“What about the Englishmen he killed?”
“What?”
“You don’t want to question him about the three Englishmen who died?”
Rossett flushed.
“Yes, of course . . . I’m sorry, we should.”
“Yes.” Neumann stepped back and gestured that Rossett should lead the way back into the cell. “Maybe we should.”
“You shot some Englishmen.”
“Hmm?” Bauer dragged his eyes away from Rossett and looked at Neumann.
“You shot some Englishmen,” Neumann repeated.
“What about it?”
“Why did you shoot them?”
“Why?”
“Why?”
Bauer looked at Rossett, then back at Neumann before beckoning him closer. “I want to tell you a secret.”
Neumann nodded encouragement. “Go on?”
Rossett folded his arms.
“This secret is a very dangerous thing.”
“Please, tell me.” Neumann wafted a hand.
“I know where there is a lot of gold.”
“Gold?” Neumann leaned forward, but Rossett didn’t move.
“Gold.”
“What kind of gold?” Neumann again.
“How many kinds are there?” The Bear tilted his head.
“Two,” said Rossett flatly.
“Two?” The Bear looked at him.
“The real kind, and the bullshit kind. And I know which one you are talking about.”
The Bear smiled. “That’s funny.”
Rossett didn’t reply.
The Bear looked at Neumann. “He’s funny.”
“What gold?” Neumann tried to steer the Bear back on track.
The Bear was still smiling when he replied. “Enough gold to make everyone in this garrison rich ten times over.”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone. The Englishmen who died, they’d hidden it, but I found it and moved it.”
“You found it?”
“Then I moved it.”
“Where is it?” Neumann tried to sound calm.
“If you are good enough, you’ll find out.”
“And if I’m not?”
The Bear shrugged.
“You’ll be dead.”
Chapter 7
Neumann glanced at his wristwatch, then linked his fingers and started to tap his thumbs together. The clock on the wall ticked toward 2 p.m., and he considered getting up and walking out of the office. He called over to the admin corporal, who was in the middle of loading a piece of paper into a typewriter that almost hid him from view.
“Corporal?”
“Yes, sir?” The corporal almost had to stand up to be seen.
“You’re sure the major knows I am waiting?”
“He does, sir.”
“Can you tell him we need to get back to London tonight?”
“I already have done, sir.”
“Then tell him I’m here merely as a courtesy. I can take Captain Bauer without his permission if I wish.”
The corporal wearily got to his feet, crossed the room, knocked on Dannecker’s office door, and entered.
One minute later, he came out and smiled at Neumann.
“The major will see you now, sir.”
Neumann stalked past him and into Dannecker’s office.
It was drabber than he had expected. Dannecker was seated behind a plain wooden desk that looked like the sort of thing a teacher would use in a run-down school. There was a map of the city on one wall, while on another a large-scale map of the northwest of England was pinned next to the obligatory portrait of Hitler. Under the portrait was Staff Sergeant Becker, seated in a leather armchair, his chin in his hand as he stared at Neumann.
On Dannecker’s desk, next to a pile of files, was a bottle of brandy and a half-full glass. Behind the glass, Dannecker stared at Neumann through watery red eyes that looked like they had just watched a late night slide by slowly.
“Generalmajor.” Dannecker pointed to a wooden chair against the far wall. “Please, take a seat.”
“I’m not stopping.”
“Drink?”
“I’m not stopping,” Neumann said again.
“You’ve spoken to Captain Bauer?”
“I have, and he is now in my custody.”
Dannecker nodded and pulled the cork on the bottle.
“Isn’t it a little late to be driving back to London?” Dannecker topped up his glass, but didn’t replace the stopper.
“I prefer to expedite the captain’s transfer as quickly as possible.”
Dannecker looked at Becker and repeated one word. “Expedite.”
Becker didn’t reply.
Neumann continued, “I trust you’ll be able to spare us a prisoner escort?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I must insist.”
“We don’t have the spare men.” Dannecker picked up the brandy glass and shrugged. “I’m sorry.”
Neumann glanced at Becker and back at Dannecker.
“If we may have a moment in private, Major?”
“The staff sergeant runs this place, Generalmajor. If it has to be said, it’s best said where he can hear it.” Dannecker leaned back until his chair creaked.
Neumann stared at the floor for a moment before speaking.
“During the interview, Captain Bauer mentioned gold.”
“Gold?”
“A lot of gold. I understand that it is probably just an attempt to distract me, but . . . well . . . it would be remiss of me not to ask you if you have heard anything about it.”
Dannecker looked at Becker. “Have you heard anything about gold, Staff Sergeant?”
“No, sir.”
“Neither have I.” Dannecker looked back at Neumann. “Did Captain Bauer say where this gold was?”
“He did not.”
“How much there was?”
“Other than to say that there was a lot, no.”
“Where it came from?”
“No.”
“That’s unfortunate. I could always do with some gold.” Dannecker smiled at Neumann, who managed a weak smile in return.
“Couldn’t we all.”
