The Darkest Hour (15 page)
W
HEN KOEHLER ARRIVE
D
at Charing Cross he was dismayed to see several trucks unloading bleary-eyed troops onto the pavement. NCOs dashed around shouting and pointing while junior officers stood clustered, waiting for meaningful instructions from someone who knew what he was doing.
Koehler told his driver to stop before turning into the yard, got out of the car, and stared at the chaos.
So much for German efficiency, he thought as he watched the scene. Through the crowd, he saw Werner and waved for the senior NCO to join him.
Werner arrived with a crash of stamping boots and a salute. Koehler lazily saluted back and then gestured with the same hand toward the crowds of men.
“What’s going on, Werner?”
“Lieutenant Brandt thought it best to call out the local garrisons, sir, to track down the escapees,” Werner replied flatly.
“Where is Brandt?”
“He’s in the jail, sir. He’s . . .”
“He’s what?”
“Flustered, sir. I told him you wanted him here, but I think he felt it best to keep things moving.”
Koehler looked at the old soldier and then shook his head.
“Where did it all go wrong, Werner? What happened to the finest army in the world?”
Werner didn’t reply, and Koehler took out a cigarette and lit it, watching the crowds of soldiers form up into ranks, rain reflecting off their helmets and boots.
“Have the men mount the trucks again, then join us in the jail.”
Werner saluted and Koehler walked through the yard past the still-smoking frames of the trucks until he noticed two soldiers standing guard over the body of the sentry. The two soldiers sprang to attention, and Koehler leaned into the shadows to look at the young man, who sat with eyes open and dried blood covering his face. His tunic was unfastened and his guts sat in his lap, raw and exposed, where they had been placed by whoever had sliced him open and by gravity. It looked like the boy had tried to push them back into his body before he died, as his hands were still clutching at the bloody mess.
Rain was falling heavier now and spotting the blood on the boy’s face, causing it to look like red tears flowing down his cheeks. Koehler shook his head.
“Jesus.” He looked at the two young men who stood over their dead colleague like bookends. “Cover him up with something. Don’t let anyone else see him like that.”
He entered the jail and walked down the steps and through the gate, where the custody assistant lay facedown and dead. Another German soldier snapped to attention next to the corpse, and Koehler noticed that the man was standing in the blood on the floor. He saluted and passed. No point in looking any closer than he had; he’d seen enough corpses to last a lifetime. Instead, he made his way to the custody desk.
As he approached, he heard someone talking loudly and excitedly.
“We need to get boots on the streets, as many people as possible fanning out looking. Get me more troops!”
Koehler turned the final corner and saw a young lieutenant on the phone. Around him stood three junior NCOs, who noticed Koehler first and sprang to attention. Koehler could have sworn he sensed relief on their faces that someone else had finally turned up to take command, but he decided maybe that was just his imagination or his ego talking.
“Don’t have more troops come here,” Koehler said quietly but firmly. As he mounted the steps up to the custody desk, he looked down and was amazed to see the body of the senior jailer still lying on the floor, a knife poking out of his side.
The lieutenant turned at the interruption and immediately snapped to attention when he saw Koehler; comically, he held the phone to his head as if he were saluting with it.
“Are you Brandt?”
“Yes, Herr Major!” Brandt stiff-armed a Nazi salute, which Koehler returned. It suddenly struck him how often soldiers tended to salute when things were falling down around them.
“What is this man doing here on the floor?”
“I thought you would want to see him, sir!”
“Well, I’ve seen him. Now get all the bodies moved to the morgue.”
Brandt turned to the NCOs and gestured to the body on the floor impatiently.
“Get this moved! Now!”
Koehler rubbed his face and turned to Brandt.
“Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Could you please stop shouting?”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Brandt took a half step back from Koehler, who took the seat that had been occupied by the jailer before he had died. The cake was still on the desk in front of him, and Koehler absentmindedly prodded it with a fork. He noticed it was slightly stale and wondered how long it had been waiting to be eaten before he had got there.
The NCOs were making heavy work of moving the body until Werner appeared and whispered a few instructions, getting the job done. Just Koehler, Brandt, Werner, and the pool of blood were left at the desk.
