The British Lion

by Tony Schumacher

  King scowled at Cook, held a finger to his lips, and pointed at Anja.

  Cook shrugged in the half-­light.

  “What does it matter if she knows? We’ll be gone by the time she says anything.”

  King ignored him and looked around the room for somewhere to sit. It was a hovel; the place reeked of squalor. King had chosen the building because he knew some Jews had been recently evicted. Normal practice was that it would have been left empty for a few weeks until the civil ser­vice had finally gotten round to letting it out. He wondered how long the poor ­people had been forced to live there?

  Waiting for the next step that took them nearer to never having existed at all.

  It stank of damp and dirt, and King was reluctant even to shift Cook out of the armchair for fear it would be infested with fleas.

  He sighed.

  “I’ll be in the other room, on the settee. Do not sleep. I’ll have a few hours and then you can.”

  “Fine.” Cook yawned and shifted slightly in the armchair, adjusting the Thompson.

  “Don’t sleep, understand?”

  Cook held up a hand of acknowledgment. King shook his head before going to the front room and its damp settee. He pulled his overcoat tightly around him and realized just how cold his nose was.

  He breathed out, attempting to loosen the stress of the day and failing badly.

  How could things have gone so badly wrong? He shifted again on the settee and closed his eyes. He needed to sleep; he needed to think clearly tomorrow. It was going to be another long day, and he needed it to go better than the one that was coming to a close.

  He sighed, shivered, pulled the coat tighter, and closed his eyes.

  And then he heard the smash of glass outside.

  He was up off the couch and at the window in a flash. He pulled back the tattered net curtain and looked down to the car.

  All looked well; he wiped at the window to clear the mist from his breath and looked up the street both ways as far as he could see.

  Nothing.

  He looked back down at the car.

  Nothing.

  Except . . . there . . . a flicker, a flash of orange and then it was gone. He wiped again and adjusted position, shielding the glass with his hands as he tried to improve his view.

  There, again, the flicker of orange.

  The inside of the car was on fire.

  “Eric!” King shouted as he turned from the window and grabbed his own Thompson off the floor next to the couch. “Eric!” he shouted again as he ran down the stairs, two at a time, working the bolt on the machine gun as he went.

  As he reached the front door he heard Cook on the landing above him.

  “Stay with the girl!” King shouted up the stairs as he pulled open the door.

  The car interior hadn’t quite caught; whoever had set it alight hadn’t used enough fuel for the fire. Thick black smoke was rising from the smashed window as King ran toward it. Cook came out of the front door behind him.

  “The girl!”

  “She’s all right.”

  Cook looked up and down the street and then back at the car as a dancing flame licked around the broken window, reaching for oxygen outside the choking car.

  “Get some water.”

  King struggled to keep his voice low. He dropped the Thompson and started to scoop up snow to throw through the smashed window and onto the burning seat.

  Cook ran back into the house. King scooped another armful of snow and pitched it into the car, then tried the door. He fumbled in his pocket for the keys, cursing when he remembered Cook had them.

  Another four scoops of snow had gone through the window by the time Cook returned, balancing a metal bowl of water, which he emptied through the window onto the smoldering seat. The flames died and then sprang up again, not quite extinguished.

  “The keys, give me the keys.” King held out his hand as Cook dropped the bowl and put his hand in his coat pocket.

  Someone opened up with a machine gun from the alleyway across the street.

  Cook and King both dropped to the pavement. The firing across the street stopped and silence fell, punctuated only by the occasional pop and crackle from the fire, which was threatening to take hold again.

  King grabbed his own weapon out of the snow and looked under the car toward the alley opposite.

  It looked dark and empty.

  Then he saw movement in the darkness. King fired a quick volley under the car. The muzzle exhaust from his Thompson blocked his view momentarily; he paused to let it clear.

  Silence.

  King rolled to the side and took up position, belly flat to the ground, partly hidden behind the rear wheel of the car. Cook got up to a crouch and risked a look over the bonnet.

  “Who was that? Did you see them?” King called.

  The machine gun in the alleyway let loose again. Cook barely ducked his head before the car jumped under the weight of the incoming rounds.

  King returned fire with a three-­round burst and then called to Cook.

  “Did you see them?”

  “It’s not soldiers. I saw one of them, a scruffy bastard.”

  “Resistance?”

  Cook shrugged. “I don’t know. He didn’t look like a German, that’s for sure.”

  “Where is your gun?” King checked the buildings behind them.

  “In the kitchen. I couldn’t carry the bowl and the gun at the same time.”

  Everywhere was dark; another alleyway lay behind them on their own side of the street, maybe twenty feet away. King doubted he’d make it, even at a run; he’d be exposed with no covering fire.

  “Fuck! Can you get back into the house?”

  “If you cover me. On three: one, two, three!” Cook ran for the house as King let go with two short bursts toward the alley.

  The gunman in the alleyway ignored him and fired a long tracing arc of bullets after the sprinting Cook, who slipped at the last moment and dived headlong into the open doorway.

