He eyed the machine pistols and rubbed his fist against his chest, suddenly aware that he was getting heartburn.
Out of the car behind, the familiar sight of Ernst Koehler emerged, all blond hair and perfect cheekbones under the streetlamps. Koehler walked to Chivers’s window, tapped politely on the glass with the barrel of the MP40, and waited for Chivers to open it.
“Hello, George,” Koehler said warmly. “What a surprise.”
“Major Koehler, sir,” Chivers said nervously.
“Where is the sergeant?” Koehler looked into the back of the van over Chivers’s shoulder and then back at the old man.
“ ’E’s gone into the graveyard with the boy, sir, lookin’ for the kiddy’s mum’s grave.”
“How long ago?”
“Couple of minutes, sir.”
Koehler turned to look at his squad and then back to Chivers.
“How have you been keeping, George?” Koehler asked, as if he were merely passing the time of day.
“Not good, sir. Royalists picked me up, near bleedin’ killed me.”
“Was that you and the sergeant down at St. Katharine Docks?”
“It was, sir. Me and ’im and the Jew. It was a close thing for me down there, I think the royalist lot was getting fed up with me.”
“So the sergeant saved your skin?”
“If it ’adn’t been for ol’ Rossett, I don’t think you’d’ve ’eard of me again, sir.”
“That was a stroke of luck for both of us, George.”
“Things is goin’ to be ’ard for me, sir. I’ve seen some faces in that warehouse, and I might be able to put names to ’em.” Chivers played his cards close to his chest, wise enough to know that confession and cooperation were two very different things, and, more important, that cooperation paid while confession didn’t.
“You might?”
“If I ’ad a bit of time, sir, maybe looked at some pictures.”
“Maybe I could just have you run in and you could chat to one of the men in a cell?”
Chivers shifted again in the seat, very much aware he was playing a dangerous game.
“Not much point in that, sir, is there? You know I do my best out ’ere for you. I can’t do nothin’ in a cell, now can I?”
“You could rot, George.”
“What good will that do, sir?”
“It’ll at least make me feel better, and I could do with cheering up,” Koehler sighed.
Chivers swallowed hard as he looked into Koehler’s eyes, then at the German troops behind him, weapons unslung.
“I do my best for you, Major Koehler, sir, you know that.”
Koehler frowned and then leaned back from the window. “I need to get along, George. Thank you for your help tonight. You will call me tomorrow and we will speak. Understood?”
“Yes, sir, I’ll call, sir, I swear.”
Koehler stepped back and looked at his men, aware now that Werner was waiting for orders.
Chivers wiped his hand across his mouth.
“I’m a bit strapped sir. I don’t suppose . . . ?”
“Of course, George, here.” Koehler fished in his pocket and produced a five-pound note, passing it to Chivers through the window but holding onto it when Chivers took it. “You will call me tomorrow, won’t you?”
“Of course, sir. We can have a debrief, sir.”
Koehler released the note.
“Wait here. Don’t drive away or even start your engine. Just wait here, understood?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Chivers replied as Koehler turned away.
The old man folded the fiver and slipped it into his jacket pocket, feeling lower than the bodies in the cemetery on the other side of the wall.
KOEHLER HADN’T REALIZED it would be so dark once they were on the other side of the wall, or that the graveyard would be so big. He looked off to his left and then to his right, squinting into the darkness, then opening his eyes as wide as they would go. Nothing worked. He couldn’t see the men he knew were on either side of him, thirty feet away, picking their way, like him, through the graveyard in the silent search for Rossett.
Fuck, he thought to himself, feeling a cold dread now that he was leading eight green troops across a pitch-black, foggy graveyard into a potential confrontation with one of the most dangerous men he had ever met.
It had been a long time since he had been involved in a combat mission. He’d forgotten so much, not least that he hadn’t put in place an effective method of communication. He couldn’t signal his flanks without talking, and if he talked, he lost any element of surprise and also opened up the squad to danger.
He wanted to stop his men from moving forward, but couldn’t. He had to hope Rossett was taken by surprise and that the darkness hindered him as much as it hindered them.
Not much of a plan.
That was when he heard the shout.
He dropped to one knee and brought the machine pistol up to bear on the darkness ahead, glancing left and right for some indication of who had shouted.
“Oi!” came the shout again. Koehler isolated it off to his right and shifted his position slightly, arcing his weapon through a forty-five-degree sweep so as to not engage with the men on his right.
“Who shouted? Who was that?” Werner called off to Koehler’s left, the NCO trying to take some control of an operation that was rapidly falling apart.
“What’s your game? I’m phoning the police!” The shout again, and Koehler realized it was an English voice. He stood up and took a few paces to his right toward the voice, then tripped on a low gravestone, sprawling across the ground and into the wet grass.
He cried out as his shin struck a sharp edge, and his weapon almost fell from his hands as he slammed down.
“Was ist das?” This time it was a panicked German cry from his left.
