She shivered.
Rossett finally gave up with the fire and turned toward her. She smiled and gestured at his teacup, which sat on the carpet next to the couch.
“I’ve put some more coal on, but it’s damp. It’ll take a while to catch,” Rossett said.
“Everything is damp in here. I hate this place,” she said, her smile gone.
Rossett sat on the floor, propping his back against the couch, and sipped at the tea.
“Thank you.”
“There are biscuits if you—”
“No, I don’t mean the tea. I mean thank you for helping us.”
Kate nodded. They both turned to look at the window as the rain lashed against it, and Kate shivered again and drew her knees up under the blanket.
The fire popped as a solitary flame rose an inch or two and danced behind the damp coal. They sat silently for minutes, Rossett cradling his teacup in his lap and Kate watching his profile, silhouetted against the embers.
“You were crying out,” she finally said. Rossett only nodded in reply. “It woke Jacob. He’s in my bed.”
Rossett remained silent.
“What was the dream?”
Rossett shook his head.
“It might help you to talk.”
“It won’t.”
“You can’t put your whole life on hold, John. You’re not a machine. You have thoughts, feelings. You have love. It’s okay to think and talk and be human again, you can’t mourn forever.” Kate’s voice was barely a whisper.
“I have a dream, a bad dream.” Rossett paused. “I’m trying to stop someone bleeding to death.”
“Who is it?”
“My wife . . . and my boy.”
“Oh, John.”
“I can’t find the wounds. No matter how hard I look, I can’t find where the blood is coming from. They’re screaming and crying and I can’t help them. I keep tearing at their clothes, and the blood keeps coming. I’m soaked in blood. We’re soaked in blood.” Rossett put the tea down.
“I keep looking, slipping and splashing through blood, until I realize . . .”
“What?”
“That they are dead. The blood is my blood.”
A silent tear burst from Rossett’s left eye. He squeezed his lips together and looked at Kate, then slowly shook his head and turned back to the fire.
Fighting.
“I can’t stop it, the blood. I drown in it. And when I wake up . . .” Rossett paused. “I’m still drowning in it.”
Kate reached out and rested her hand on the back of Rossett’s neck. He flinched at the first stroke of her fingertips, then closed his eyes and allowed his head to fall forward.
“You poor thing,” Kate whispered, fingertips still on Rossett’s neck. His head rolled and he found himself turning to face her.
They stared at each for what seemed like an eternity, listening to the rain and the pop and crackle of the fire behind them. Kate’s hand gently stroked his face, and Rossett turned his head and kissed her palm. She rolled forward on the couch, firelight dancing in her eyes, her lips an inch from his, so close he could feel her breath on his face.
“You don’t have to be alone.” Kate barely made a sound. “Not anymore.”
Rossett kissed her and Kate slid off the couch until she was next to him on the floor. They lay together in the fire’s orange glow and made love.
Afterward, as they lay naked under the blanket, the fire settled down to a shifting glow and the rain eased. Rossett stroked Kate’s face with one finger as he stared into her eyes.
“What happens next?” Kate whispered.
“To who?”
“To us, all of us. Jacob, me . . . and you?”
“Nothing’s changed. I have to get the boy to safety.”
Kate lay silently, watching Rossett’s eyes in the darkness, unable to see what they were saying.
“And me?” she asked.
“Do you want safety?”
“I want you.”
“I’m not safe.”
“You can be, with me.”
“Do you want safety?” he said again.
“I do.”
“Then you’ll be safe, I promise.”
They slept as the fire died. The rain came and went and, as somewhere across the city Big Ben struck three, Kate slipped out from under the blanket, stared at the sleeping, twitching Rossett, and left the room to return to her bed.
KATE’S EYELIDS FLUTTERED, opened, then closed again. Sleep was slow to lift. She blinked a dream away and tried to move her arm but found it pinned to the bed. She licked her lips, blinked again, and focused on Jacob, who was lying like a dark bruise in her white sheets, his face turned away so all she could see was his jet-black hair resting in the crook of her arm, still dreaming.
Safe.
She rolled onto her back and looked down the bed. Rossett was sitting by the window on a spindle-legged wooden chair, arms folded, sad eyed, watching her.
He smiled.
“Morning,” said Kate, her voice croaking.
“I’m sorry if I woke you.”
“What time is it?” Kate stretched her legs under the sheets.
“Seven thirty,” Rossett replied without looking at his watch.
He settled back on the chair, turning his head to look out the window at the breaking of the morning.
“What are you going to do?” Kate asked.
“I need to find Chivers.”
“Revenge?”
“Escape.”
“You trust him?” she asked. Rossett replied by shaking his head, then looked at her.
“No.”
“So why go and see him?”
“He knows people, people who can help Jacob.”
“What if he won’t help you?”
“He will.”
“How will you find him?”
“You will.” Rossett looked back out of the window.
“I will? How?”