  The wood around the door splintered, rounds ripping into it as Cook disappeared from view, kicking the door closed behind him.

  The firing stopped again.

  King could hear the flames, and he knew the car was done for. He looked across the pavement, back toward the flat, watching the door a moment, hoping to get a sign that Cook was okay.

  He shifted again in the snow to look at the alley again. Nothing moved. It was impenetrably black. He imagined whoever was in there was changing magazines.

  He considered advancing in the lull but decided against it.

  He wiped some snow off the barrel and bolt of the machine gun.

  Then he heard the shooting behind him.

  From the flat where Cook and Anja were.

  A short burst, then a shout, then another.

  As if on cue the alleyway opposite lit up again, rounds hitting the Opel and causing it to rock. The car lurched as a tire deflated and glass rained down on King, who buried his face in the snow that kicked up and danced around him.

  King heard the muffled rattle of a Thompson behind him, in the flat, in addition to what he was now guessing were two Thompsons in the alleyway.

  Finally all the shooting stopped.

  He was caught in a pincer: he’d messed up basic field craft. He swore softly to himself as he listened to the fire popping in the car again.

  He made up his mind.

  He was running before either gunman in the alleyway had the chance to change their magazines. Away, away, as fast as he could run, a tactical retreat to buy him time to regroup and think. He dived into the alleyway on his side of the road, crashing into an old metal bin, tumbling with it and its contents into the protective darkness, hitting his head on the ground.

  The Thompsons opened up again behind him.
/>   He rolled onto his back and aimed his own Thompson down his body.

  His head pounded.

  He waited.

  Not for long.

  He hit the first man to appear at the end of the alley in the hip and across the stomach, two short rattles of fire as the Thompson kicked in his hand. He heard the man cry out. He didn’t bother to fire again as the man thrashed and dragged himself to cover. King knew he had only a few rounds left in his weapon; he didn’t want to have to resort to his pistol unless he had to.

  He got to his feet and made his way backward down the alleyway, taking small, silent steps, keeping the machine gun pointed at the street. The other Thompson peeked around the corner of the building, letting rip with a high and wide salvo.

  King cried out, even though he wasn’t hit. He dropped to his knee and waited for the head he knew would follow when the shooting stopped.

  It did.

  He fired, low and to the left, feeling the Thompson lift and pull to the right as he squeezed the trigger. He saw the dust of the bricks as the rounds hit home. Whomever the head belonged to cried out and withdrew back behind the wall.

  King guessed a stone chip had got the man, painfully enough to make him think twice.

  King was on the front foot now, in charge of the fight. He advanced slowly toward the street, toward his attackers. Holding the machine gun with one hand, he opened his coat and pulled open the holster on his belt so that he could use his sidearm quickly if required.

  He stopped short, some ten feet from the corner, leaning to the right slightly, and saw the legs of someone lying on his back in the snow.

  He took a step to the right and then another, trying to get a better view of the man who was lying still. King was almost at the end of the alleyway by the time he was certain the man on the ground was alone.

  The fire in the Opel had turned into a full-­on inferno, as thick black smoke billowed from the orange flames inside. He craned his neck to see over the roof of the Opel into the alleyway opposite, but the smoke was too thick.

  He pointed the Thompson at the man on the ground.

  “Where did he go?”

  “Gone,” the man replied, his breath short, a bubble of blood on his lips. He was bleeding heavily. Around him the snow was staining red, and his breath was coming in short watery gasps.

  He was as good as dead. King stepped over the man toward the bullet-­splintered front door a few feet away and half pushed it open, keeping his head close to the frame for cover.

  “Eric!” he called up the stairs, looking back at the car and then down at the dying man, who now had his eyes closed, his breathing quieter.

  “Eric?” he tried again, this time looking up into the darkness of the flat.

  “She has my gun!” Cook shouted back, his voice high, panicked.

  King dropped to a knee and leaned back from the door; he risked another glance up into the darkness.

  “Are you okay?” he called. He was nervous. If the resistance knew they were here and that there were only two of them, they’d be back.

  He needed to get moving quickly.

  “I’m in the front. She has me pinned down, Frank. I can’t move,” Cook called again, and King considered leaving him. He figured he could probably make it to a main road and flag down a car with his machine gun.

  It would be the end of the operation, he’d have questions to answer, but he’d be alive. Maybe Cook and the girl would be killed by the resistance and the whole thing would blow over.

  Who was he kidding?

  He wasn’t the sort of guy to abandon Cook. He’d gotten the kid into this, and he’d do his best to get him out.

  Besides, this wasn’t going to blow over.

  He’d never get out of the country to tell his tale. Dulles would see to that, just to cover his own back. If he had any chance it rested on either success or no loose ends.

  And he had none of one, and a lot of the other.

  The man on the ground groaned and gurgled, and King looked down at him as he breathed his last. King felt something trickle down his own face. He dabbed the top of his scalp with his fingers and saw it was blood. As if to confirm his injury, his head started to ache again.

