The British Lion

by Tony Schumacher

  Rossett felt the burn, sudden and sharp, right through his forearm. Like a shaken rag doll he took a step to the right, then another. Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement by the goods entrance. He looked and saw Ruth with the others passing through, into the darkness of the station.

  Ruth gave one last look back, dragged by Sterling, shouting, reaching out toward him.

  Rossett tried to steady himself, but it was like he was wading through mud. His limbs felt heavy, his feet were like lead, each blink seemed to take seconds as he stumbled, fighting to get his balance.

  He realized the other Thompson had stopped firing but didn’t look to see if Sterling’s man was all right. Rossett breathed deep, feeling the concussion sap his strength. He dropped to one knee, his head hanging heavily, sleepy.

  Rossett paused, gathered his strength, sucked in more air, and turned back to the car.

  The Thompson seemed to weigh a ton, but he lifted it again, one more time. Time to end all this.

  He fired.

  He saw a flash of Koehler’s blond hair dip below the wing.

  Rossett’s Thompson clicked.

  Empty.

  He heard the train whistle, calling through the night.

  Saying good-­bye.

  He let go of the barrel and tried to work the bolt but found he didn’t have the strength. The muzzle of the gun dropped into the snow next to his knee, and Rossett sank back onto his heels, his hand falling to his side, blood in his eyes.

  His head dropped forward, and he saw more blood in the snow.

  He heard the whistle once more, but this time he didn’t look.

  Someone fired a gun somewhere, and Rossett noticed his shirt was soaked in blood from the stab wound as his chin rested on his chest. He heard the shunting and the power of a steam engine, and another whistle wailed.

  A train was leaving the station on the other side of the wall.

  He dropped into the snow and rolled slowly onto his back.

  He lifted his head and saw Koehler, halfway across the road, running toward the goods entrance, slowing, then stopping.

  Rossett knew he had done enough.

  She was gone.

  KOEHLER DROPPED THE empty MP40 and drew his Mauser.

  He’d only made it halfway to the station entrance, and he knew he’d failed.

  He stopped, lifted his hands, and dropped them to his sides as he heard the train powering out of the station. He stared at the goods entrance, and then slowly turned to Rossett.

  His friend.

  Neumann was emerging from behind the car. The policeman looked like he was in shock, half crouching, pistol pointed at Rossett.

  “Leave him,” called Koehler, his own pistol at his side as he walked across the road.

  When he got to Rossett he found that he was staring up at the sky with glassy eyes.

  Koehler dropped to his knees. Rossett was in a bad way. His shirt was soaked with blood, and there was another leaking wound on his forearm, staining the white wet snow. More blood was seeping from Rossett’s scalp, and Koehler gently touched the flap of skin and tried to close the wound with a fingertip.

  “I’m sorry it has come to this, John,” Koehler whispered, even though he knew Rossett probably couldn’t hear him.

  “How is he?” Neumann came up behind him.

  “I think he’s passed out.”

  “Is he dying?”

  “He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  Koehler wrapped his hand around Rossett’s arm to try and stop the bleeding.

  “We need to get out of here,” Neumann said quietly.

  “I can’t leave him like this. You go.”

  “If they find you here . . .”

  “Go.”

  Koehler looked up and saw Neumann staring at the police car parked behind them, riddled with bullet holes.

  “I signed for the car; there isn’t much point in my running.”

  “I’m sorry for this, what I got you into. I’m sorry.”

  NEUMANN PASSED KOEHLER his handkerchief.

  “Can you trust him not to say anything? He’s just been trying to kill you.”

  “If he’d wanted to kill me, he would have done. He was just giving her the chance to get away.”

  Some station staff appeared at the goods entrance, watching Neumann, Rossett, and Koehler.

  “They’ll have called the police.” Neumann nodded his head in the direction of the staff as Koehler wrapped the handkerchief around the wound on Rossett’s arm.

  “Yes.”

  “What do we do?” Neumann looked at Koehler. “Me and you, where does this leave us?”

  “I got you into this, Neumann. You say what you need to say to stay alive and get back to your family. I’ll agree to it, I owe you that.”

  Neumann looked at the pistol in his hand, then slipped it into his coat pocket. He stared at the upturned taxicab and the resistance man lying in the snow next to it.

  Neumann walked across to the taxi as the first of the responding police cars slid into the top of the road, stopping well short of the scene of the shooting, holding back in case more rounds were about to be fired.