“How long is it since the escape?” Koehler asked.
“We think it is about one hour, sir!” Brandt shouted, then flinched before adding quietly, “The sentry was discovered at eleven ten by a routine patrol of the perimeter. The guards noticed nobody was manning the yard post, so they entered to look for him. He was found barely alive.”
“They patrol the perimeter in fifteen-minute spells, sir.” Werner filled in the information for Brandt, who looked at the sergeant before nodding.
“Every fifteen minutes,” Brandt repeated for no reason.
“So, the breakout happened around eleven?” Koehler looked at his watch. “Almost an hour ago.”
Koehler stabbed the fork into the cake, leaned back in the chair, and looked at the ceiling. “Shouldn’t we start the search, sir?” Brandt broke the silence.
“Where should we tell them to start, Lieutenant?”
“I . . . er . . . I don’t know, sir.”
“No, you wouldn’t, because they could be anywhere by now.” Koehler felt his blood rise for the first time in a long time and he slowly lowered his gaze from the ceiling to the young officer who stood in front of him.
“I did my best, sir.”
“I hope your mother can knit, Brandt, because your best has probably consigned us to the Eastern Front just in time for Christmas.”
Brandt broke from his stiff-necked attention for the first time. He shuffled his feet and looked at the floor like a schoolboy who had broken a teacher’s window. Koehler looked at the young man and shook his head.
“Get the men outside to form up some roadblocks around the city for now, keep them there for a few hours, and then stand them down. At least then we can tell Berlin we tried to recapture the prisoners.”
“Good to see you have things so thoroughly under control, Major.”
Koehler looked up to see Schmitt staring at him through the still-locked iron gate that led into the station.
“Would you let the Gestapo in please, Werner?” Koehler said, his voice as flat as his morale.
“I don’t mind waiting. It’s quite refreshing seeing you behind bars.” Schmitt smiled at his joke and Koehler saw that there were another two Gestapo chuckling behind him.
Werner crossed to the gate and after a couple of tries found the correct key and opened it.
Schmitt entered and looked around the custody area.
“Where are the bodies?” Schmitt addressed Brandt, who, for a moment, looked like he was about to cry. Instead, he turned to Koehler and gestured with a nod.
“He said to move them.”
Koehler raised an eyebrow and made a mental note about his junior before saying one word.
“He?”
Brandt blushed and rephrased his statement.
“Major Koehler said the bodies should be moved.”
Schmitt smiled again and stepped up onto the dais. He looked at the blood on the floor, then at Koehler.
“Oh dear, some people might think you are trying to hide the evidence, Major. How am I supposed to investigate the escape if the evidence has been cleaned up?”
Schmitt dragged the toe of his shoe through the blood as if he were painting with his foot, and Koehler sighed loudly.
“It isn’t your job to investigate the escape; it’s mine. This is an SS matter, not a Gestapo one.”
“I thought you could do with some help. As soon as I heard what had happened I rushed over to see what I could do.”
Schmitt smiled at Koehler with crooked teeth, and, for the briefest of moments, Koehler thought about making them even more crooked. Instead, he asked, “How did you hear about the escape?”
“News travels fast, Herr Koehler, a bit like your prisoners. Have you found them yet?”
“We are still establishing how they escaped.”
“Ah. That’s a no, then?” Schmitt smiled as he spoke, happy at his own little joke, and Koehler looked past him at the two Gestapo who were standing behind him. They were enjoying the moment and looked like snakes trying to smile.
Koehler pulled the fork from the cake again and tapped it on the counter, knocking a few crumbs onto the polished wood.
“Brandt, do we know how the prisoners got out?” He decided to ignore Schmitt and establish some facts. As he spoke he stared at the fork and the crumbs.
“Erm . . . to be honest, sir, not yet. Maybe they overpowered the jailer and escaped that way?”
Koehler looked at the blood on the floor and immediately regretted having moved the bodies; he involuntarily glanced at Schmitt, hoping he hadn’t noticed that regret on his face, before turning back to Brandt.