“Your boss will know where he is.”
“Koehler?”
Rossett nodded, still looking out the window.
“What if I won’t help you?” Kate asked.
“You will. You already have and you will again.”
Kate shook her head. Rossett’s face softened, and his eyes flicked from her to Jacob.
“Do you think this will ever be over?” Kate asked him, closing her eyes.
“When the boy is safe, it’ll be finished then.”
“I meant the games, the lies, the occupation. Do you think life will ever be simple again?”
Rossett shrugged, and they were silent for so long he wondered if she’d gone back to sleep. Eventually, she said, “You were shouting again last night, after I left you.”
“Shouting?”
“In your dream, you were crying out.”
“I’m sorry.
“You sounded scared.” Rossett looked back out the window at the houses opposite; a few lights were on as London yawned its way into another day.
“I wondered where you had gone when I woke up,” Rossett said.
“I was worried about Jacob. I didn’t want him to be scared.”
“You’re starting to sound like me.” Rossett smiled, and Kate found herself smiling back.
“You’re smiling.”
Rossett nodded and looked back out the window, his breath misting the glass.
“Would you go if you could?” Rossett asked, the smile gone.
“From London?”
“From England.”
“How? How would I get away?”
“Would you go if you could?”
“It would be impossible. I don’t . . .”
“Would you go?” Rossett looked at her this time, driv
ing the question home.
“Yes.”
Rossett nodded but didn’t reply.
Kate paused, then said gently, “I’ve never seen you smile before.”
“Maybe I’ve had nothing to smile about.”
“Have you now?”
“I hope so.”
Chapter 54
“I’M NOT SURE, Kate. I could get into trouble.”
“Please, Anne, the key is in my desk. I’ll be in a right fix if I don’t get this report finished, and I haven’t got time to come in and get it.”
In Charing Cross, Anne twisted the phone cord in her fingers and rolled her eyes as she chewed her lip.
“What if someone comes in and finds me in his office?”
“They won’t, and if they do, just tell them you are getting the address for me.”
“Can I just do the report for you and add the address when the major comes in?” Anne was doing her best at wriggling out of Kate’s request that she enter Koehler’s office and unlock his filing cabinet.
“It’s pages long, Anne; it would take you all day. I’ve been working on it all night and I just need this one more thing. It’s just an informant’s address for the end of the report, nothing important.”
“I could get sacked . . .”
“Don’t be daft. Please, come on, do a pal a favor?”
Anne paused, then asked, “Where is it?”
“Top drawer of the filing cabinet in the corner of his office. The keys are in his top left-hand drawer. I’ll explain everything when I come back to work, so he’ll understand.”
“Don’t you dare! Don’t tell him I’ve been in his office. What is the name of the informant?”
“George Chivers.”
“Are you going to wait on the line?”
“Yes.”
Anne put the phone down and looked toward her own office door, already regretting her decision to help Kate, but reluctant to stand and finally commit to the act. She hovered half out of her chair, looking again at the phone before finally rising and opening the door to Koehler’s office.
Anne moved quickly once inside. She felt like a nervous cat burglar. When she reached Koehler’s desk, she paused and looked once again at the door and then at the dark wooden filing cabinet in the corner, like a coffin stood on its end. Heavy and solid, a keeper of secrets.
Anne pulled open the desk drawer. It was cluttered with pens, pencils, loose documents, and scraps of paper, contrasting with the desktop, which sat as smooth and as clear as a becalmed sea.
She riffled through the drawer until she touched the butt of a small pistol, causing her to jump and withdraw her hand as quickly as if she had found a snake. She sighed and rested her other hand against her chest, briefly pondering telling Kate that she couldn’t find the key, but then she remembered how much she relied on her friend and supervisor. It was a tough life working for the Nazis, even after all these years of occupation, and she needed Kate as a friend in a big city like London. Steeling herself, she continued searching the drawer until she found the small bunch of keys.
At the filing cabinet, Anne tried the first key and got lucky. She pulled the top drawer open and inspected the folders. There were about thirty in total, some thicker than others, but all neatly filled with papers and photos.
She quickly deduced that they weren’t in name order, so she danced her fingers across the tops of the folders with a ballet dancer’s precision until she found the one labeled “Chivers, G.” She opened it on top of the open drawer, removed the first page, and scanned it quickly. She dashed to the outer office and picked up the phone, holding the cover sheet to her chest.
“Kate?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve got it. You do promise not to tell the major, don’t you?”
“It’s our secret.”
“He has a gun in there, did you know?”
“He’s a soldier, Anne. Of course he has a gun. What’s the address?”
Anne suddenly felt stupid and felt herself blush. Kate had cut her off in the manner she did so often.
“Do you have a pen?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“14A Cheshunt Road, London.”
“Is that all it says? Does it not give any directions?”
“Yes, other than his date of birth and stuff, that’s it . . . Oh, hang on. Someone has written ‘Off Green Street, East End.’ Does that help?”
