The Darkest Hour (14 page)
R
OSSETT DRAGGED JA
COB
around to the metal gate where he had dispatched the jailer. The little boy had fallen silent again and was struggling to keep up. At times, he dangled and slid as Rossett jerked him along like a reluctant puppy. Behind them, the sounds of clanging cell doors could be heard as the breakout got under way, making Rossett quicken his step even more. They passed the jailer’s body on the floor and slipped through the metal gate. Rossett tried to take the stairs a few at a time before Jacob finally slipped from his grasp and fell. He turned, hoisted the boy up in his arms, and went on. Jacob lay silently over Rossett’s shoulder, a passenger of fate once again.
At the top of the stairs, Rossett slowly opened the heavy wooden door an inch, first listening and then risking a peek. In the yard, he could just make out the outline of the sentry, who was standing by the Austin.
Rossett cursed. He’d taken too long and the German must have smelled the petrol he’d intended as a diversion in case of emergency. The sentry seemed to sense someone was watching and glanced over to the door, which Rossett leaned back from and closed softly, suddenly aware that the forty-watt bulb above his head had beamed like a lighthouse across the foggy yard.
He put Jacob down and held his finger to the boy’s lips, making eye contact and nodding his head. Jacob returned the nod and stood mute and unmoving. Rossett noticed the boy wasn’t wearing shoes and that he had two skinny white toes peeking through a woolen sock like worms hanging out of a tiny tent.
Behind them, Rossett heard low voices, the prisoners slowly making their way up the stairs, unsure of what waited for them at the top.
They don’t know what to do, either, he thought as he weighed his options and wiped his hand across his face.
Eventually, the man he’d assaulted moments earlier and a few others appeared below him at the foot of the final flight of stairs. Rossett turned and motioned for them to stop.
They did. Rossett looked down at Jacob and then around the empty landing. He took a deep breath, leaned against the door, swung it open, and walked outside.
He was beginning to regret planning rescue operations when he was drunk.
The sentry had slowly been making his way toward the door, and he was now holding his rifle in both hands, Rossett’s only solace that it wasn’t pointed at him, yet.
“I cut my bloody hand.” Rossett held up his hand, with his tea towel bandage now red with blood, and forced a weak smile.
“There is fuel all over the yard.” The sentry looked at the hand as Rossett walked toward him.
“I thought I’d be back before it leaked. I didn’t realize how bad this cut was.” This time Rossett lowered his hand and offered it toward the German to inspect. They were now only fifteen feet apart and Rossett continued to close the gap as he spoke.
“You shouldn’t have left your car.”
“Blood everywhere. Do you have a bandage? They loaned me this old tea towel in the jail, but it’s bleeding something rotten.”
The young German seemed to relax slightly and half turned toward the sentry post
“We have a small kit in the hut I could—”
Rossett hit him hard side on, and they both fell to the ground as the sentry’s rifle clattered onto the cobbles next to them. Rossett had been hoping to take him from behind, but he suspected the half turn was the best opportunity he’d be given, and he’d taken it on instinct. As he struggled to cover the German’s mouth, he regretted having left the bread knife sticking out of the chest of the jailer; it would have helped him subdue the young sentry, who was slipping and sliding in his grasp like an eel soaked in butter.
They rolled about the wet cobbles and Rossett smelled the petrol on the ground as he tried to find some purchase. The sentry swung a few punches, but they bounced off the top of Rossett’s head, which was buried, defensively, in the German’s shoulder and face. Rossett slowly, with a dreadful certainty, started to get the upper hand and tightened his hold on the German’s face and throat. He hadn’t managed to cut off the air yet, mostly because of the thick tea towel on his hand, but he could feel the sentry tiring. They rolled again and Rossett heard a mushy thud, then felt the German suddenly go limp.
He lay still under the sentry, holding on tight, unsure if it was a ploy by the German to buy an advantage, when suddenly he felt hands pulling him up. He raised his head and saw the prisoner he’d attacked earlier in Jacob’s cell holding the sentry’s rifle. Two other prisoners helped an unsteady and suddenly very tired Rossett to his feet.
“Thought you could do with a hand.” The prisoner smiled through a fat lip and gestured that he had hit the German with the butt of the rifle.
Rossett breathed deeply and nodded.
