The Darkest Hour

by Tony Schumacher

“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.”

  Kate was about to speak again when Jacob broke the silence from the backseat.

  “Stop.”

  Kate looked at him in the rearview.

  “We can’t,” said Rossett.

  “Please,” said Jacob.

  “We can’t, we need to keep moving,” replied Rossett.

  “I’m going to be sick,” Jacob said, his voice cracking.

  The car immediately swerved to the side of the road, braking hard and causing Rossett to brace a hand on the dashboard.

  “Keep going, we can’t stop.” Rossett looked at Kate, then over his shoulder at Jacob.

  “No,” Kate replied.

  Both Rossett and Kate got out of the car, and Rossett tilted the seat forward. Before it was fully out of the way Jacob was out of his seat, hand over his mouth.

  Once clear of the door, the boy let go, and vomit splashed onto the pavement from his hunched body.

  Jacob barked again and then rested his hands on his bony knees and gasped for air.

  Kate leaned in close and put her hand on Jacob’s back.

  “Are you all right?” she whispered in his ear.

  Jacob started to cry , deep, gasping sobs mixed with retching breaths. He reached up with his bony hands to his face and then out to unseen terrors as he howled the cry of the lost and the lonely. His cheeks were wet and his face twisted in anguish. He tried to pull away from Kate’s hand, but she gripped his coat and pulled him near.

  “Shush,” she whispered. “It’s going to be all right.”

  Jacob reached with his hands, pushing back at the terror again and howling another sob. A lack of oxygen choked it off and his shoulders shook under his duffel coat as his hands fell limp at his side, giving up their fight.

  Kate held the back of his neck and pulled him close for comfort.

  “Shush, it’s all right, it’s all right,” she whispered to the boy, her face resting against the top of his tiny head, her arms enveloping it.

  Jacob’s sobs started to subside. His hands lifted and fluttered a moment before they settled, and then he held Kate close, quietly crying into her chest. Occasional shudders rippled through him like aftershocks, but his tears became muffled and the sobs were eventually replaced by sniffs.

  He was coming back.

  Rossett looked around. An old man and woman were walking along the pavement toward them, smartly dressed, on their way to an evening engagement.

  The old lady smiled at Kate and tilted her head.

  “Is he unwell?”

  “He’s got a little flu, we think, don’t we, darling?” Kate replied, looking at Rossett as she held Jacob close, covering the yellow star on the boy’s coat.

  “He’s not well” was all Rossett could think to say.

  “It’s the time of year,” the old lady replied. “Poor tyke.”

  Rossett looked at the old man, who stared back, taking him in and apparently realizing all was not as it should be.

  “We’d better get going, darling,” Rossett said, aware that the words sounded stilted, forced.

  Kate seemed to see what Rossett saw and smiled warmly at the old lady.

  “We’d better get him home.”

  “Yes, dear, best place for him,” the old lady replied.

  “Will you drive, darling?” Kate said to Rossett, and he moved around the car as Kate shepherded Jacob to the backseat, holding him close and skirting the vomit on the ground. She turned Jacob in her arms so that he faced the car, making sure that she remained in the line of sight of the old ­couple as she did so, and eased him into the back. She pushed his head down as if he was a prisoner before she too slid into the backseat and pulled the door closed.

  “Have a nice evening,” she said to the old ­couple as she pulled the door shut.

  “I hope he feels better soon,” said the old lady, muffled through the closed window.

  Rossett nodded to the ­couple and then climbed into the driver’s seat. His knees were cramped, and he couldn’t get comfortable, but he didn’t try to adjust the seat. He merely fumbled with the ignition and tried to find a gear.

  “When you’re ready . . . darling,” Kate said from the backseat as she cradled Jacob on her lap.

  Rossett glanced at her in the mirror and then over-­revved the car as he pulled away from the curb.

  He watched the old ­couple staring at them as they drove away. The old man was speaking to his wife for the first time since they had turned up.

  “He didn’t believe what was happening,” Rossett said, still watching the old ­couple in the rearview. “He was suspicious.”

  “Do you want to go back and kill them?”

  “I’m not sure,” Rossett replied.

  “I was joking,” Kate said, and Rossett looked at her in the mirror and saw that she was shaking her head.

  “Where do I go?”

  “Pimlico.”

  “How’s the boy?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “We gave him fish and chips; they must have upset his stomach.”

  “It wasn’t the fish and chips,” Kate replied, softly stroking Jacob’s short, dirty hair.

  “Do you think he’s sick?”

  “He just couldn’t take anymore,” Kate said. “Don’t you ever feel like that?”

  Rossett watched her in the mirror but didn’t reply.

  Jacob lay like an exhausted rag doll in Kate’s lap. “Are you better now?” she said tenderly, and Jacob nodded. “There will be some clothes at the flat that might fit you, and then you can have a bath and sleep, okay?”

  Jacob nodded again.

  Kate stroked his hair again and looked up to Rossett.

