The Darkest Hour (34 page)

“You sounded scared.” Rossett looked back out the window at the houses opposite; a few lights were on as London yawned its way into another day.

“I wondered where you had gone when I woke up,” Rossett said.

“I was worried about Jacob. I didn’t want him to be scared.”

“You’re starting to sound like me.” Rossett smiled, and Kate found herself smiling back.

“You’re smiling.”

Rossett nodded and looked back out the window, his breath misting the glass.

“Would you go if you could?” Rossett asked, the smile gone.

“From London?”

“From England.”

“How? How would I get away?”

“Would you go if you could?”

“It would be impossible. I don’t . . .”

“Would you go?” Rossett looked at her this time, driving the question home.

“Yes.”

Rossett nodded but didn’t reply.

Kate paused, then said gently, “I’ve never seen you smile before.”

“Maybe I’ve had nothing to smile about.”

“Have you now?”

“I hope so.”

Chapter 54

“
I
’M NOT SURE,
Kate. I could get into trouble.”

“Please, Anne, the key is in my desk. I’ll be in a right fix if I don’t get this report finished, and I haven’t got time to come in and get it.”

In Charing Cross, Anne twisted the phone cord in her fingers and rolled her eyes as she chewed her lip.

“What if someone comes in and finds me in his office?”

“They won’t, and if they do, just tell them you are getting the address for me.”

“Can I just do the report for you and add the address when the major comes in?” Anne was doing her best at wriggling out of Kate’s request that she enter Koehler’s office and unlock his filing cabinet.

“It’s pages long, Anne; it would take you all day. I’ve been working on it all night and I just need this one more thing. It’s just an informant’s address for the end of the report, nothing important.”

“I could get sacked . . .”

“Don’t be daft. Please, come on, do a pal a favor?”

Anne paused, then asked, “Where is it?”

“Top drawer of the filing cabinet in the corner of his office. The keys are in his top left-hand drawer. I’ll explain everything when I come back to work, so he’ll understand.”

“Don’t you dare! Don’t tell him I’ve been in his office. What is the name of the informant?”

“George Chivers.”

“Are you going to wait on the line?”

“Yes.”

Anne put the phone down and looked toward her own office door, already regretting her decision to help Kate, but reluctant to stand and finally commit to the act. She hovered half out of her chair, looking again at the phone before finally rising and opening the door to Koehler’s office.

Anne moved quickly once inside. She felt like a nervous cat burglar. When she reached Koehler’s desk, she paused and looked once again at the door and then at the dark wooden filing cabinet in the corner, like a coffin stood on its end. Heavy and solid, a keeper of secrets.

Anne pulled open the desk drawer. It was cluttered with pens, pencils, loose documents, and scraps of paper, contrasting with the desktop, which sat as smooth and as clear as a becalmed sea.

She riffled through the drawer until she touched the butt of a small pistol, causing her to jump and withdraw her hand as quickly as if she had found a snake. She sighed and rested her other hand against her chest, briefly pondering telling Kate that she couldn’t find the key, but then she remembered how much she relied on her friend and supervisor. It was a tough life working for the Nazis, even after all these years of occupation, and she needed Kate as a friend in a big city like London. Steeling herself, she continued searching the drawer until she found the small bunch of keys.

At the filing cabinet, Anne tried the first key and got lucky. She pulled the top drawer open and inspected the folders. There were about thirty in total, some thicker than others, but all neatly filled with papers and photos.

She quickly deduced that they weren’t in name order, so she danced her fingers across the tops of the folders with a ballet dancer’s precision until she found the one labeled “Chivers, G.” She opened it on top of the open drawer, removed the first page, and scanned it quickly. She dashed to the outer office and picked up the phone, holding the cover sheet to her chest.

“Kate?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve got it. You do promise not to tell the major, don’t you?”

“It’s our secret.”

“He has a gun in there, did you know?”

“He’s a soldier, Anne. Of course he has a gun. What’s the address?”

Anne suddenly felt stupid and felt herself blush. Kate had cut her off in the manner she did so often.

“Do you have a pen?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“14A Cheshunt Road, London.”

“Is that all it says? Does it not give any directions?”

“Yes, other than his date of birth and stuff, that’s it . . . Oh, hang on. Someone has written ‘Off Green Street, East End.’ Does that help?”

“Off Green Street?” Kate repeated. “That does help, Anne. Thank you. Thank you very, very much.”

“Why do you need directions?”

“What?”

“Why do you need directions? If it is just for a report, why do you need directions?”

“I don’t. It’s just for the report, so I don’t leave anything out.”

“What is it about?”

“I can’t tell you. You know what the major is like, everything hush-hush. You don’t want him getting that little gun out and coming after you, do you?”

Anne teased the phone cord with her fingers and tried in vain to swallow the sense of dread that was creeping up her throat.

