind of its own.

  Rossett grasped Koehler’s arm.

  So close to Koehler that from a distance it might have looked as if they were embracing.

  “Anja,” Rossett said.

  Koehler looked at him, and the pistol felt heavy and mindless again.

  “I . . .”

  “We need him if things go wrong with Price, if we lose Anja today, or even Ruth. He gives them a reason to keep in touch with us. He is their ticket out.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Remember Anja.” Rossett eased his hold on Koehler.

  “Yes.”

  “Come on.” Rossett stepped away and Koehler let go of the gun, feeling it drop back the few inches to the bottom of his pocket.

  Koehler climbed into the taxi first, followed by Ruth. Rossett shoved King firmly, causing him to stumble toward the cab.

  “Get in.”

  King did as he was told, sitting at the other end of the bench seat from Koehler, with Ruth in between.

  Rossett revved the engine and edged out into the traffic.

  FINSBURY CIRCUS WAS a long way from being under a big top. There were no clowns, no acrobats, and definitely no elephants.

  Instead, there was traffic, a lot of traffic, slowly rotating around a small park set in the center of a wide circle of gray granite five-­story Georgian houses. A grim, heavy gray sky seemed to box the circus in from above.

  Finsbury Circus was a roundabout. Traffic entered from three streets positioned at the east, south, and west of the park. Vehicles rotated in both directions, stop-­starting until they reached their exit or parked next to the narrow sidewalks. The park in the middle was maybe an eighth of a mile in diameter and was surrounded by a wrought-­iron railing with gates equally spaced around its perimeter. The gates were positioned like quarter-­hour marks on a clock, although they were slightly offset so as not to open onto the busy street junctions. Pathways in the park met in its center, like spokes on a wheel.

  Rossett chose to approach via Moorgate Road, which entered the circus from the west. He’d spent the ten-­minute drive constantly checking the rearview mirror, but he’d barely paid attention to the traffic behind. His eyes had been on Koehler, who was staring silently at the passing streets, head rolling with each bump and bang of a passing pothole, lost in thoughts that Rossett didn’t want to know.

  “Ernst!” Rossett shouted through the partition that separated the driver from the passengers.

  Koehler looked at him.

  “Two minutes!” Rossett shouted, wanting to say more, but reluctant to share his concerns about Koehler with King and Ruth.

  Koehler nodded and leaned forward to pick up one of the MP40s they had collected from the Mercedes on their way to the park. He checked the magazine, then slotted it back in and worked the bolt before repeating the exercise with the second gun.

  Once finished, Koehler returned to staring out of the window, this time with both machine pistols on his lap, his hands f
olded over them.

  “One minute,” Rossett said. “I’m going to turn into the circus and then do a ­couple of laps so we can see the lay of the land, okay?”

  “The lay of the land?” Ruth leaned forward.

  “All these houses and apartments give great cover for anyone looking to ambush us. If there is any doubt, we can pull out and leave before we’re separated from the vehicle,” King said to Ruth.

  “Nobody is leaving,” Koehler said softly, face still turned to the window.

  Rossett watched the exchange in the mirror, experiencing a sense of dread that he’d not felt since the early days of the war in France. Back then he’d sometimes been surrounded by ­people who either weren’t ready for a fight or were too ready to fight.

  Either attitude could be lethal, especially when it was ­coupled with ­people you couldn’t trust.

  No wonder Rossett preferred working alone.

  He slowed the cab and then turned into Finsbury Circus.

  The circus was quieter than usual, mainly due to the snow and the early hour. What cars and buses there were moved slowly, picking their way through rutted roads with occasional slips and slides. Rossett scanned the area for any sign of Ma Price and her men, but everything looked normal, the same as it always was.

  Rossett checked his watch. Eight fifty, not much time to do a proper reconnaissance.

  During his army training, an old sergeant had once screamed, “Piss-­poor preparation equals piss-­poor performance!”

  As Rossett picked his way through the traffic of the circus, making two complete circuits, he understood exactly what that old sergeant had meant.

  He pulled over just across the road from the bandstand entrance of the park. No sooner had the cab stopped than Koehler had his door open.

  Koehler stepped out onto the curb, facing the cab, keeping his body close to it; he passed an MP40 through the driver’s window to Rossett.

  “You all right?” Rossett asked Koehler.

  “Yes,” Koehler replied, his eyes scanning the area.

  “She’ll have someone watching, ready to give a signal that we’re here,” said Rossett.

  “Yes.”

  “I’d sooner you didn’t take Ruth, but I’ll have my hands full with King. I’ll go around once more and then come in the gate to your left; I’ll be able to watch your flank and rear from there.”