The Darkest Hour (9 page)

Chapter 12

N
O
T BEING TRUSTED
was something Rossett knew all about. He understood suspicion. He worked for the Germans and wore a swastika on his lapel. Everywhere he went people eyed him, guarding their words as much as they would guard their ration book if he were a thief.

People assumed he was reading their minds, and sometimes he felt as if he was. He didn’t trust the public, and the public didn’t trust him. He’d gotten used to it, lived and breathed it, was comfortable with it and accepted it. He read their eyes, watched their hands, listened to their bodies as much as he listened to their voices. That was why he had been such a good thief taker before the war, and why he’d become such a good Jew taker after it.

Suspicion was his job.

It had never occurred to him that the Germans suspected him. He’d done everything they had asked, and he had, in return, never asked a question or ruffled a feather.

Until today.

He cursed himself inwardly and shook his head outwardly. That one question about where the trains went: had he asked it yesterday, he would have slapped his forehead and regretted it, then got on with his job, hoping that Koehler would let it slide from his memory as Rossett proved his worth.

But he hadn’t asked it yesterday, he’d asked it today, and in that moment, as he’d patted his empty raincoat pocket and fired the tiny part of his brain that wondered where the pouch that had been there before had gone, he’d remembered Jacob, the pouch full of sovereigns, Koehler, the Gestapo, the shouting and the struggling as he’d been dragged into the cells. Most important, he remembered Koehler’s statement about Mrs. Ward and Southend.

A woman whom Rossett had never mentioned or described, and a trip he had most definitely never told anyone about.

The Germans had followed him.

The Germans didn’t trust him.

The Germans might still be following him.

And up until that morning he would never have cared if they were, because he had nothing to hide. But now a pouch full of sovereigns lay in his office like a body in a cellar. Waiting to be discovered to condemn a half-hanged man to the drop.

He had to get the sovereigns and he had to get them quick.

As he opened the door of the Austin and bent to get in, a hand grabbed his shoulder, and Rossett spun and twisted, tearing the hand from his coat and driving the wrist upward and away from its joint. His assailant’s arm straightened, then flexed against its own elbow, and Rossett pushed it farther up and back as he faced the body that barely hung on to the other end. He cocked his right fist and was about to punch hard into the ribs of his attacker when he stopped.

A young uniformed policeman, eyes bulging and mouth open, stared back in shock.

Rossett released his grip and let the policeman’s arm drop; passersby stopped and stared at Rossett. The bobby stepped back gasping, cradling his right arm.

“Bloody hell, Sarge. I was only saying hello!”

“You should know better than to grab a man when he isn’t looking!” Rossett almost shouted, his cheeks flushing.

The passersby started to move again, and the young bobby regained some composure, straightened his helmet, and brushed his sleeve.

“I’m sorry, Sarge. You bloody well nearly ripped my arm off. Where did you learn that move?”

Rossett realized it was Baker, the young policeman from the search earlier that day. He looked up and down the road and wondered if that was too much of a coincidence, the old instincts jangling.

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s my beat, Sarge. I saw the car parked the wrong way with no lights and half on the curb. With this fog coming in, I thought it might be a bit of process for me.”

Rossett relaxed slightly, relieved to see that Baker was just a young bobby looking to placate his sergeant with a summons file for a motoring offense.

“When I got over and I saw the window half cocked, I realized it was yours. I was going to surprise you, for a lark. Sorry, Sarge.”

Rossett smiled and shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Baker. You gave me a start, and old instincts kicked in. Is the arm okay?”

Baker gave a relieved smile and rubbed his shoulder.

“You near tore it off, Sarge, but it was a bit daft of me, my fault. Are you working on a case?”

“No, I’m buying cigarettes. I’m having a few days off so I thought I’d stock up. Sorry about the parking, a lot on my mind.”

“How’s that little boy?” Baker ignored the apology.

Rossett flushed again and opened the door of the Austin.

“He’s fine.”

“Poor little blighter, did he catch that train?”

“No.”

“Oh, right, is he stopping at the station then? I’ll drop by and see him, friendly face and all that.”