Dannecker took a sip of the brandy, swallowed, and leaned forward with another creak.
“I’m sorry, Generalmajor. Captain Bauer has been under a great deal of stress of late. His work is difficult in the extreme. He operates alone, living among the English, pretending to be English, basically being English. He hears loose talk, rumors, information, anything anti-German or anti-fascist, and then he targets the people who are subversive.”
“And?”
“He kills them.” Dannecker took another drink.
“Many of them?”
“Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on your point of view—yes. He kills them by the dozen. He’s the best of the best, but unfortunately he’s been out there for a long time now, and it has taken its toll.” Dannecker touched his left temple with his index finger, then shrugged.
“So the gold?”
“The rambling of a madman?” Dannecker glanced at Becker and then back at Neumann.
“Whatever it is, I’ll have to report it to London when I get back.”
“Of course.”
“There may be further enquiries to be made down the line.”
“I understand.”
“I’d best get going, Major.”
“Are you sure you won’t leave tomorrow?”
“The sooner we are back on home ground, the better.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Dannecker lifted his glass.
Neumann managed another half smile and an informal salute. Dannecker returned it with the glass.
Becker and Dannecker sat in silence for a few moments before Dannecker addressed his staff sergeant.
“If they make it to London with Bauer, we are totally fucked.”
“So?”
“Make sure we aren’t by making
sure they don’t.”
They were stuck in traffic on a one-way street.
Rossett sighed, looked out the back window, then grabbed the seat in front of him and leaned forward so he could see out the windscreen.
“What’s the holdup?”
Neumann smoothed his hands across the top of the Jaguar’s steering wheel.
“Looks like an accident. I think a truck or something is blocking the road.”
They had barely traveled one hundred yards from the garrison in the last fifteen minutes. The pavements on either side were dotted with pedestrians, while ahead of them a line of cars snaked their way toward the truck that was blocking the narrow road. People were blaring on horns, and Rossett could see a couple of drivers leaning out of windows shouting.
He glanced at the Bear, who was staring straight ahead at the back of Neumann’s head.
The wipers juddered across the window, so Neumann flicked them off, then looked at Rossett. “The road isn’t wide enough to turn around in this thing.”
“We should have brought the Austin.”
“No we shouldn’t,” replied Neumann flatly.
Rossett glanced out the back window again, at the van and driver stuck tight up behind them.
The Bear moved for the first time since he had been placed in the back of the Jaguar. He looked at Rossett.
“It’s a trap.”
“What?”
“An ambush, insurgents, resistance. It is a classic trap. I knew they wouldn’t let me leave.”
“Quiet.” Rossett looked over his shoulder at the van again.
“We are in a bottleneck; they knew we were coming.”
Rossett turned back to the front just as the car ahead rolled forward a couple of feet. He noticed Neumann’s eyes watching him in the mirror.
“It’s a trap,” the Bear said softly, eyes still on Rossett.
Rossett pulled out his Webley, thumbed the hammer, and checked over his shoulder once more.
The girl from earlier, the one with the barrow.
Iris.
She was limping down the narrow pavement toward them on the passenger side of the car. She was moving slowly, and he could see the wooden wheel of her barrow was still rhythmically wobbling with each quarter turn.
“What do we do?” Neumann in the mirror again.
“Let the gap open in front of us as the cars edge forward. Hold the foot brake, keep your eyes open, and if you see anything strange ram the car in front to move it. Just keep your head down and keep driving if I tell you. A moving target is harder to hit.”
“Mount the curb and reverse away from the blockade. Don’t worry about the pedestrians.” The Bear sounded bored.
Neumann looked at Rossett in the mirror again. “Should I?”
“Curb’s blocked. Give it a minute, let’s see how this plays out.”
“Head back to the garrison.” The Bear again.
Rossett saw Neumann chew his bottom lip and stroke the steering wheel again.
“Give me the cuffs.” Rossett placed the Webley under his leg, then took hold of the Bear’s wrist. The Bear didn’t resist as Rossett unlocked the cuff from one wrist and reached across to attach it to the leather strap on the door of the Jaguar. Rossett closed the cuff back up, then leaned forward to place a reassuring hand on Neumann’s shoulder.
“He’s secure. I’m going to move some of these cars out of the way. Have you got your pistol?”
Neumann held up his Walther.
Rossett clamped his hand tighter. “If he moves an inch, shoot him.”
Neumann adjusted the mirror so it was pointed at the Bear.
“Okay.”
“This is a trap. You should stay in the car and we should force our way back to the garrison.” The Bear’s head was leaning to one side as he stared out the window next to it, like a bored child on a long journey.
Rossett nodded to Neumann, opened the door, and stepped out of the car.
The change in temperature made him shiver; they’d been in the vehicle for longer than he’d realized. He checked on the barrow girl again. She was thirty feet away, limping along in the same short awkward steps that sounded of studs in old boots being dragged on cobbles. Nobody, other than Rossett, seemed to notice her edging along the pavement, eyes downcast, scanning the ground for scraps.