“Off Green Street?” Kate repeated. “That does help, Anne. Thank you. Thank you very, very much.”
“Why do you need directions?”
“What?”
“Why do you need directions? If it is just for a report, why do you need directions?”
“I don’t. It’s just for the report, so I don’t leave anything out.”
“What is it about?”
“I can’t tell you. You know what the major is like, everything hush-hush. You don’t want him getting that little gun out and coming after you, do you?”
Anne teased the phone cord with her fingers and tried in vain to swallow the sense of dread that was creeping up her throat.
“Are you sure, Kate? This isn’t anything funny, is it?” She tried to keep her voice flat, but a quiver escaped at the end of the sentence.
“I’ve got to dash, Anne. Don’t worry, everything will be fine.”
The phone clicked in Anne’s ear, and she slowly lowered the handset as she raised the cover sheet from Chivers’s file. The door behind her opened and she almost cried out in alarm. Koehler smiled at her quizzically.
“Anne?”
“Oh, sir . . . I think I’ve done something very silly.”
Chapter 55
KATE PARKED THE Volkswagen on Cheshunt Road and watched Rossett stroll along the pavement in her father’s suit. He looked every inch the gentleman, with a necktie, shined shoes, and neatly combed hair under the wide-brimmed black felt hat. She thought back to the night before and the mud-stained, bloodstained apparition that had spun and stared at her, ghostly in the headlamps.
She marveled at his ability to shrug off the bruises that she had seen when she gave him her father’s clothes. He looked as though he had been run over by a bus. Jacob leaned forward and pulled on the back of her seat as he tried to get a better view of Rossett on the sidewalk. He’d been silent ever since his guardian had left his side.
“He won’t be long,” Kate said.
Jacob just kept watching.
Rossett counted off the houses. He’d already identified number 14, and he’d been studying it as he approached from the end of the road. He hadn’t wanted Kate to pull up outside in case Chivers saw her and became spooked. He’d given specific instructions to stay well back in the car until he came back out of the house, and if she heard shots, or if anyone else came out, she was to drive away without looking back.
She didn’t know it yet, but in her father’s overcoat, lying in the footwell, was the small urn that Rossett had dug up the night before. That morning he’d sat in the bathroom, prized out the cork stopper, and found nine cut diamonds, each the size of a little fingernail. He’d stared at the stones in the palm of his hand, rolling them a fraction, side to side. They had caught the light, and his breath.
Rossett had sat on the toilet, unable to decide his next move and to think straight after looking at the dancing light in his hands.
Old Galkoff had taken the risk that an honest man would dig in the dirt.
Rossett wasn’t sure the old man’s faith had been repaid.
As he walked to number 14, he thought about the diamonds again and looked back at Kate once more, checking to see that she was still there. He wondered why he hadn’t told her about the diamonds being in the car. It was as if they infected you with doubt and distrust.
He wondered if people called them stones because
they dragged you down while you carried them in your pocket?
He hoped he could swim long enough to get rid of them.
Rossett stopped at number 14 and looked up at the old Victorian house. He tapped the knocker three times, firmly but not too firmly, a postman’s knock, not a policeman’s.
He watched through the old, distorting glass, looking into the hallway beyond, trying to make out if anyone was coming to answer the door. After a moment, a telltale shaft of light pierced the gloom as a small, shuffling shape approached and worked the lock.
Rossett had been expecting a child, so slight was the shadow. Instead, a tiny old lady opened the door, dressed in black, with hair the color of London smog, pulled back so tight it smoothed her brow but left her face a plowed field of wrinkles.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Chivers? Does he live here, please?” Rossett smiled, convivial and warm, giving no hint of the Webley tucked into the back of his trousers.
“He’s upstairs,” said the old lady, already turning away from the door and heading back to her room.
Rossett now understood the “A” part of the address. The old lady must have been letting out rooms to make ends meet.
“Is Mr. Chivers at home?” Rossett said to the rapidly disappearing landlady, who raised a wrinkled hand over her shoulder in reply.
“They’ve been fighting all night. I’m sorry I let them in here. No respect, no respect at all,” she said, not bothering to look around before closing her door and leaving Rossett to explore for himself.
He cast a quick look back at the car, then stepped into the hall, shutting the front door behind him but making sure the latch was up so it didn’t fully engage. He stood in the dim hallway and listened to the house. Somewhere a bird was singing, a songbird in a cage in one of the downstairs rooms. He couldn’t hear anything from above.
The house was smarter than he’d imagined. Even a top-floor flat, he guessed, would be beyond an old docker’s means.
The Germans must be paying well, he thought.
He crossed to the stairs and looked up into the gloom. He couldn’t see a front door to a flat, so he guessed that Chivers merely rented the upstairs rooms and that the staircase acted as demarcation.
The Darkest Hour: A Novel Page 34