“The boy?”
“My name is Leigh, James Leigh.”
“Where’s the boy?” Rossett ignored him and looked around the yard at the prisoners, who were moving out of the building cautiously. Many of them squatted in the shadows and looked toward Leigh, waiting. It struck him that they were disciplined and that Leigh appeared to be in charge.
The sentry groaned, and both Rossett and Leigh looked down at him.
“Must be losing my touch. Thought he was dead.” Leigh smiled at Rossett.
“Where is the boy?” This time Rossett stared at Leigh coldly as he spoke, and the other man smiled and nodded to someone behind Rossett, who turned and saw Jacob emerge from the small group of men who were standing behind him.
Jacob stood in front of Rossett, arms folded across his chest and one foot on top of the other, taking up as little space in the world as he could. Rossett nodded to Leigh, grabbed Jacob by the shoulder, and guided him toward the car. He opened the door and pushed Jacob onto the backseat, then glanced back at the other men, who were slowly emerging from the jail doorway like nervous fox cubs from a lair.
“Give me the rifle,” Rossett whispered and held out his hand to Leigh, who smiled and shook his head.
“I don’t think so.”
“Give it to me.”
“I’ll be needing it, old man. Sorry.”
Leigh smiled again and theatrically worked the bolt on the rifle to drive a round home before turning and waving the others away from the door, urging them to take off into the night. A few dashed to the big Mercedeses and climbed in, while others skirted around the yard and headed for the sentry point, all of them moving silently. Rossett watched as the men moved around the yard. There was no panic; these men seemed to know what to do and were doing it carefully. Rossett counted at least ten of them and decided they were ex-military.
He now regretted having slashed the tires on the two big cars and considered warning them, but decided against it.
They weren’t his problem. His only concern was the boy.
“I can’t let you loose on your own with a rifle. Give it to me,” Rossett whispered again, this time more urgently. He was aware of the absurdity of the situation; he’d just sprung a criminal from jail, but as a policeman, he was damned if he was going to arm the man as well.
“You aren’t setting me loose on my own.” Leigh smiled warmly. “I’m coming with you, chum.”
Rossett shook his head, lowered himself into the Austin, and reached for the starter. Before he touched it, he heard the soft click of a safety catch, and he glanced up to see Leigh walking toward him, rifle leveled at his head.
Leigh leaned down to the door, smiled again, then said to Jacob, “Slide across, old chum. Uncle Jim is coming with you and your friend for a ride.”
R
OSSETT STARTED THE
car, eyes on the mirror.
“There is no reason to hold a gun to my head. I’ve just broken you out of prison,” he said as they drove slowly across the yard to the sentry point. One of the released prisoners raised the barrier and glanced up and down the street before beckoning them forward.
“Stop.”
Rossett did as he was told.
The man leaned down to Rossett’s window, which dutifully dropped into the door as Rossett tried to lower it. Leigh leaned forward and beckoned the prisoner who was now acting as sentry over.
“Tell the ones who know it to make their way to the warehouse and the rest lie low. I don’t want anyone making contact with their controller for at least seven days, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Those who aren’t attached to us, let them know who we are and how they can contact us, then bugger off out of here.”
The man nodded and stepped back from the car. Rossett half expected him to salute, but he merely waved them through and disappeared back into the fog. Rossett felt the prod of the rifle again and he gunned the engine, turned on his lights, and headed out onto the road. In his mirror, he saw the two big Mercedeses waddle out of the yard and shook his head.
“What?” From the back.
“Your friends won’t get far in those staff cars.”
“They know what they’re doing.”
“Is that how they ended up in jail?”
“Just keep driving.”
“Where am I going?”
“Where were you taking the boy?”
Rossett glanced in the mirror and then back at the road.
“You did have a plan, didn’t you?”
“Not as such.”
The shadow in the back shook his head, and Rossett regretted confessing his lack of preparedness.
“Head for Wapping.”
“Wapping,” Rossett repeated flatly.
“And put that bloody window up, we’re freezing in the back here.”
“I can’t. It’s broken.”
Rossett heard a chuckle and found himself squeezing the steering wheel tighter.
“It seems you are better at putting people into prison than you are at getting them out.”
Rossett didn’t reply.