Light flooded across the graveyard from the lodge, illuminating the Germans and exposing Koehler, much to his embarrassment, lying on the gravestone clutching his shin. No sooner had the floodlamp turned on than someone opened up on it with his weapon. A long burst of gunfire rang out, hitting the lodge and shattering a window but missing the lamp, which remained obstinately blinding them.
It was a wide, panicked spray that whistled over the heads of half of the soldiers to Koehler’s right, all of whom dove to the ground and started shouting in disarray.
“Stop firing!” rang out around the graveyard from various quarters, and the shooting ended as suddenly as it had started.
Nobody moved except for Koehler, who rolled off the grave, clutching his shin.
All was quiet for a moment until Koehler called out through gritted teeth, “Who the fuck shouted?”
No reply.
“Do not fire unless you have a threatening target! Understood?”
He looked up from behind the gravestone and studied the scene. His men crouched in an almost straight line stretching the width of the cemetery, illuminated by the bright light, looking for leadership as much as a target. He turned toward the light.
“Who turned on that light?” he shouted.
No reply.
Werner appeared at his shoulder, the old soldier crouching down behind him, eyes on the lodge.
“Who the fuck started shooting?” Koehler hissed.
“One of the lads panicked with the light, sir.”
“Take three men and check it. We’ll cover you.”
Without reply, Werner drifted forward at a crouch, tapping three men on the helmet, one after another. He moved toward the house using the graves as cover. Koehler signaled for the other men to move forward and take up a line parallel to the house.
He didn’t want someone opening up again behind him and cutting him in half.
He watched as Werner covered the final twenty feet of open ground
to the lodge. Werner crouched down in the grass, then turned to Koehler and signaled for the rest of the squad to move up.
Koehler jogged forward and joined Werner by the lodge wall. On the floor at their feet lay the cemetery caretaker, blood staining his chest.
Koehler sighed and knelt down to check the body.
“He must have heard us and come out to turn on the lamp.” Werner indicated the heavy metal trip switch that was set in the wall.
“Who fits security lights in a graveyard?” Koehler replied, feeling for a pulse with no success.
“An idiot,” Werner replied.
Koehler stood up and looked at the young soldiers lined up against the wall and then out into the darkness beyond the security light.
“He’s not the only one.”
Chapter 51
ROSSETT WAS RUNNING now, holding Jacob over one shoulder in a fireman’s carry with one hand and the Webley with his other. He was on the path, not caring about the crunch of the gravel as he tried to get away.
He knew from the sound of the gunfire that the weapon was an MP40. Not many of those were in the possession of the resistance, whatever faction, so he was guessing it was a German who had fired.
Which only meant one thing.
Koehler.
It was nagging him how the Germans had found him in the cemetery, but in his flight he didn’t have time to think. After a hundred yards or so, he veered right off the path, slowing so as not to fall over a grave. In the darkness, he headed toward the dim lights of the houses that backed onto one of the sides of the cemetery.
He’d decided that climbing over a wall into a garden would be safer than running out into the middle of a road.
If Chivers was out there, he’d have to look after himself. They’d come far enough together, maybe now was the time to part.
They fell twice as they made their way across the graveyard. Each time Jacob merely rolled in the grass, then stood up quietly and held out his hands to be picked up again.
A little soldier, never complaining.
They reached the perimeter wall, and Rossett put Jacob down before chinning up to look over into the back garden of the adjoining house. It seemed nearly every house in the street had back-room lights on with faces at the window, no doubt curious after hearing the gunfire.
Rossett dropped down and pulled Jacob near.
“There is a gate a little farther down.” Jacob pointed in the darkness. “It lets you out onto the street. We used to get the bus there.”
“Show me.”
This time Jacob took the lead, holding Rossett’s hand. They skirted the wall until they came to a narrow iron gate. Rossett lifted Jacob onto the gate and then climbed over. They dropped down into an alleyway, barely two feet wide, that ran between two houses.
Rossett slipped the Webley into his pocket, and they brushed as much of the mud and grass off each other as possible as they half jogged along the alleyway to the road that lay at the end.
They found themselves looking over their shoulders a few times as they ran, and both automatically slowed as they neared the bright lights of the main road. Rossett took Jacob’s hand again and turned right at a fast walk, heading away from the cemetery as they went.
Rossett looked down the road for a sign of Chivers or the Germans, but the few cars that passed did so without paying them any heed. There was a bus stop up ahead, and he looked around to see if there was anywhere to hide while they waited for the bus.
That was when he heard the racing engine behind him.
The car was traveling too fast and in too high a gear for a winter’s night in Willesden. It was someone either getting away from or racing toward the site of a crisis.
He squeezed the Webley and waited, not wanting to turn around lest he attract attention.
Only when he heard the car slowing did he spin, pushing Jacob behind him. He held the Webley against his leg and thumbed the hammer.
The little Volkswagen bounced up onto the curb next to him, and Rossett took a pace backward and leaned forward to look in, lifting the Webley as he did so.