“No, he’s, er . . . he’s over at Charing Cross.”

Baker chewed his lip and nodded, realization dawning that the boy had been handed over to the Germans.

“How long for?”

“I don’t know.”

“I expect he’ll be okay, they’ll look after him . . . won’t they, Sarge?”

“Yes, I’m sure they will.”

“It’s just you hear stories, about what goes on.”

The men nodded to each other, embarrassed by the conversation but not sure how to end it.

“I’d best be going. Hope the arm is okay.”

“It’ll be fine, Sarge. Sorry for the fright.”

Rossett nodded and got into the car as Baker stepped into the street to stop the oncoming traffic. The little Austin fired up and Rossett bounced off the curb and pulled forward into the gap Baker had made. He stopped by the officer, who stood, arm raised, holding back the tide.

“That was good work today, Baker, at the house. You did well.”

“Thank you, Sarge. It was an honor to work with you.”

“An honor?”

“Yes, Sarge, you’re a bit of a legend to us young lads: war hero, top thief taker when you was a copper, ‘straightest man in the Met,’ my old sergeant calls you. It was a real honor for me.”

Rossett nodded, gave a half smile, and tried to ignore the “when you was a copper” line as he drove away.

Chapter 13

E
RN
ST KOEHLER SQUEEZED
his toes, stretched his toes, and then squeezed his toes again. He leaned back in his chair, sighed a weary sigh, closed his eyes, and, for the first time that day, relaxed a little. After a moment he opened his eyes and stared at the boots that stood to attention on the desk in front of him.

The words of his old drill sergeant echoed across the years.

“A size too small will make you stand tall, gentlemen. Always wear dress boots that pinch.”

Ernst squeezed his toes again and decided that the man was obviously an idiot or a sadist, or, God forbid, an idiot sadist.

The intercom on his desk buzzed.

“Herr Schmitt to see you, sir.”

Koehler sighed and flopped back into his chair without answering; he banged himself on the forehead with the heel of his hand, then reached over to the intercom.

“Send him in, please.”

A moment later the heavy oak door of his office swung open and the Gestapo man entered. Over his shoulder, Kate made the briefest of eye contact with Koehler, who smiled in reply.

“Could you have someone make us tea, please, Kate.”

“Not for me,” said Schmitt.

Schmitt took a seat without asking and waited for Kate to shut the door behind him. Koehler leaned back in his chair and smiled warmly, deciding to leave the boots on the table between them.

“So, Schmitt, what can I do for you?”

“I want to know why the Englishman has been released.”

“Detective Sergeant Rossett?”

“Yes.”

“I believed it was a simple misunderstanding; the sergeant thought your men were trying to take his prisoner from him.”

“The ‘prisoner’ was already away from him, watching the fucking parade.”

Koehler smiled at Schmitt’s swearing, the only indication that he was angry about the incident. Other than that one word, the man was implacable, his voice monotone, his face expressionless, hands placed calmly upon the left leg that was crossed over his right.

“I think you’ll find that the sergeant was in control of the situation.” Koehler smiled. “There was little chance of the prisoner’s escaping.”

Schmitt leaned forward slightly, but as he was about to speak, the office door opened and Kate and a secretary carrying a tray entered. Schmitt leaned back in his seat and waited for the teacups and pot to be placed on the table. Nobody spoke, and Kate merely nodded to Koehler once the items were laid out.

“Thank you, Kate, that will be all.”

The two women left the room, and Koehler picked up the pot and poured the tea. He slid a cup across the table to Schmitt, who uncrossed his legs and folded his arms.

“I didn’t want tea.”

“You really must try it. It’s excellent, Earl Grey, the real thing from my private supply.”

“I don’t drink tea.”

“Try it.”

Schmitt pushed the cup back across the table toward Koehler, spilling some into the saucer.

Koehler raised his eyebrows, “Please Schmitt, it really is . . .”

“Can you take your boots off the table so I can see who I am talking to?” Schmitt snapped, his irritation plain to see, and Koehler smiled.

“Of course, forgive me; it is awfully rude. They pinch terribly and I was just glad to have them off after the parade.” Koehler spoke but merely looked at the boots, leaving them where they stood.

