The British Lion (8 page)

“I know,” Koehler said quietly. “That’s why I’m here.”

Rossett looked at his friend. He understood Koehler was there because he knew if anyone could get the scientist, Rossett could.

“THE BRITISH LION.”
That was what the newspapers had called him around the time of the collapse at Dunkirk.

A country clinging on by its fingertips, its navy beaten back by bad weather as it tried to rescue a battered army off the bloody beaches of Dunkirk.

Not many had kept fighting in France once the evacuation had failed.

Rossett had.

He hadn’t given up, crossing the channel in a stolen torpedo boat twice with injured men and fleeing soldiers. He’d have gone back a third time if the boat hadn’t been sunk in the bombardment of Dover.

Churchill, desperate for heroes to rally an almost broken nation, had stood next to Rossett for the pictures at Buckingham Palace as the king pinned on Britain’s highest military honor.

John Henry Rossett, Victoria Cross.

King George saluted the British Lion as the papers took his picture and the sound of artillery crashed in the distance.

Over the king’s shoulder Rossett could see the packing cases being loaded on the trucks parked behind the camera.

The king knew the game was up, and he was running to Canada.

Rossett wasn’t.

Just as Churchill had asked, Rossett fought on the beaches, he fought on the landing grounds, and he fought in the fields and the streets.

He never surrendered.

But the government did.

Germany won, Rossett lost.

When he finally was captured, the Lion was caged, then broken, as his family were annihilated at Waterloo Station.

By the time he was released, the Germans were at home in London. Swastikas hung next to Union Jacks around the city. King Edward and Prime Minister Mosley waved shyly from the balcony at Buckingham Palace next to a triumphant Hitler.

There were crowds in the Mall.

That was the thing that had surprised Rossett when he saw the pictures.

Crowds.

Waving, cheering, saluting the new king and the devil who had put him there.

THEY PULLED UP
outside Koehler’s apartment building in Kensington about forty-five minutes later. Rossett could smell the booze on his own breath, mixed with the stink of cheap tobacco; he wiped his hand across his mouth as they stopped. A miserable, cold, solitary SS guard, the one Koehler had spoken to earlier, was standing under a damp, drooping swastika flag. He recognized Koehler and sprang to as soon as he climbed out of the car.

Koehler ignored him and leaned back into the vehicle.

“Wait here. I’ll get changed and get some cash and a couple of pistols.”

Rossett nodded, not wanting to say that he already had a knife and his Webley .44 in his pocket.

Koehler jogged up the steps and entered the building via the revolving door. He felt his cheeks burn with the warmth of the central heating. Through force of habit he looked across at the concierge’s booth and was surprised to see it empty.

It had been a tough call whether to go to his office or to the apartment first. As he saw it, there were arguments in favor of both. He needed to go to the office to write the order that he would use to bring Ruth from Cambridge to London.

But deep inside he had wanted to check the flat again just to be sure that this wasn’t a bad dream or sick joke, inflicted by someone with no heart, before he set off on a crazy adventure that he knew, in the deepest, darkest part of his soul, was never going to end well.

Rather than wake the building by using the rickety, clanging elevator, Koehler jogged up the stairs to his flat. His feet whispered through the thick red carpet as he thought about Anja and the races he always let her win on the same set of stairs.

A good memory.

He blotted it out.

The mission, always remember the mission. Look forward, never back. Eyes on the target.

The mantra he’d taught a thousand different men under his command.

“Focus,” he said out loud as topped the stairs on the third floor before walking along the corridor to his apartment.

He unlocked the door, entered the flat, and turned on the light.

Generalmajor Neumann was sitting opposite him in an armchair, stroking a sleeping Schwarz.

“Major Koehler, I was beginning to worry.” Neumann smiled.

Schwarz lifted his head, blinking.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I am Police Generalmajor Erhard Neumann of the Kriminalpolizei. Excuse me for not getting up; I don’t want to disturb your delightful kitten,” Neumann rubbed a knuckle behind Schwarz’s ear and the cat leaned back into it and started to yawn. “The gentleman behind you is Lieutenant March,” Neumann continued, holding up his ID with the hand that wasn’t stroking Schwarz.

