The British Lion

by Tony Schumacher

  She’d arrived.

  “Get her out,” someone said outside the car, and all of a sudden the doors all around her opened as one. She felt the feet pushing down one last time as the person they belonged to got out.

  Anja shivered. It was cold, and the draft from the door next to her head seemed to claw its way through the bag.

  Someone grabbed her and dragged her. She tried to kick with her legs to push herself free, but whoever was pulling was too quick. Another hand under her arm and then she was pulled from the car and dropped a few inches.

  The ground was hard, solid, and flat, and there was no snow. She wondered if she was under a shelter or maybe inside. What little light made its way through the hood gave no clues, so she rolled onto her back, searching under it, looking down toward her feet without bending her neck, desperate for a clue as to where she was.

  She didn’t need to bother. Someone ripped the hood off her head and Anja closed her eyes against the sudden light. She waited. Nothing happened. She opened her eyes, blinked, and looked up.

  She was in a large shed, maybe a warehouse. Above her she could see the wooden roof, about forty feet up, resting on thin steel rafters. The shingles were in poor repair, because she could see shafts of daylight shining through a few gaps in the gloom.

  Daylight made her think of freedom, and she twisted her wrists, rolled onto her side, and looked behind her.

  Five men, the mechanic and Jack included, stood and stared at her. One of them, a big man, well dressed in a sharp suit, held the sack that had been over her head in a hairy hand that looked like a ham.

  She looked at his feet. Black boots with heavy soles, toe caps, and solid heels.

  Anja had him to thank for the bruises on her back.

  “Get her up, please,” one of the men said. He was older, his words precise, so clear you could almost hear every letter, as if there were a gap between them.

  He was in charge. His kind was always in charge.

  The big man walked toward Anja. She felt like a doll as he grabbed her arms and lifted; she seemed to float to her feet. He stepped back, holding one hand out to catch her in case she fell.

  She didn’t, she just glared at him and then at the man in charge.

  “Bring her inside.”

  The big man took Anja’s arm, but she was already following the man in charge. The big man let go and placed his hand in the small of her back. She was surprised at his gentleness and she looked at him.

  He smiled sadly. “Do as you’re told, there’s a good girl,” he whispered.

  The man in charge led the group through a door with a frosted glass windowpane. It opened onto a dark corridor, with more doors and wood-­paneled walls, which seemed to crowd in on Anja as they made their way along it in single file.

  For every two doors that led off to the side, there was another partitioning the corridor into self-­contained cells that reminded her of carriages on a train. Anja guessed they were in a block of offices that dealt with the paperwork for the warehouse.

  But the warehouse was empty, and the offices were silent, and she was alone.

  All the side doors were solid wood, while the corridor doors were glass. The big man almost had to turn sideways each time they passed through a glass door, until they eventually stopped, halfway down the corridor at one of the office doors.

  The man in charge opened the lock with a bunch of keys, stepped back, and gestured that Anja should enter. She paused, then felt the gentle hand in the small of her back again. She turned to look at the big man, who nodded his head.

  Anja went in.

  There was a table, four chairs, wooden walls, and a shabby two-­seater couch; hanging from the ceiling, a bright lightbulb that made the dust look dustier as it floated round the room.

  The solitary decoration was a calendar on the wall that reckoned it was still October 1940.

  “Take off the gag and unbind her.” The man in charge again.

  Anja turned to look at the big man, who gently spun her away from him. She faced the wall, looking at the picture on the calendar; it was a black-­and-­white picture of a duck in a lake.

  Anja felt fat fingers pulling at the gag. The knot caught her hair, but she ignored the pain as the fingers tugged and the gag came loose.

  She spat it out, coughing as it dragged along her tongue and fell to the floor. Suddenly her hands were free, and she turned to face the men behind her.

  She wasn’t afraid anymore. She was angry.

  “What do you think you are doing? How dare you treat me like this? I would not have screamed. There was no call for a gag.”

  Nobody argued with her. Jack looked at the floor and the mechanic nodded, openly agreeing with her.

  Anja felt the wind drifting out of her sails. She looked at the big man, who scratched at his nose and then lowered his eyes.

  “Sorry, miss,” he said before offering her a freshly ironed white handkerchief.

  Anja took it, even though she didn’t want it, and looked at the man in charge. He smiled, held out his hands apologetically, then gestured that she should sit.

  “Tea?” he asked.

  “Yes, please,” Anja said.

  The man in charge smiled, and then looked at the mechanic and Jack.

  “There are makings next door, gentlemen, if you would be so kind?”

  Anja watched as the mechanic nodded, then backed out of the room.

  “Maybe a sandwich as well, boy?” The man in charge smiled at Jack, who took the hint and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  “Please, sit.” The man in charge removed a thin leather glove and pointed to a chair at the table.