A fine drizzle was rinsing away the fog, and the streets shone as if they were covered in sooty varnish. Rossett kept to the speed limit and stuck to the main roads as they headed across the city. He knew to steer clear of the German quarter, aware that he could still use the main roads there, but conscious that there might be routine roadblocks and checkpoints. Whether those roadblocks would extend out across the city as a whole depended on how soon the bodies at the jail were found.
They’d driven in silence for ten minutes when Leigh finally said, “I can see your mind working, Rossett.”
“How do you know my name?”
“You told me who you were, old man, just after you kicked my face into the back of my head.”
Rossett looked in the mirror again.
“Wish you’d finished the job now?”
“Yes.”
“I should feel quite honored being chauffeured by the British Lion. It’s a shame this car stinks of Nazi, though. Sort of takes the fun out of it.”
Rossett felt something rising in his chest; he swallowed hard and managed to push it down again.
“Who are you?”
“I’ve told you, old man. James Leigh.”
Leigh spoke with apparent disinterest, looking out the window at the passing buildings. If it weren’t for the occasional dig of the rifle muzzle into the back of his seat, Rossett would have thought the other man was just enjoying a late-night drive. He gave off an air of casual arrogance, the one favored by some of the English officer class. Rossett had seen it many times. In some, it was genuine, the result of having been brought up by nannies and having people fetch and carry for them. In others, it seemed to hide the coldness that had built an empire and streaked many a bayonet with blood. Rossett wasn’t fooled by the posh voice. He knew the man in the back of the car was a cobra. A cobra bred on the playing fields of Eton, but a cobra no less, to be treated with care and held at arm’s length, preferably by the throat.
“And who is James Leigh?”
“Let’s just say we are on opposite sides of this war.”
“The war’s over.”
“Is it? Some of us are still fighting, dear boy. Some of us didn’t give up.”
“So you’re resistance?”
“You really are a detective, aren’t you?” Leigh mocked Rossett and smiled at him in the mirror. The occasional streetlamp strobed across his face, and in the flash flicker of darkness the smile disappeared. “Just keep driving, British Lion. We can finish the chat when we get to Wapping.”
K
OEHLER WAS RIDING
a bicycle along a narrow track lined with trees. It looked like Bavaria, and he could hear a woman laughing but couldn’t quite see her. It sounded like his wife, Lotte, as if she was nearby, maybe on another bicycle just behind him. He looked up into the trees at the shafts of sunlight that warmed his face, and he was happy, really happy, laughing with someone he loved, and for a moment he felt like he was going to soar off the ground and up into the trees to swoop and roll with the birds that were singing above his head.
And then the phone rang.
He rolled and pressed his face into the pillow as it rang again, clenching his fists and his eyelids, desperate to hold onto his dream. But it was gone and he was back in bed with a phone that wouldn’t stop.
He groaned and picked up the receiver, face still pressed into the pillow.
“What?”
“Apologies for the call, sir. We have a problem at Charing Cross.”
Koehler didn’t recognize the voice and he squinted at the clock next to his bed: 11:15. He’d barely been asleep. He tried to remember his dream again, but it was gone.
Like the life he’d been enjoying in it.
“What problem?”
“A breakout and a fire.”
Koehler was awake now. He pushed himself up onto one elbow and rolled onto his side.
“How many?”
“Eight prisoners, sir, the resistance operatives who were due to go to Paris on Monday, all gone, sir.”
“Oh God, no.” Koehler rolled out of the bed and sat naked with his head in his hand. He pressed the earpiece of the receiver into his forehead, then put it back to his ear. “What about the fire?”
“It appears they created a diversion of some sort, sir, two jailers dead and one sentry. Couple of trucks burnt, but the building is undamaged.”
“Who is this?”
“Staff Sergeant Werner, sir.”
Koehler could almost hear the man springing to attention at the other end of the phone.
“Have you notified anyone else of this, Werner?”
“The army and the local police, sir, as soon as I found out. I’ve broken out the guard, but to be honest, I’m not sure it’ll do much good; I think they are long gone.”
Koehler vaguely remembered Werner from the occasional inspections he’d been roped into performing: efficient, unobtrusive, his men well drilled, no more, no less. The man seemed old school and assured. The only thing that made him stand out was the Knight’s Cross with oak leaves he wore at his neck, an old hero who was still fighting for the Fatherland.