  “Where is she?” he called up to Cook.

  “The back bedroom!” Cook shouted back.

  King stepped into the building and, keeping low, advanced halfway up the stairs. He could see the flicker of the candle in the bedroom. It danced on the wall of the hallway, throwing barely there shadows that made it hard for him to focus.

  “Run for the stairs. I’ll cover you,” he called quietly.

  “I can’t—­she’ll have a clear shot.”

  “We haven’t got time for this, Eric. Either run now or stay here and wait for the Germans.”

  There was silence.

  The candle danced and King touched his scalp again.

  Suddenly Cook broke from the front room, head down; he hit the top of the stairs flat out, slamming into the wall. Anja let off a short burst from the machine gun, firing mostly high and wide of Cook, who was shooting back blindly with his Browning pistol.

  Cook dropped, scrabbled, and cried out. He half rose and then fell down the stairs toward King, who in turn emptied the last of his bullets at the bedroom wall above him, showering dust and plaster down the stairs behind the floundering Cook.

  Cook kept falling to the bottom, half rolled onto the pavement, then turned a hard right away from the front door. He tripped over the resistance soldier on the ground. King dragged him to his feet and along the street away from the flat, only stopping to drop his empty weapon and to pick up the dead man’s Thompson from the snow where it had fallen.

  “The girl?” Cook gasped.

  King didn’t answer; she was the least of their problems.

  CHAPTER 14

  ANJA CROUCHED DOWN at the end of the bed and listened.

  Silence.

  She realized that her hand was burning where it was holding the barrel of the Thompson.

  She didn’t let go.

  She hadn’t heard a sound since her ears had stopped ringing from firing the gun. She’d seen Cook diving for the stairs but didn’t think she’d been quick enough to hit him.

  She hoped she had.

  She crept forward, listened again, then peeked her head around the doorframe. Nothing. She ducked back again. She waited for a few seconds, chewing her lip, and then looked again, this time down the stairs at the open front door.

  She could see the snow on the pavement outside. She sniffed the air, which smelled of smoke.

  She remembered her mother’s words: if you get the chance, run.

  Whatever might happen next.

  She moved forward, gun pointing at the door at the bottom of the stairs. Slowly, crouching, every step placed carefully like a hunter in a forest.

  Toes pushing forward first, just as her father had shown her.

  She put her foot onto the top step and paused, then slowly, ever so slowly, she took another step, then another, this one slightly quicker.

  Closer to the door, closer to her father.

  She was halfway down when a head popped around the doorframe and then back out of sight, much too quick for her to react with the gun.

  Anja froze, her foot hovering an inch off the step beneath it. The Thompson in her hands rose slowly, pointing at the door. She stepped backward in slow motion, back up the stairs, unsure whether whoever had looked in had seen her in the gloom and the smoke. She took another step, quicker, and then another. The stair creaked, so Anja gave up all pretense at stealth by breaking into a stumbling backward run toward the landing above.

  She’d barely made it to the top when the head appeared again, lingering this time. It was still there as she made it into the sanctuary of the bedroom. It was her turn to hide,
shoulder to the wall, breathing hard, weapon clutched to her chest.

  She turned and looked at the boarded-­up window. She was trapped.

  Maybe the ­people who were shooting at King and Cook were still out there? Maybe they could help her?

  She looked out again.

  The head was there; she couldn’t make out the face looking up, so she leveled the gun, showing her ability to defend herself if she had to.

  The head disappeared at the sight of the gun.

  “Hey!”

  Anja ducked back into the bedroom.

  “You up there! Throw out the gun!” An Englishman, shouting in English, not angry, nervous.

  Anja rested her head against the wall.

  “Come on, it’s the police! Throw it out!”

  The voice grew in confidence, assured, used to ­people doing as they were told, and Anja felt an urge to comply.

  She didn’t.

  She just sneaked another look around the doorframe, then ducked back into the bedroom.

  Could she trust the English police?

  Her father had told her, time and time again, “The English aren’t our friends, they are our subjects. As long as you are here, be polite, but never trust them. They will turn on you like dogs if you let them.”

  Anja didn’t care who the man at the bottom of the stairs said he was. If he tried to come up, she was going to shoot him like a dog.

  She hugged the heavy gun to her chest to take the weight off her arms, then took up position next to the landing again, Thompson pointing down the stairs.

  “Throw down the gun; don’t make me come up there to get it.”

  “I’ll shoot!” Anja heard herself shouting back, her voice high and light with nerves and adrenaline. She coughed to clear her throat in case she had to shout again.

  “This is Police Constable Alf Harris! Come on now, love, throw out the gun and come downstairs before you get hurt.” The Englishman held his helmet in the doorway for Anja to see. “Look here, see? I’m a bobby. Come on, throw down that gun before someone gets hurt.”

  Anja watched the helmet waving and bit her lip as it disappeared back out of sight. She ducked back into the bedroom. She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t shoot a policeman.