Kate, Koehler’s secretary, smiled back and leaned across to open the door.
“Want a lift?”
Rossett took another step back, lowering the gun slightly in shock.
“I promise not to speed.” She smiled again, this time with a slight edge of urgency.
Rossett took another step back and looked up and down the road as he tapped the pistol against his leg, thinking.
In the distance, he heard what sounded like a police siren, then another. He looked back to Kate.
“Come on! I’ve come to help you!” She beckoned him into the car. “Or do you want to wait for the police?”
“Why?”
“We can sit down and discuss it later, but to be honest, I don’t think now is the time!” Kate pleaded, waving her hand, beckoning Rossett into the car.
“Why?” Rossett asked again, this time raising the Webley toward her.
“Because of him,” Kate said, pointing at Jacob.
“Not good enough.”
A police siren approached and Kate looked up as the car carrying it raced by; she turned back to Rossett, who was rising from the crouch he dropped down to as he had heard the car approach. “Okay, look, I might work for the Germans, but it doesn’t mean I like what they do. I heard a phone call tonight, someone called Chivers telling Major Koehler you were here. I wanted to help you, and to help the boy.” Kate looked close to tears, and Rossett half lowered the pistol.
“Chivers?”
“That’s what I heard. Please, we need to go!”
Another police siren and Jacob tugging on his coat made up his mind.
Rossett opened the car door, folded down the front seat, and very nearly threw Jacob onto the backseat; he sat down in front and stared at Kate, who started to pull away before he had even closed the door.
“Remember the gun,” he said, pistol now on his lap, half pointing toward her as they bounced off the curb before pulling a U-turn in the road.
She glanced down at the gun as she drove.
“I’ve a feeling you’re not going to let me forget it.”
ROSSETT HAD NO idea where the little Volkswagen was going as it raced along the nearly empty streets. For a moment, he tensed as they rounded a corner and caught a glimpse of two Mercedes staff cars parked up against a high wall. It took him a moment to realize that it was the far side of the cemetery he’d just been in. He twisted in his seat to look through the small rear window.
“That must have been the other side of the bear trap,” Kate said, and Rossett turned back to look at her.
“How did you know where we were?”
“I saw Ernst’s cars, and I guessed you’d be coming out as far away from them as possible. I just drove to the other side of the cemetery.”
“Ernst?”
“Koehler.” Kate felt her cheeks blush, and she looked at Rossett quickly to see if he had noticed. He stared back, dead eyed, like a shark but twice as dangerous, pistol still on his lap.
“Are you all right?” said Kate, leaning forward in her seat so she could see Jacob in her mirror. Rossett assumed the boy nodded, because she smiled warmly, beautifully, in the mirror and sat back again.
He noticed they were slowing down as they put distance between themselves and the graveyard. Kate was easing into the nighttime traffic and becoming anonymous in her little car. Her driving impressed Rossett. She turned and looked at him, then it was his turn to get a smile.
“Are you all right?” This time she was asking Rossett.
“Yes.”
“You don’t look it.”
“I’m fine.”
“You look like shit.”
“Thank you.”
“Seriously, we can’t drive aroun
d with you looking like that.”
She reached up and turned the rearview mirror toward him, and Rossett leaned forward to see his reflection. His eyes were heavy and dark with shadows, his hair was a mess, and he had mud streaked across his face. He could see some dried blood that had trickled down his forehead, and he reached up and found a tender cut on his scalp.
“I look like shit.”
“I know,” Kate replied, turning the mirror back.
“Where are we going?” Rossett tried to smooth his hair and failed miserably. He licked his hand, tasting mud, then tried to smooth his hair again, with no luck.
“I have a flat, my mother’s. I can take you there.”
“What about your mother?”
“She’s in Yorkshire.”
Rossett noticed for the first time that Kate had a slight Yorkshire accent.
“Why?”
“So you can get cleaned up.”
“No. Why? Why are you helping us?”
“I told you.”
“No, as I said before, that’s not good enough. Tell me why.”
Kate looked across at him and then back to the road ahead, not answering.
Rossett watched her, trying to decide if she was searching for a lie or for the truth. He’d often felt that the answer to a difficult question that came quickly was usually a lie. He liked that she was looking for the right words.
“Because I understand,” she said after a moment.
“Understand?”
“You’re not exactly quick on the uptake, are you?”
Rossett stared at her without expression. Kate blew out her cheeks and tried again.
“I understand why you are doing what you are doing. I . . .” She paused for a moment. “I know what happened to you. I know about your wife and your boy. I’ve lost someone in this war. I . . . I know we can’t bring them back, but maybe we can bring ourselves back. Be human again.” She looked at him again, and this time her eyes pleaded. “Do you know what I mean?”
Rossett stared at the road ahead. A minute passed while he twisted and turned what she had said until finally he nodded, wiping a finger and thumb across his eyes.
“I don’t believe you, but I do need you, so keep driving.”
The Darkest Hour: A Novel Page 31