“Are you sure, Kate? This isn’t anything funny, is it?” She tried to keep her voice flat, but a quiver escaped at the end of the sentence.

“I’ve got to dash, Anne. Don’t worry, everything will be fine.”

The phone clicked in Anne’s ear, and she slowly lowered the handset as she raised the cover sheet from Chivers’s file. The door behind her opened and she almost cried out in alarm. Koehler smiled at her quizzically.

“Anne?”

“Oh, sir . . . I think I’ve done something very silly.”

Chapter 55

K
AT
E PARKED THE
Volkswagen on Cheshunt Road and watched Rossett stroll along the pavement in her father’s suit. He looked every inch the gentleman, with a necktie, shined shoes, and neatly combed hair under the wide-brimmed black felt hat. She thought back to the night before and the mud-stained, bloodstained apparition that had spun and stared at her, ghostly in the headlamps.

She marveled at his ability to shrug off the bruises that she had seen when she gave him her father’s clothes. He looked as though he had been run over by a bus. Jacob leaned forward and pulled on the back of her seat as he tried to get a better view of Rossett on the sidewalk. He’d been silent ever since his guardian had left his side.

“He won’t be long,” Kate said.

Jacob just kept watching.

Rossett counted off the houses. He’d already identified number 14, and he’d been studying it as he approached from the end of the road. He hadn’t wanted Kate to pull up outside in case Chivers saw her and became spooked. He’d given specific instructions to stay well back in the car until he came back out of the house, and if she heard shots, or if anyone else came out, she was to drive away without looking back.

She didn’t know it yet, but in her father’s overcoat, lying in the footwell, was the small urn that Rossett had dug up the night before. That morning he’d sat in the bathroom, prized out the cork stopper, and found nine cut diamonds, each the size of a little fingernail. He’d stared at the stones in the palm of his hand, rolling them a fraction, side to side. They had caught the light, and his breath.

Rossett had sat on the toilet, unable to decide his next move and to think straight after looking at the dancing light in his hands.

Old Galkoff had taken the risk that an honest man would dig in the dirt.

Rossett wasn’t sure the old man’s faith had been repaid.

As he walked to number 14, he thought about the diamonds again and looked back at Kate once more, checking to see that she was still there. He wondered why he hadn’t told her about the diamonds being in the car. It was as if they infected you with doubt and distrust.

He wondered if people called them stones because they dragged you down while you carried them in your pocket?

He hoped he could swim long enough to get rid of them.

Rossett stopped at number 14 and looked up at the old Victorian house. He tapped the knocker three times, firmly but not too firmly, a postman’s knock, not a policeman’s.

He watched through the old, distorting glass, looking into the hallway beyond, trying to make out if anyone was coming to answer the door. After a moment, a telltale shaft of light pierced the gloom as a small, shuffling shape approached and worked the lock.

Rossett had been expecting a child, so slight was the shadow. Instead, a tiny old lady opened the door, dressed in black, with hair the color of London smog, pulled back so tight it smoothed her brow but left her face a plowed field of wrinkles.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Chivers? Does he live here, please?” Rossett smiled, convivial and warm, giving no hint of the Webley tucked into the back of his trousers.

“He’s upstairs,” said the old lady, already turning away from the door and heading back to her room.

Rossett now understood the “A” part of the address. The old lady must have been letting out rooms to make ends meet.

“Is Mr. Chivers at home?” Rossett said to the rapidly disappearing landlady, who raised a wrinkled hand over her shoulder in reply.

“They’ve been fighting all night. I’m sorry I let them in here. No respect, no respect at all,” she said, not bothering to look around before closing her door and leaving Rossett to explore for himself.

He cast a quick look back at the car, then stepped into the hall, shutting the front door behind him but making sure the latch was up so it didn’t fully engage. He stood in the dim hallway and listened to the house. Somewhere a bird was singing, a songbird in a cage in one of the downstairs rooms. He couldn’t hear anything from above.

The house was smarter than he’d imagined. Even a top-floor flat, he guessed, would be beyond an old docker’s means.

The Germans must be paying well, he thought.

He crossed to the stairs and looked up into the gloom. He couldn’t see a front door to a flat, so he guessed that Chivers merely rented the upstairs rooms and that the staircase acted as demarcation.

He tested the first step with his foot and stepped near the outer edge of the stairs, moving quickly to the top.

On the landing he paused again, looking at the doors. Each had a small hasp and staple to secure them from the outside, a cheaper alternative to a proper lock in a converted house. He could hear voices behind one of the doors, what might once have been the back bedroom. At least they wouldn’t have seen Kate. He stepped to the door and considered taking out the Webley, but decided against it. If Chivers was stupid enough to try anything, Rossett knew he could handle the old man, whatever happened, and if Chivers wasn’t behind the door he didn’t want to give someone a heart attack.