Rossett took a few paces and then stood with his back to the Jaguar. He checked the street ahead. Neumann had been right; the truck was causing the delay. Rossett could see two men standing by the front wheel, which looked like it had come loose and folded up under the weight of its load.
One of the men started to argue with a taxi driver.
Nobody was going anywhere for a while.
Rossett stepped farther away and then up onto the curb so that he could see past the van behind the Jaguar. There were cars stretching back to the gates of the garrison and beyond. Pedestrians were picking their way through exhaust fumes and smog, too wrapped up in their own existence to notice the car horns and the gridlock.
The barrow girl was getting closer, limping along at a pace that could barely be described as a walk. Rossett edged back toward the Jaguar’s passenger window, leaned down, and gestured that Neumann should lower it.
The heat from the car warmed his face.
“Well?” Neumann was leaning right over, and Rossett could see that he had his finger on the trigger of the Walther.
“I’ll get the cars in front to roll forward as much as I can. There is a girl with a barrow, the one from before, coming down toward us. As soon as she’s passed, pull forward onto the curb and use the extra space to turn around. We’ll head back to the garrison.”
The Bear said something in the back that made Neumann glance at him before he looked back at Rossett.
“Is there no way past the truck? I wanted to get home tonight.”
Rossett checked on the barrow girl’s progress, then looked back at Neumann.
“We should just wait until this road is clear; we’re too exposed here.”
“There must be another—”
Rossett held up his hand and cut Neumann off.
He’d heard a shout, something different from frustration that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Rossett leaned back from the window, then looked toward the truck ahead.
The men who had been inspecting the wheel were gone.
His Webley emerged from the folds of his coat. He looked toward the van driver behind the Jaguar, who stared back at him, hands still on the wheel. Rossett checked the truck again, and noticed for the first time that the three cars closest to it were empty.
He took a few paces along the pavement toward them. He checked over his shoulder at the barrow girl, then ducked his head to check the drivers of the cars just in front of the Jaguar. They looked just as impatient as Neumann to get going.
Rossett noticed movement on the other side of the truck up ahead.
Pedestrians were still all around, carrying on with their lives, pushing past, unaware of Rossett’s heart rate rising. He tapped the windscreen of the car nearest to him with the Webley.
“Move forward so that you are touching the bumper of the car in front.” Rossett showed his police warrant card and, more important, the Webley, to the driver.
He looked back toward the truck as the engine next to him revved.
The car moved, then Rossett noticed the van behind the Jaguar was now empty.
Its driver was gone.
Rossett took a half step back to the Jaguar, and that was when the explosion blew him off his feet.
Rossett’s ears were ringing and his face was in the gutter.
He had the dull sense that he was seeing the world through a dusty tunnel.
He tried to get up, but barely managed to move more than a few inches before a great weight stopped him and pushed him back to the ground. There was water in the gutter. It was cold on his cheek. He rolled his head and discovered the water tasted of soil.
Soil
and blood.
He tried to get up again, but the weight pushed him down again.
He thought about staying on the ground, shutting his eyes, resting a while.
This time the water was edging past his left temple. It felt good. The whistling in his ears rolled like a radio scrolling through the long waves, then it popped.
Gunfire.
Somewhere around him, on the edges of his reluctant senses, coming into focus, like a vague memory of a bad dream.
Rossett tried to get up out of the gutter again, and this time realized the great weight was the bottom of the car he had been half blown under.
He edged backward on his elbows so that he was clear, then it struck him his hands were empty.
He didn’t have his gun. He squinted into the shadows and the smoke as the gunfire grew louder. He couldn’t figure out if his hearing was coming back or if the shooting was getting closer.
He felt drunk, even though he knew he wasn’t.
He saw the Webley, a few feet ahead of him, lying under the car like a dead rat.
Rossett crawled forward on his elbows and reached for the gun. He could hear screaming over the gunfire.
High pitched, maybe a woman? Maybe a man? Rossett had heard men scream under fire; screaming was universal when you were scared.
Rossett didn’t have time to be scared.
He picked up the gun and felt a little sick as he edged back out from under the car. He felt weak, spat some blood out of his mouth, and realized he had bitten his tongue when he had fallen over.
He rolled out onto the pavement and tried to sit up.
He couldn’t, so he settled for resting on one elbow.
The gunfire had eased a little, but there was still the sound of screaming.
The Webley felt too heavy to lift.
Rossett fought off the urge to lie down again. He scanned the pavement and through the smoke saw a woman staring at him. Rossett could see blood pooling in her lap. She said something to him, but he couldn’t hear the words.
He wanted to help her. He wanted to stand.
He couldn’t, so he lay back and closed his eyes.
The pavement felt cruel against the back of his head.
He blinked as gray smoke drifted across lighter clouds. Far away, up above him, the clouds slowly faded away as he drifted back into unconsciousness.
The Bear had seen it coming.
An Army of One: A John Rossett Novel Page 10