  Anja hesitated and then sat. It was better than the floor of the car. The man sat opposite and studied her face for a moment before speaking again.

  “I must apologize for your manner of arrival. I was unsure how you would react to my bringing you here. I thank you for your cooperation.”

  Anja nodded, thinking that she hadn’t had much choice when it came to cooperation.

  “I’m led to believe you are Ernst Koehler’s daughter. Is this correct?”

  Anja nodded, then coughed to clear her throat. “Yes, I am.”

  “My associates tell me you were kidnapped by two men.”

  “Yes.”

  “This was to coerce your father into carrying out a task?”

  “Coerce?” Anja’s English was good, but it wasn’t that good.

  The man in charge tried again.

  “Make your father do a job? He is to kidnap someone?”

  Anja shrugged and watched as the man in charge pulled his other glove off, then placed his hand on his leg delicately, almost like a dancer might.

  Anja wasn’t good with ages, but she guessed him to be about fifty or sixty. He was pale, sickly. His face looked greasy and his eyes looked pink-­rimmed and sore—­angry eyes that didn’t get enough sleep.

  He had nice clothes, his shoes shone, and his hands were smooth like those of the men who worked in her father’s office.

  He looked normal except for his sore, angry eyes.

  She needed to take care.

  “You told my associate that the men who abducted you and your mother were American, is that correct?”

  Anja swallowed and looked at the big man again over her shoulder.

  “I’ve no wish to hurt you, child,” the man in charge said softly.

  “Then let me go.”

  “If you answer my questions I shall.”

  “How do I know you’re not a liar?”

  “I am a gentleman, my dear; as you grow older you’ll learn that you can trust a gentleman to keep his word. Now, if you answer my questions, I’ll do all I can to ensure that you get the opportunity to grow older. If you don’t . . . you won’t.”

 
Anja felt a flutter in her chest and looked at him.

  “They were Americans.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Their accents, and they also said they worked at the embassy.”

  “They gave no indication to you what they wanted of your father?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they have names?”

  “Frank and Eric.”

  “Frank?”

  “Yes.”

  The man in charge frowned and leaned back slightly.

  “How old were they?”

  “Not very. One was maybe twenty-­five, the other a little older, I think. I’m not very—­”

  “Frank was older?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they said they were Americans?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. I said they had American accents, like in the movies, and they mentioned an embassy, so I think they were.”

  “But you’re sure they were not English?”

  “Yes.”

  “Absolutely sure?”

  “They had good teeth.”

  The man in charge lifted an eyebrow and smiled, keeping his mouth closed as he did so.

  “This man, Frank, did he have light-­colored hair, like your father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Anja.” The man in charge smiled again.

  “Can I go home now?”

  “Not yet, child; hopefully soon, though.”

  There was a knock at the door, and the man in charge half turned in his seat and nodded to the big man to open it. Harris the policeman stood there, out of uniform, nervously holding a flat cap across his chest. He seemed smaller, less confident.

  Anja wondered if it was the lack of uniform or the man in charge who was sapping his confidence.

  “I got a message to come see Sir James Sterling?” said Harris, confused, checking out the various men who were dotted around the room and in the corridor.

  The man in charge visibly flinched, turned to look at Anja, and then smiled.

  “I’m so terribly sorry, my dear, so very sorry.” He lightly slapped his gloves against his leg, then turned to Harris. “You really are an arse.”

  “What?” Harris replied, looking around the room once more, searching for support this time.

  Sterling gave a tiny bow toward Anja and then left the room, taking Harris with him. The door clicked shut behind him.

  The big man who had removed Anja’s gag smiled sadly at her.

  “Make yourself comfortable, girl, this could take a while.”

  Anja twisted the handkerchief in her hand again, then looked back at the duck in the calendar.

  She wished she were back in 1940 as well.

  STERLING TOOK HIS tea without milk, strong, a decent brew. The kind of tea that put fur in your mouth before it went down, the kind of tea you could taste before you drank it. That was the reason he was frowning into the enamel mug Jack had just placed on his desk with a clunk. The mug was filled with a greasy brew; there were small gray dots of slimy stale milk turning like stars in a miserable brown galaxy.

  Sterling gestured to Jack to remove the mug and its murky contents from out of his sight.

  “It really is most urgent,” Sterling said into the telephone that was pressed against his ear, as he watched Jack retreat with the tea. “Most urgent indeed.”

  “I’m afraid the ambassador is extremely busy, sir. I can maybe schedule a call for you later in the week?”

  “This is a matter of utmost importance. You are aware of who I am?”

  “I am, sir, but again, the ambassador is extremely . . .”

  Sterling was barely listening to the secretary on the other end of the line, such was his frustration. There had been a time, back when the occupation was new, that the Americans treated senior British civil servants with respect, courtesy, even urgency. But over time the English had slid further down the order of importance, especially in light of the new diplomatic push toward cooperation with the Germans.