  “I do,” said Rossett.

  “You do what?”

  “I feel sometimes that I just can’t take anymore.”

  Chapter 52

  IT WAS CHAOS at the cemetery. Koehler stood by the lodge and looked at the police, the ambulance, and the soldiers milling around. Several cars sat with engines running, their headlamps illuminating the graveyard.

  On the ground, still lying a few feet from the light switch, was the caretaker. Next to him crouched a Metropolitan Police inspector and two German Kriminalpolizei officers. Behind them, at a discreet distance, stood Schmitt, hands behind his back, no doubt glad that the plan had ensured that he was as far away from the fuck-­up as possible.

  Koehler lit another cigarette, his fourth in quick succession. He looked down at the ground and saw that the third was still smoking, so he snuffed it out with his foot and looked back to the lodge.

  Schmitt nodded to him and gave him a discreet thumbs-­up.

  Idiot, thought Koehler, and he briefly considered just leaving the scene and driving back to Charing Cross, aware that the whole night had become a farce. It was then the older of the two German policemen wandered over.

  “Heil Hitler.” The policeman saluted Koehler with one hand while holding up a police badge that identified him as holding the rank of generalmajor. Koehler rolled his eyes. All he needed was a jumped-­up policeman, especially one who held a higher
rank than him. The policeman nodded sadly. He knew what Koehler was thinking, and Koehler hated him for it. The generalmajor stuffed his hands and his ID into his overcoat pockets, then took up a position next to Koehler, both men facing the lodge.

  “Could I trouble the major for a cigarette?” said the policeman with a smile.

  Koehler produced the packet, and the policeman took one and then cupped his hands around the flickering match Koehler struck for him.

  “Your colleague has told me you were tracking an escaped prisoner,” the policeman said once the cigarette was lit.

  “That is correct,” Koehler replied.

  “I would have thought it would be best to flood the area to prevent escape.”

  “I didn’t want to scare him off with three hundred jackboots flattening the grass.”

  “So you scared him off with twelve?” The policeman looked at Koehler and picked some tobacco off his tongue before looking back toward the cemetery.

  “The shooting was unfortunate.”

  “It was for the caretaker, seeing as he is fucking dead.”

  Koehler flicked his cigarette away impatiently, and it sailed, high and a fair distance through the night, like a tracer shell.

  “That was a mistake by a junior soldier who thought he was under attack. I really cannot see what all this fuss is about.”

  “It is about the dead man lying over there, Herr Major, the unarmed civilian.”

  Koehler wafted a hand in the direction of the corpse and fumbled for his cigarettes again before thinking better of it and leaving them in his pocket.

  “This was an official operation. As I said, it was unfortunate a civilian got killed, but I was doing my job.”

  “Forgive me, Major, but if you had been doing your job, the prisoner might not have been on the run in the first place, and, if I may add, he would most certainly not be on the run now.”

  “This is ridiculous.” Koehler waved a hand in the direction of Werner, who sprang to attention and marched over. “Get me a driver, I’m leaving.”

  Werner saluted, then turned, heading off to the original squad, who had been quarantined from the others pending questioning.

  “I’ll need a statement from you,” the generalmajor said wearily, like a man accustomed to asking futile questions.

  Koehler leaned in close to the policeman and tilted his face forward so that he was looking up under the brim of the hat.

  “What is your name?”

  “Neumann.”

  “Well, Generalmajor Neumann, you’ll get a fucking statement, and you will get it when I am ready. Don’t fuck with me, flatfoot, or I’ll have you arresting pickpockets in fucking Kiev on Monday. Do you understand?”

  The old policeman nodded but didn’t look scared; he merely took the cigarette out of his mouth and dropped it on the ground.

  “Thank you for the cigarette, Herr Major, and, er, Heil Hitler.”

  Koehler stomped off to his Mercedes as a young driver jogged past him to open the rear door, then stood briskly to attention.

  The door had no sooner been closed for him than it opened again and Schmitt appeared. Koehler sighed and held a hand to his eyes when he saw his colleague.

  “What?” he barked.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going home. I’ve had enough.”

  “You can’t! What about Rossett?”

  “Fuck him.”

  “What about”—­Schmitt leaned in close to ensure that the driver couldn’t hear them—­“the diamonds?”

  Koehler let his head fall back on the seat.

  “Fuck them. Honestly, fuck them. I’m sick of chasing. We’ve got a prisonful of English prisoners escaped and no sign of them. Rossett and his fucking Jew can disappear. I’ve had enough, Schmitt. So far today, I’ve been fucking shot at twice, soaked twice, and interrogated by a fucking flatfoot policeman who thinks I’m dead in the water. I want to go to bed, and then tomorrow morning, bright and early, I want to sit down and spend the entire day writing the report that will attempt to save my career.”

  “But the diamonds?”

  “How do we even know if there are diamonds?”