Koehler turned. He’d not seen the younger man. March nodded but didn’t speak.

“What is the meaning of this?” Koehler turned back to Neumann, who lifted Schwarz from his lap and lowered him to the floor.

Schwarz gave a low moan of disappointment, stretched, yawned, sat down, and then stared at Koehler while licking his lips.

All eyes in the room were on Koehler.

“I’m sorry for the intrusion, Major. We had to search your flat and you weren’t home.” Neumann rose stiffly from the chair and Koehler realized they had been there for some time.

“My flat? What for?” Koehler looked back at March, nervous with him standing behind him.

“Your wife.”

Koehler rocked and then turned back to Neumann.

“My wife?”

“This is your wife’s identity card?” Neumann fumbled in his inside jacket pocket, theatrically looking into it, playing the game, then smiling and approaching as he held up Lotte’s card.

Koehler squinted at it and nodded.

“How did you get that?” His heart raced.

“I found it at the scene of a robbery this evening.”

“My wife has been robbed?”

Neumann frowned. “When did you last see your wife?”

“This morning. I’ve been out all day and ended up working late. I . . .”

Koehler was gulping for air. The police being involved changed everything. They were one step down from the Gestapo, and almost as dangerous. He heard a snatch of panic in his voice, but then Neumann rescued him by holding up his hand, gesturing for Koehler to slow down.

“Please, Major, take a breath. When did you last see your wife?”

Koehler paused, breathed, and then spoke.

“This morning at about eight o’clock, when I went to work. She was still in bed.”

“So you’ve been out all day?” Neumann slipped the ID card into one pocket and pulled out a notebook and pencil from another.

“Yes, as I say, I’ve been working.” Koehler glanced at March, then back to Neumann.

Neumann nodded, put the pencil into his mouth, and then flicked through the notebook looking for the final page of writing. Finally he removed the pencil from his teeth and looked up.

“The concierge said you came home around nine this evening, and that you remained here a short time before rushing out again?”

Schwarz licked his paw, wiped it across his face, and then looked back at Koehler before flicking his head to rid himself of an itch.

Neumann pointed to the door with his pencil.

“Is the concierge lying? I can have him brought up; he is downstairs with my men.”

“He isn’t lying.”

“So you came home?”

Koehler nodded.

Neumann scratched his cheek with the pencil, then sighed before looking back at the notebook.

“Maybe the major would like to take a seat?”

Koehler nodded. He crossed the room slowly, mind racing. He sneaked a glance at the French window that opened out onto the wrought-iron balcony, briefly considering jumping.

Lunacy.

Three floors down.

He was no good to Lotte and Anja dead.

He sat down in an armchair, rubbing a hand across his face as Neumann dragged a dining chair across the room toward him.

March stayed at the door, watching.

Neumann sat down directly in front of Koehler before flipping through the notepad again. Koehler stared at the top of the policeman’s head, wondering if playing with the notebook was just a ruse to make him uneasy.

If it was, it was working.

Neumann looked up. “So, when did you last see your wife?”

“I told you, eight o’clock this morning. Can I have a drink?”

“Soon. Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“It’s just that you’ve already lied to me, Major.”

Koehler shook his head.

“I didn’t lie. I forgot. I was confused. I’m not used to coming home and finding detectives in my apartment.”

“Of course,” Neumann replied and looked at March. “Who is?”

“Criminals,” replied March, speaking for the first time since Koehler had arrived.

Schwarz stood up and sauntered across the room, jumped up onto the settee, and pulled with his claws a few times. The sound of the fabric being dragged caused Koehler to look across; Neumann followed his gaze and then looked back at him.

“He’ll ruin the furniture,” Neumann said.

“He’s a kitten.”

“It’s being locked up all day, it drives them crazy,” said March quietly.

Koehler looked at March, then Neumann, and shifted in his chair.

“You said there was a robbery?”

“Did your wife say what her plans were today?” Neumann gave nothing away.

Koehler shrugged. “No.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“No.”

Neumann frowned, wrote something down, then looked up again.