  Neumann dropped next to the dead resistance man on the ground. Two feet away lay Rossett’s warrant card, open in the snow. Neumann picked it up, shielding it from the view of the policemen cautiously making their way up the road behind him, and slipped it into the jacket pocket of the dead man. Then he climbed to his feet, arms rising above his head, just as the bobby behind him knocked him back to the ground.

  CHAPTER 51

  SCHMITT, THE GESTAPO man, pulled back the curtain and entered the cubicle.

  His leather coat creaked when he leaned over and looked into Neumann’s eyes.

  “You’re awake?”

  “Yes.”

  Schmitt peered at him.

  “You’re uninjured?”

  “I’m in shock, and have a concussion,” Neumann lied. “They say it was from the crash, but I think it was that copper and his truncheon.”

  Schmitt nodded, still unnaturally close, still peering.

  “I’m Schmitt, do you know what I am?”

  “Gestapo.”

  “Correct.”

  Neumann blinked and swallowed. The smell of the leather was making him feel nauseous.

  Schmitt noisily dragged a chair to the side of the bed and sat down.

  “You had quite an adventure this evening.” Schmitt’s coat creaked as he spoke.

  “We were following up a lead into the death of Koehler’s wife.”

  “What lead?”

  “We had information the resistance were involved.”

  “What information?”

  “That the men who killed her were trying to flee the capital by train.”

  “Who gave you that information?”

  “It was an anonymous tip.”

  “Anonymous?”

  “Yes.”

  “Convenient.”

  “It’s often the way, Herr Schmitt. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Do you know where Rossett has been these last few days?” Schmitt tried another tack.

  “He’s been with us.”

  “Us?”

  “Me and Koehler.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Being a policeman. It’s his job.”

  “He hasn’t left your side?”

  “No.”

  “He’s stayed in London?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Koehler?”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s also stayed in London?” Schmitt’s eyebrow edged up a fraction.

  “He’s been helping us with the inquiries into his wife’s death.”

  “He was a suspect?”

>   “Initially.”

  “But not now?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “The evidence points to resistance involvement.”

  “Evidence?”

  “The scene, the circumstances, his alibi, yes.”

  “And his daughter?”

  “We think she was kidnapped, then released by the resistance.”

  “At Finsbury Circus?”

  Neumann paused before answering, collecting his thoughts.

  “We had a tip-­off that Koehler’s daughter was being taken to the circus. The informant told us that she was being passed by one faction of the resistance to another, so we intercepted that handover.”

  “I take it this informant was also anonymous?”

  “He was.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I can only tell you the facts, Herr Schmitt.”

  “I wish you would.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Schmitt adjusted position in the chair again, his coat creaking even louder.

  “There was an American at Finsbury Circus.”

  “Was there?” Neumann tried to sound surprised. “Have you spoken to him?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Indeed.” Schmitt sat back in the chair. “The American’s involvement and subsequent death has caused us . . . problems.”

  “Problems?” Neumann detected a shift in Schmitt’s voice that caused him to turn his head and look at him, for the first time since he had sat down. “What kind of problems?”

  “Embarrassing problems.”

  “The worst kind.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Can I help you with these . . . problems?”

  Schmitt scratched his nose before continuing.

  “It would be . . . useful, if you could confirm something for me.”

  “If I can, I will.” Neumann adjusted his shoulders, raising himself slightly higher on his pillow.

  “If it turned out this dead American was working against the Reich, it could be highly embarrassing for both governments.”

  “Of course.”

  “Ambassador Kennedy has assured Prime Minister Mosley and General Hahn that the dead American was working with us, trying to rescue Koehler’s daughter from the resistance. Is that true?”

  “It is.” Neumann nodded to back up his words.

  “If it was confirmed that this American was also the source of your information, that would also be of assistance.”

  “He was.”

  “So you’re saying the dead American was doing his best to help German-­American relations.”

  “He was.”

  “And that he died heroically.”

  “He did.”

  “Even though a moment ago you didn’t know he was there?”

  “I’d say and do anything for the good of the Reich, Herr Schmitt.”

  “Hmm.” Schmitt sat silently a moment, both hands on his knees, until he rose suddenly and crossed to the curtain. He pulled it open and looked back at Neumann.

  “I’ll have a full report written that you can sign to this effect.”

  “Of course.”

  Schmitt stared at him, then looked at the floor, then looked back at Neumann.

  “Neumann . . . I know all this is bullshit. Just because I am standing here, saying it, doesn’t mean I don’t know.”

  Neumann swallowed but didn’t reply.

  Schmitt sighed and then spoke again.