“Why did you let the Englishman go?” Schmitt banged his fist upon the desk, then pointed at Koehler. “He assaulted a member of the Gestapo. He should be shot, not released! I demand to know why you let him go.”

Koehler paused midsip and placed his cup back down on the saucer he was holding with his other hand.

“May I remind you I’m your superior. I would warn you to respect that.” Koehler kept his voice calm, friendly in tone, certain he had just won round one.

Schmitt stared hard at Koehler, then leaned back in his chair and looked up at a painting of the Führer on the office wall. When he finally spoke, his voice was smooth as silk.

“Sir, may I remind you that one of my men was attacked by an Englishman outside the area HQ, in full sight of many witnesses, both German and English.” Schmitt turned from the painting and looked at Koehler. “He was attacked by a man who was harboring a Jew, a Jew who had evaded an authorized eviction that very morning, a Jew you had eaten breakfast with the selfsame morning and yet decided not to detain, and, no less, a Jew who was tapping his foot to the fucking SS garrison band while the commander of occupied England stood not less than forty feet away.”

This time the swear word wasn’t said with anger; this time it slipped out like a snake’s tongue, full of menace. Koehler looked at the teacup for a moment and then placed it carefully on the table, buying time. He was beginning to regret leaving the boots on the table but now didn’t want to lose face by moving them. He shifted position in his chair to allow himself to maintain eye contact with Schmitt, who stared back, unblinking.

“As I said earlier, I believe the matter to be a misunderstanding. Detective Sergeant Rossett has told me that he will be apologizing to you and the area commander by letter as soon as he returns from his leave. I realize that this has caused you some embarrassment, and for that I am also sorry. But, you have to understand, Rossett fulfills an important role for us here in England, not just in London. The sergeant gives a certain . . . respectability to what my department is doing here.” Koehler sipped some more tea, aware that he was walking in a verbal minefield and being careful as to where he placed his stockinged feet.

“So, just because Churchill told the old king to give him a medal, we allow him to punch Germans?”

“He didn’t get a medal, Schmitt. He got the Victoria Cross, which is much more than a medal.”

Schmitt waved his hand dismissively at Koehler.

“I don’t buy this ‘British Lion’ bullshit. He hid in Dunkirk for a few weeks and then made a stand in some shithole in England, so what? We should have shot him when we caught him, not given him a fucking job.”

Koehler smiled and took some more tea before speaking.

“He held up half a Panzer brigade on his own for almost a week, managed to get into a German port and capture a torpedo boat and its crew, then made them sail down the coast to pick up fifteen injured colleagues and sail across the channel. And if that wasn’t enough, he brought the boat back across to France to pick up a dozen more and took them home as well. Churchill called him the British Lion for a reason, Schmitt, and if you had been in combat you’d know what that reason was.”

The two men sat in silence. Schmitt bridled at the dig but decided not to dignify it by answering, while Koehler was reluctant to push the knife any farther home. After a moment, Koehler removed his boots from the desk and leaned forward, placing his elbows on its polished surface.

“Look, I’m genuinely sorry for what happened today. Rossett was wrong to do what he did and he knows it. I’ve been pushing him too hard; what happened is as much my fault as his. I can assure you no such thing will take place again. If you wish, I can tell people he is suspended while he takes a few days away from his desk. Would that help?”

Schmitt waved a hand of acceptance, some dignity restored. He turned his head to look back up at the Führer. Koehler thought that with his blond hair and blue eyes, the Gestapo man looked like he was posing for a propaganda picture.

“Sir, I apologize for my outburst. It was wrong of me to act in such a manner.” Schmitt spoke to the painting as much as to Koehler. Eventually, he turned back to Koehler, who in turn waved his hand, dismissing the incident as already forgotten. “But . . .”

Koehler grimaced and suddenly wished he’d left the boots where they’d been.

“I feel that you may have missed my point. Some people in this building have suggested that you and the Englishman have got a little too close. It is suggested in certain quarters that your fondness for Earl Grey, Savile Row, brown shoes, and, if I may say, English secretaries, has clouded your judgment while you have been stationed in London. This may be one of the reasons for my posting here. To help you”—Schmitt looked around for the words before allowing his eyes to fall back on Koehler—“retain a sense of your role.”