  “I thought—­”

  “You thought what? You thought that because the resistance think there are diamonds, there are? They are bigger idiots than we are. Why should we think they are right?”

  Schmitt leaned back from the door.

  “Well, what should I do?”

  “Write a letter to your wife, because if I am to be shot, I swear to God, you will be standing next to me!” Koehler turned to the driver and ordered, “Drive!”

  SCHMITT STEPPED BACK and watched the Mercedes pull out of the cemetery with a spray of gravel.

  He looked back to the lodge and the body and then across to Werner, who was standing apart from the rest of his men.

  The old soldier slowly walked across to Schmitt and politely stood to one side. “What?” Schmitt asked.

  “I had the men search the graveyard as best they could, sir,” Werner said.

  “And?”

  “No sign of Rossett or the Jew.”

  “Of course there isn’t. They’ll be miles away by now.”

  Werner nodded and then bowed his head slightly, so that he could speak to Schmitt without being overheard.

  “One of the men found some disturbed earth, sir, near one of the graves.”

  “We are in a cemetery. What do you think he would find?”

  “He also found an empty tin box that had been removed from the soil. It was resting on top of the gravestone.” Werner looked around. “It appears the box was removed from the grave. The lid was on the ground.”

  “And?”

  “Maybe the box was the sort of thing you might put diamonds in?”

  Schmitt looked at the old soldier and then out to the darkness of the graveyard.

  “Show me where,” he said quietly.

  Chapter 53

  ROSSETT FOLLOWED KATE’S directions from the backseat and soon found himself coasting in a narrow side street off a main road he didn’t recognize in Pimlico. It was just after eleven and the streets of central London had fallen quiet. Rossett eyed the houses and parked cars as they crept along, aware that if he looked out of place anywhere, with his mud-­spattered, blood-­spattered head, it was here, in a solidly upscale area of the capital. They parked between two old Rovers, and Rossett noticed that the Volkswagen was the only foreign car in the street.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t park here,” he said.

  “Why?” Kate replied quietly, not wanting to wake the now sleeping Jacob.

  “The car, it will attract attention.”

  “It doesn’t when I park it here every night. Why should it now? For God’s sake, Rossett, just relax. Here, help me with Jacob.”

  Rossett looked up and down the road and rested his hand on the door handle.

  “Don’t you ever switch off?” she said.

  “No.”

  “You should. It’s not good for you living at the edge of your nerves all the time.”

  “In my current predicament it’s switching off that isn’t good for me. Which one of these is your place?” he replied, looking around at the houses now, checking them for flicking curtains.

  Kate pointed at a door that was no more than twelve feet away across the pavement.

  “Flat 4B, fourth floor. Wipe your feet before you go in.”

  Rossett looked up at the Georgian building through the windshield. He counted off the floors and studied the fourth floor. It was one floor from the top, with big windows and small wrought-­iron balconies.

  “How many ways out?”

  “There’s a fire escape at the rear; you climb onto it through the bedroom window. It leads onto the alleyway that runs behind the ho
uses and comes out at the end of the street. Or you could just jump out the window, but if you do, could you try to avoid my car on the way down? I haven’t finished paying for it.”

  “You’re sure there is no one else in the flat?”

  “For God’s sake, just get out and take Jacob, will you?”

  Rossett looked at the building once more and then opened the door. He stepped out onto the road, bent back into the car, and pulled Jacob out. The boy whined at being moved and tried to hold on to Kate, who shushed him as she pushed him toward Rossett.

  Rossett hoisted Jacob up onto his shoulder with one arm, putting his free hand into his pocket to take hold of the Webley as he did so. The boy smelled of sick, and Rossett half turned his face away before Jacob reached around his neck and pulled him closer for comfort.

  Rossett paused.

  “It’s okay, son, you’ll be in bed soon.”

  Jacob whined again, more softly this time, squeezing Rossett with his stick-­thin arms, then releasing him slightly.

  Comfort for them both.

  Kate passed them and fumbled with some keys before hopping up the four granite steps and opening the big blue door. Rossett followed her quickly, looking left and right once more as he went.

  All was quiet.

  He stepped past Kate, who was holding the door open, and into a long narrow hallway that was lit by a solitary bulb in a dusty fabric shade that had remnants of silk tassels hanging down. At the end of the hall was a dark staircase. Along the hallway he saw four dark wood doors leading to flats beyond. Kate closed the front door and squeezed past them before heading up the stairs, her heels echoing far too loudly for Rossett’s liking. He grimaced and then followed her, looking up into the dim forty-­watt gloom and suddenly feeling vulnerable.

  He let her go on ahead. At each landing, he took the stairs slowly, leaning back to afford him the best view through the shadows. The house smelled of other ­people’s dinners and was silent except for the muted sound of a radio playing martial music behind a closed door on the third landing.

  On the fourth-­floor landing, Kate was waiting for him, her flat door open, hand on hip, impatient.

  Rossett made eye contact with her as he approached.