  “Koehler is toxic. He infects those around him like rabies and makes them do crazy things. You’d do well to remember that. Just sign this paperwork, stick to this story, and then, for your own good, put as much distance between yourself and Koehler as you possibly can.”

  “I’ll do what is best.”

  “Koehler is walking a tightrope, and the wind is picking up. He’ll not manage to stay on his feet much longer.”

  Neumann nodded and Schmitt turned to go.

  “Herr Schmitt?”

  Schmitt stopped and looked back in.

  “Rossett?” Neumann tilted his head.

  “What about him?”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Rossett?” Schmitt shook his head. “He’s alive. Concussed, busted up, but he’ll live.”

  “I thought he was a goner.”

  “Rossett?” Schmitt shook his head again and almost smiled. “It would take an army to kill that bastard.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THE BRITISH GOVERNMENT’S MAUD Committee, and the later Tube Alloys project, were the stepping stones to the destructive outcome of the U.S. Manhattan Project. I’m afraid I don’t have the space (or for that matter the intelligence) to fully detail their work, but what I can say is that their theorizing and calculations were instrumental in changing the British, and later the American, government’s mind regarding the feasibility of an atomic bomb.

  There has been conjecture for years as to whether Great Britain, on her own, could have manufactured an atomic bomb during the early years of the war. Without doubt there was no shortage of brainpower and ingenuity, but I think it is fair to say that the country was stretched a little too much to dedicate the manufacturing capacity required to put the plans into action.

  Another question is whether a bomb would have stopped Hitler. The answer has to be that unless it killed him, probably not. We saw the depths he was prepared to go to in trying to win, even when the rest of the world knew it was lost. A nuclear explosion over Germany may have shortened the war by damaging infrastructure and causing untold deaths, but I doubt that it would have ended it as dramatically as the terrible events at Hiroshima and Nagasaki did with the war in the east.

  The solace we can take is that the great minds behind the MAUD Committee, the men who had the intelligence to look over the horizon and see what other scientists couldn’t, were on the side of good, and not evil.

  I’ll ask you to remember that this book was a work of fiction, and I hope you have forgiven me any flights of fancy upon which I’ve been carried in bringing you this story.

  SO MANY AMAZING people put this book in front of you; honestly I’d be here all day if I thanked them all, so I’ll try and keep it as short as I can.

  In the U.S. there is the amazing team at Sobel Weber, and specifically my agent Nat Sobel, whose wisdom and experience has been invaluable.

  The team at HarperCollins U.S.: David Highfill, my editor, who has to slog through my poor grammar and lazy attempts at spelling. Lauren Jackson, who deals with my whining emails, poor taste in music, and empty boasting about my pool-playing skills. I can’t forget the wonderful Chloe Moffett and Ashley Marudas, whose patience in dealing with a generally confused English idiot without visiting the crying room too often is also invaluable.

  In the UK the wonderful team at Harper 360: Karen Davies, Helena Towers, and Alice and Ellie, who have to put up with me visiting occasionally and leaving sticky finger marks on their office windows.

  Outside of publishing are my friends Tracey Edges, Jane Buchanan, Ruaridh Nicoll, Jo Hughes, and Ian Collins. All of them are supportive with a word of advice or encouragement in the small hours, when my head is hurting after hitting it too hard and too often on my desk.

  I could never forget my dear friends and family in Liverpool: Sweeney, Terry, Tony, Denise, Jim, Philip, John, Wendy, Cliff, Dave, Glenda, Sarah, Angie, Trace, Ian G., Ian M., Rob, Graham, Barry, and the boys at the tip.

  I love you all (except Sweeney) and I’m sorry I don’t say it more often.

  Last but in no way least, thank you, the person reading this. You’ve helped make my dream come true, give yourself a pat on the back.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Tony Schumacher is a native of Liverpool, England. He has written for the Guardi
an and the Huffington Post, and he is a regular contributor to BBC Radio and London’s LBC Radio. He has been a policeman, stand-up comedian, bouncer, jeweler, taxi driver, perfume salesman, actor, and garbage collector, among other occupations. He currently lives outside Liverpool.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  ALSO BY TONY SCHUMACHER

  The Darkest Hour

  CREDITS

  Cover design by Richard L. Aquan

  Cover photographs: Flag © by Powered by Light/Alan Spencer/Alamy; Trafalgar Square Lion © by Alan Burles/Alamy

  COPYRIGHT

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE BRITISH LION. Copyright © 2015 by Tony Schumacher. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  FIRST EDITION

  ISBN 978-­0-­06-­239459-­0

  EPub Edition OCTOBER 2015 ISBN 9780062394613

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