Schmitt smiled at Koehler, who curled his toes under the desk, then smiled back.

“I can assure you, my work here has been of the highest standard. The operation I am in charge of has been commended at the highest level for its efficiency.”

“I’m merely relating what I have heard and what my, or rather our, superior officers have told me. I mention it just so you are aware of what people are saying. I wouldn’t want you to become complacent in your relationships or, God forbid, your role.”

“My relationship with the sergeant is far from complacent.” Koehler opened a drawer on the desk and tossed a manila file onto the tabletop. On the top corner was a photo of Rossett. “Sergeant Rossett is as closely monitored as any other British member of this department. But what you have to understand is that we have to be delicate in our handling of the sergeant. This is a man of whom the Führer himself has spoken.”

“Yes, yes. ‘Give me a thousand men like the British Lion and we’d have crushed Russia by Christmas.’ I read the newspapers. Your point is?” Schmitt sighed.

“My point is, this man is an important tool for the Fatherland, this man follows orders, this man does his duty, and most important, this man sets an example. When the British surrendered, did Rossett run off to Canada like Churchill and the king? No. They wanted him to go and he stayed. He laid down his arms and carried on his service to his country. When he was interned with the rest of the army, did he cause problems? No. When he was released he quietly rejoined the police and got on with the job he was doing before the war. Even after his wife and son were blown up by the resistance bomb at King’s Cross, he didn’t complain.”

Koehler picked up the file and held it in his right hand, using it to point at Schmitt.

“I manage Rossett, I nurse him, I make his life as good as I can without his knowing it. And it isn’t easy. He isn’t the sort of man who will accept a big office and a cushy job. I can’t bribe him with a new flat and a pay raise: he wouldn’t take it. He’s like a monk, Schmitt. He needs his hair shirt. It reminds him he is alive.”

Schmitt shook his head, then stood up as Koehler put the file back into the open desk drawer.

“These are confusing times, Major.”

Koehler closed the drawer and stared up at Schmitt while he made a silent decision.

“The Führer wants to give Rossett an Iron Cross when he comes to London next year.”

“An Iron Cross?” Schmitt couldn’t hide his amazement.

“For services to the Reich in relation to the Jewish question. It’ll be a major propaganda benefit to the occupation. They are planning a whole series of articles on Rossett to be featured in the press, about his wife and son being killed by the resistance, his commitment to the cause, how much he loves the new Britain, all of that shit. He’ll have to go on a tour around the country, fly the flag for us, meet the king, slap Mosley on the back and look like he is enjoying it while the newsreel and
Daily Mail
cameras follow him around.”

“But . . . but he’s not committed to the cause. He’s just a flatfoot who thinks he is doing his job.”

“We know that, Schmitt, but the British people don’t. They will see a handsome war hero who has embraced the Reich shaking the hand of his grateful Führer. And today, for five minutes in a London street while a military band played out of tune, an idiot Gestapo officer and a snotnosed Jewish kid nearly caused the lot of us to end up in a concentration camp.”

“Does Rossett know any of this?”

“Of course he doesn’t know. He’ll know when I think the time is right. And he will do as he is told, just as he always does. The Führer thinks very highly of Detective Sergeant Rossett, and for as long as he does, we will too.”

“So this idiot gets an Iron Cross while brave soldiers are dying on the Eastern Front? It’s a disgrace.”

“You may think that, Schmitt, but say it outside of this office and you’ll be digging trenches with those brave fools in the ice. Do you understand?”

Schmitt swallowed hard and nodded silently. Koehler picked up his pen and opened a folder on his desk, and Schmitt took his cue to leave the office, exiting without another word.

ONCE OUTSIDE,
SCHMITT
picked his way through the outer office and the secretaries it contained. Kate gave him the smallest of smiles, which Schmitt returned with a scowl, muttering, “The British Lion my arse,” as he pushed the outer door open and went off to ruin somebody else’s day.