“Who is the duty officer, Werner?”
“Lieutenant Brandt, sir.”
“Is he any good, Sergeant?”
There was the slightest of hesitations before Werner answered, “He is the duty officer, sir.”
“I didn’t ask you that, Werner.”
“He is very young, sir.”
“Jesus Christ.” Koehler rubbed his eyes. “Make sure you are with him when I get there. No matter what he says, make sure you are with him. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. Sorry for waking you, sir.”
“Don’t be. I would have had you shot if you hadn’t.”
Koehler put down the phone and clicked on the bedside lamp, which threw a twenty-watt shadow as far up to the high ceiling as it could manage.
“What is it?” Kate spoke behind him, in smooth German.
“You’d better go,” Koehler replied in English, already crossing the room to collect his uniform from the back of the chair where it was draped. Behind him, Kate slipped out of the sheets and picked up her clothes from the floor.
“Have I got time to wash, or do you want me to walk out naked?”
“No and no.”
Kate stopped and looked at Koehler. Stung by his abruptness, she paused, then turned her back and started to dress. The silence dropped around the room and caused Koehler to look up as he pulled on his trousers. He glanced across to Kate and for the first time noticed how thin she looked. Her ribs pushed against her skin when she bent forward to collect her clothes. He sighed, stopped dressing, and crossed the room to her.
“I’m sorry, that was rude. Forgive me. You can wash after I’ve gone. Just make sure you lock the door as you leave.”
Kate stopped and turned. In the dim light of the lamp she looked beautiful, naked and unashamed as she stared at Koehler, her blond hair hanging across her face. Koehler felt an urge to scrape it away from her eyes and tuck it behind her ear.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Koehler kissed her forehead and felt a stir as she smoothed her hands across his chest; he tilted his face forward, wearily, and rested his lips against the top of her head.
“Do I matter to you?” Kate spoke softly and Koehler felt her lips moving on his chest.
“Yes, of course.”
“I’m not just some girl from the typing pool you fuck?”
“No, you matter to me.”
“Do you love me?”
“I have to go. There has been a breakout at Charing Cross. The resistance we rounded up last week: all of them are gone.”
“Do you love me?”
“I have to go.”
Kate lifted her head from his chest, and this time Koehler did brush away the loose hair. He smiled, and Kate chewed her lip and then smiled back, without confidence. As if the smile was a signal for him to carry on getting dressed, he let go of her and quickly gathered his things. It was only as he finally pulled on his tunic and hastily rubbed his boot toes against the back of his legs that he noticed that she was still standing, naked, watching him.
“Make sure you lock the door when you go. Leave the key with the guard downstairs.”
Kate nodded, and Koehler picked up his cap from the table next to the door, placed it on his head, and turned to her. The Nazi at the door made Kate suddenly feel very naked, and she held her dress up to her breasts to cover them. Koehler nodded, as if he understood, then opened the door. He paused, looking back at her.
“I like you very much, Kate. You make . . .” He looked at the floor as if the words could be found there, then back at her. “You make my time here . . .” He paused again, not wanting to trap himself in a lie. “Better. You make my time here better.”
“Thank you,” Kate said. Koehler nodded and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Kate stood still for moment and thought she might cry. Instead, she sighed, sat down on the bed, and rested her head in her hands before scraping her hair back and pinning it up away from her face. She looked back toward the door, picked up the telephone from the nightstand, and dialed.
The phone rang only once before it was answered by an English voice.
“Yes?”
Kate flinched at the harsh voice. “It’s Kate. I’m in Koehler’s room.”
“You shouldn’t ring me on that line. What do you want?”
“There has been an escape from Charing Cross. Koehler has just left to go there.”
“Who has escaped?”
“The resistance. All of them, I think.”
“All of them?”
“I think so. Koehler was shocked when he took the call. This isn’t good for me; it puts me in a bad situation.”
“It puts all of us in a bad situation, but especially Herr Koehler,” the man replied.
“What should I do?”
“Do nothing.”
Kate heard the click of the other phone disconnecting. She sat staring at the receiver in her hand, then gently placed it back into the cradle.
“Do nothing,” she said to the empty room. “If only it were that easy.”