“I checked. Your wife normally lives in Germany?”

“Yes.”

“She is on holiday here?”

“Yes, while I’ve been recuperating. I could really do with that drink.”

“Of course. Your wounds, how are they?” Neumann gestured with the pencil toward Koehler’s damaged hand.

“As well as can be expected.”

“You’re a hero.”

“I’m a soldier.”

“Yes.” Neumann smiled. “Of course you are.”

“Is my wife all right?”

“Interesting,” March said from behind Koehler, who had to shift in the chair to see the other man.

“What is?”

“You’re asking how your wife is.”

“I’m concerned.”

“You weren’t concerned when she didn’t come home this evening.” March spoke flatly, matter-of-factly, no accusation in his tone, just a simple statement of fact as he saw it.

Koehler had to swallow down a lump of anger that caught in his throat; he turned away from March and looked back to Neumann.

“I remember now, she said she was staying with a friend.” As the words came out Koehler was aware how pathetic they sounded, and regretted them immediately. He stood up, crossed to the drinks cabinet, and poured a brandy. He turned, holding the bottle to the two policemen, who both ignored it, but watched him.

“Who?” Neumann said after Koehler took a sip of the brandy and then topped up his glass again.

“I’m sorry?”

“Who is your wife staying with?”

“I . . .” Koehler floundered and Neumann leaned forward.

“Yes?”

“A friend. I didn’t catch her name, someone she met in my office. I wasn’t really listening. I’m very busy.” Koehler flushed.

Can I tell them what has happened? he thought. Maybe they can help?

Neumann leaned back and looked at Koehler.

“A friend?”

“Yes.”

Neumann rubbed a finger across his top lip while staring at Koehler. Eventually he spoke again.

“I’m surprised you weren’t worried enough by her absence to call us. After all, London is a dangerous city.”

“I was going to call you. I went out looking for them, and then when I couldn’t find them, I was going to call you.”

Neumann nodded, doubtfully and slowly.

“Forgive me, Major, but I don’t believe you.” The words hung in the air and Koehler left them there, unanswered.

“Where did you look?” March said behind him, but this time Koehler didn’t turn around. His eyes stayed on Neumann, aware that the older man was pulling the strings, not March.

“It doesn’t matter if you don’t believe me, it is the truth,” Koehler said, his voice steadied by the warmth of the brandy, his mind made up. He’d figure out a way to get Lotte and Anja, and say nothing to these two flatfoot idiots.

Neumann sighed, looked at the notebook, and nodded.

“Fine, thank you, Major. I’ll be leaving March here tonight, in case your wife returns. She may have information about the robbery, which will help us greatly if we can speak to her as soon as possible.”

“I’ll call you when she comes home.”

“March will stay with you.” Neumann pointed to his colleague at the door.

“There is no need.”

“Oh, but there is, there really is.”

“He isn’t staying here.”

“The only alternative is we arrest you now, I’m afraid.”

“This is an outrage. I’m an officer of the SS. You have no right.”

“What is an outrage, Major, is that you are an officer of the SS whose English secretary disappeared without a trace last year. The same English secretary you were having an affair with for eighteen months, I hasten to add. Now, your wife and daughter disappear in the same manner? That, I’m afraid, is the outrage, and, more important for you, sufficient grounds for us to arrest you.”

The breath seemed to evaporate in Koehler’s lungs as he looked at Neumann, who gave a weary smile in return.

“I’ve been asking a few questions this evening, Major, so I’m sure you will understand my concerns. Your secretary disappears in mysterious circumstances, closely followed by your wife . . . well, I’d be a fool if I didn’t leave March here with you, wouldn’t I? Just in case you’re the next one to disappear.”

Neumann nodded to March, who opened the door. Koehler took a step forward and then stopped. Their eyes met.

“You haven’t asked where the robbery was, or if anyone was injured,” Neumann said.

“I’m sorry.” Koehler touched his forehead and nodded. “I’m . . . I’m a little confused by this. Please, tell me what happened.”

Koehler saw the lump of the policeman’s tongue run across his teeth behind his closed lips as he thought.