  Now he was lucky to even get to speak to a secretary.

  Sterling knew that the Americans were aware he was the senior royalist resistance commander in London. He and the Americans had worked closely on occasion over the last few years. They had once had respect for him, but now, he knew he was falling out of favor and very much in danger of becoming an embarrassment.

  And that was why he had to listen to this ridiculous woman brush him off on the phone. He was walking a tightrope with the Americans. They could drop his name into conversation at any time they wanted, casually toss him to the Nazis.

  He was worthless to them. He needed them, but he wanted them to need him.

  “Listen to me, woman!” His shouting caused the line to fall silent.

  He waited; finally the same flat voice came back. “Yes, Sir James?”

  “Get off your arse, go into Kennedy’s office, and tell him I have urgent information about Frank King, your military attaché to London.”

  Silence.

  “Do it now.”

  Another pause.

  “Please hold the line, sir.”

  There was a click, and Sterling took the opportunity to lower his head into his hand, squeezing his temples to ease the ache behind his eyes.

  He’d not wanted to mention King on the telephone; he’d wanted to keep as much back as he could, for as long as he could, but the combination of belligerent secretary and a tension headache had caused him to snap.

  His cards had fallen onto the table for all to see. He’d have to wait to see how Joseph Kennedy, U.S. Ambassador to Occupied Great Britain and the Court of St. James, decided to play against them.

  “Sir James.” Kennedy came on the line. “What can I do for you?”

  “Is this line secure?”

  “All of our lines are secure; I’d suggest the worry lies with you and yours.” Kennedy sounded tired, bored almost.

  “I’ve got the girl.”

  “What girl?”

  “The girl Frank King kidnapped.”

  There was silence on the other end of the phone. A moment passed, and Sterling imagined Kennedy gesturing for an aide to listen in to the conversation.

  “Frank King?” Kennedy spoke again, enunciating the words carefully.

  “Yes.”

  “Our Frank King?”

  “I wouldn’t ring about anyone else called Frank King, would I?”

  “No, I imagine you wouldn’t.”

  “Do you want the girl?”

  “I would imagine that if she is claiming she has been kidnapped, you’d want to get her to the authorities as soon as possible?”

  “I’d much rather help a friend, Mr. Ambassador.”

  Jack walked back into the little office with a fresh cup of tea; he hovered by the desk, unsure of what to do as Sterling ignored him.

  “And we are friends, Sir James?”

  “I would hope so.”

  “Would it be possible that this young lady can stay with you until I can ascertain the circumstances surrounding this situation?”

  “You don’t know about this?”

  Kennedy’s pause answered Sterling’s question, so he continued.

  “She’ll be going nowhere for the foreseeable future, Mr. Ambassador. She’s aware of who I am and my role here. All that makes her returning home extremely unlikely, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah, that’s unfortunate. Could you call me in . . . let’s say two hours?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sterling lowered the handset and placed it gently back in the cradle. He tapped the fingers of his right hand on the desk absentmindedly as he processed his
position in the game. A moment passed, and then he noticed the fresh cup of tea steaming on the far corner of his desk.

  No milk, just how he liked it.

  CHAPTER 23

  YOU’RE GOING TO where?”

  “Cambridge.”

  “Why?”

  “To pick up a Jew.”

  “Why? Did they fall over?”

  The German soldier at the checkpoint started laughing at the joke. The comedian, a corporal in the British Home Defense Troops, looked over his shoulder at the German and winked before turning back to Rossett.

  Rossett sat stoically in his car, staring straight ahead, one hand half out the window, waiting to be given back his travel papers.

  “Who is the Jew?” the corporal asked, unfolding the travel warrant.

  “I don’t know. I’m to be told when I get there.”

  The corporal looked at the warrant and then at Rossett’s police ID card, comparing the names on the two documents, then lowered his head so that he could look into Rossett’s face.

  “Hey.”

  Rossett looked up.

  “Look at me. How am I supposed to see your face if you won’t look at me?” The corporal took half a pace to the side, resting his hand on the polished leather holster on his belt.

  Rossett looked at the holster and then up at the corporal, staring at him with dead eyes, unimpressed with the hand-­on-­the-­holster routine.

  “You’re a police inspector?”

  “Yes.”

  “In London?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a long way from home.”

  Rossett didn’t reply.

  “I had a bit of trouble with the police in London before the war, down Cable Street. Do you know it?”

  Rossett remembered the fascist Black Shirt marches and the riots they had sparked. It all seemed so long ago now.

  “I do.”

  “Were you there?” The corporal tilted his head.

  “No.”

  “All them coppers that day were a bunch of bleedin’ communists and Jew lovers. You sure you weren’t there?”

  Rossett pursed his lips, thought about speaking, then decided the mission was more important. Instead he chose to stare out the windscreen, resting both hands on the steering wheel.