“How many escaped?”
“Eight prisoners, sir, the ones who were due to go to Paris. Apparently, they had been brought here from outlying stations so that they were together for the transit on Sunday.” Brandt pointed to several files on the desk, proud that he had done something right at last in getting the prisoner information together.
“Who knew they were being moved here?” Koehler suddenly sat up in the chair and stopped tapping the fork.
“I don’t know. They were resistance, so that would be a Gestapo matter, I suppose?” Brandt sounded apologetic as he spoke, nervous at upsetting his new friend, Schmitt. Schmitt, in turn, looked at the young officer and then at his own men, who still stood silently by the gate, smiles gone and waxy faces reestablished, showing nothing and giving nothing away, the classic look of the secret policeman.
“Who organized the transfer of the prisoners here?” Schmitt preempted Koehler’s question by asking his men first. They replied with shrugs and uneasily took their hands out of their pockets.
“Do you have a leak in your office, Herr Schmitt? Maybe I should call Berlin to organize an investigation?”
“There is no leak in my office. Besides, I’ve only just arrived in London.” Schmitt snapped his head around toward Koehler as he spoke, already covering himself from blame as best he could.
“Well, it is a coincidence that as eight resistance are brought to Charing Cross for the first time, they somehow manage to escape one of the securest buildings in London, don’t you think?” Koehler added a quizzical lilt to his voice and looked again at the cake fork before turning to Schmitt, the balance of power shifting his way again.
“Nobody from my department would have spoken; it is impossible any leak came from the Gestapo. It could have been anyone—the transport department, the custody department, a civilian cleaner, even the building security!” Schmitt pointed at Brandt, who quickly shook his head and looked at Werner, who remained impassive.
An old soldier who had heard officers looking to lay blame many times before knew better than to give them a moving target.
“I had no idea of the importance of the prisoners. None of us did! I would have ensured we had more men on guard duty had someone informed me! Nobody in this building would have known except the custody staff, and half of them are dead!” Brandt’s voice sounded a tiny bit desperate, as if he were calling for his career to come back like a lost dog.
“How many men were on guard duty, Lieutenant?” Schmitt gave the impression that he had found his victim, and the more evidence he could raise, the more secure his own position became.
“Sir! There was a party for the anniversary of the Putsch; I gave many of the men leave to attend. Had I been informed of the importance of . . .” Brandt trailed off as Koehler raised his hand to silence him.
“This isn’t finding the prisoners. We need to get patrols to their last known addresses and round up anyone who knows them.” He spoke to Werner. “We need someone to go through these files and get all the necessary information and then pull together some snatch squads. Notify the Met Police, as well . . .”
Suddenly it was Koehler’s turn to trail off as he spoke. The sentence dangled in midair as he slowly turned his head, mouth open, midword. He suddenly stood up from his seat and gestured to the two Gestapo men to get out of the way of the custody board where the prisoners’ names were chalked.
“Oh, God,” he whispered, then stepped down to make his way along the corridor to the gate that led to the yard, followed by the others, who trooped after him casting confused glances at each other. The jailer’s body had gone, but the blood and gore remained. Koehler looked at the mess on the floor, then stepped closer to the gate and studied it. He pushed it closed and looked again, then turned to look down the corridor to where the small procession had followed him.
Schmitt broke the silence.
“What is it?”
“They didn’t break out. Someone broke in.”
“But nobody knew the resistance were here, sir!” Brandt said, holding out his hands to Koehler, desperate to be believed.
“Whoever broke in wasn’t coming for the resistance. He was coming for someone else.”
“Who? There was nobody else here who would warrant this sort of operation.” Schmitt spoke to Koehler but looked at Brandt, who shrugged a reply and in turn looked at Werner.
Who managed to ignore them all.
“It was the Jew,” Koehler said softly as he leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and then slowly sank to his haunches.
Schmitt watched Koehler in amazement and then, openmouthed, turned to Brandt.
“What Jew?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“The fucking Jew Rossett brought today; he’s gone, as well, isn’t he?” Koehler spoke from down by the floor.