Well, not yet, anyway.

He put his hand on the doorknob and listened again, hearing only soft voices. Rossett checked down the stairs and then took a deep breath. One, two, three . . .

He flung open the door and stepped into the room. Years of being a policeman had taught him that dominating a room by speed and confidence often served you better than having five coppers backing you up. If you could make the occupants think you should be there and that they shouldn’t, the battle was often half won.

The room was a fair-sized converted bedroom. A small four-seater wooden dining table sat against one wall. On a brown leather sofa sat Chivers with a woman Rossett took to be his wife.

Both looked at him in shock, and Rossett realized the voices he’d been able to hear were coming from a wireless that was chatting to itself on a bureau in the alcove next to a tiny fireplace that would have struggled to heat a rabbit hutch.

As Rossett stepped into the room, half closing the door behind him, he didn’t take his eyes off Chivers, who stared back, fingers gripping the arm of the settee and feet twitching, unsure whether to stand or not.

His wife, rising from her seat, didn’t hesitate.

“ ’Oo the bleedin’ ’ell are you? You can’t—”

Rossett struck her with the back of his left hand across her face without taking his eyes off Chivers, who, in turn, didn’t react to his wife’s spinning to the floor at his feet. She cried out and tried to rise again, then sank back down, blood already dripping from her nose.

“Stay down,” said Rossett, eyes still on Chivers.

“Stay down, Gloria,” Chivers whispered, leaning forward a fraction and resting his hand on his wife’s back gently.

“Ooh, George!” she wailed. “What ’ave you done now? What ’ave you done?”

Rossett’s hand stung and he risked a glance at the woman before lifting a finger and putting it to his lips.

Chivers stared at Rossett, licked his lips, and shifted in his seat.

“Try to be quiet now, old girl, shush now,” Chivers said to his wife, then turned back to Rossett. “Sorry I ’ad to leave you with the Germans. I stuck around as long as I—”

“Shut up,” Rossett replied, his voice flat. “Get your coat.”

“George?” Gloria spoke from the floor, her voice thick with the bloody nose.

“Shush, girl, it’ll be all right.”

“Don’t go, George.”

“Get up.”

“I can’t help you, Mr. Rossett. I would if I could, I swear I would, but I can’t, see? I’m cut off. Nobody will touch me now. They think I’m in with Jerry, they think—”

“I know what you are. I know you sold me out, me and the boy, to Koehler. I know all about it, George, all about your file. Now get up before I kill you where you sit.”

“My George isn’t no collaborator! My George fights the Germans!” shrieked Gloria.

“Time is running out, George. This is your last chance.” Rossett reached around and pulled the Webley from his belt. He leveled it at Chivers and cocked it. The noise of the gun filled the room and seemed to suck the air out in its wake. “You’ve got one chance to get through this alive: take it.”

Chivers held up his hands like a bad actor. Rossett saw that they were shaking, and he briefly considered just shooting Chivers and walking out of the house, leaving him to bleed out on the settee. Being in the same room with him made Rossett feel dirty, rotten, by association. He raised the gun to arm’s length and looked straight down the sight into the old man’s eyes.

“Flanagan! Pat Flanagan will help you!” Gloria shouted.

“Who is that?”

“He’s a boatman! Tell him, George! Tell him about Flanagan!”

The old man was breathing hard.

“Flanagan,” he repeated, in a muffled voice.

“Who is he?”

“He’s a boatman.”

“How can he help us?”

“He sails out of St. Katharine. He’s IRA, sort of.” Gloria did the speaking again, still on the floor but becoming more assured, causing Rossett to wonder who actually ran the show that was Mr. and Mrs. Chivers.

“Sort of?”

“He’ll do anything for money, run anything and anybody. He’ll get you to Cork for the right price.” She looked up at him, defiance given foundation by her knowledge and his need.

“ ’E’d punch the pope if you gave ’im a fiver.” Chivers found his voice. “If you found them diamonds and we wave them at ’im, ’e’ll get you out, Mr. Rossett, you and the boy, as far as you want. If I tell ’im, that is; ’e trusts me.”

“Diamonds?” Her bleeding nose forgotten, Gloria looked from her husband to Rossett and back again.

“Take me to him,” said Rossett.

“Diamonds? You never said nothing about no diamonds, George.” Gloria groaned, trying to stand.

“ ’E might not be in town. ’E’s a sailor, ’e comes and goes,” Chivers said, watching his wife, but not helping her.

“You said they was just escaped.” Gloria was suddenly more of a threat to her husband than Rossett.

“What if ’e’s not in town, Mr. Rossett? What then?” Chivers asked.

“You’d better hope he is, because he’s your only hope, George.”