It may surprise you, but I have friends here. I treat people fairly, I respect you British, and that gets me respect back.”

“So?”

“The person who called told me what happened this morning. They told me that you have upset senior members of the London underworld and that you are a marked man. They told me that they can’t protect you any longer.”

“Protect me?”

“Protect you.” Neumann paused, letting the words sink in. “You’re hated. Your colleagues hate you, criminals hate you, the resistance hates you. Jesus, everybody hates you . . . except us, the Germans.”

“They hate me for doing my job?”

“For doing what you’ve done, and being the man you are. You’ve fought the resistance, you’ve hunted Jews, and on top of that, you’re not a bent copper. You haven’t changed, you still think it is the old world, and it isn’t. The wind blows harder now; people have to bend further . . . but you don’t bend at all.”

“I don’t understand.”

Neumann sighed. “This criminal you killed this morning?”

“Hall.”

“Hall. Who did he work for?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care.”

“He worked for an organization that, besides being involved in crime, is probably involved in the resistance.” Neumann sounded like he was reading his reply off a card.

“So?”

“So.” Neumann offered his hand up, like he was passing Rossett an idea. “You have killed one of their men. What do you think will happen?”

“They won’t be happy.”

“Of course. So you now have some gangsters who want you dead.”

“So I’ll get them first.”

“But these aren’t just gangsters, they are resistance. Some of them probably work in this building.”

“I don’t care.”

“Really?” Neumann tilted his head.

“I have the law behind me.”

“The only thing you have behind you is a dirty window and a pipe on a wall that carries shit from the upstairs toilets.”

Rossett thought about frowning, changed his mind, and just stared back across the table. Neumann continued.

“They are probably getting ready to release Finnegan even as we speak.”

“He’ll be charged.”

“If, and it is a big if, he is charged, it’ll probably be with a half-arsed assault on you and he’ll get a slap on the wrist.”

“He tried to kill me.”

“You think the coppers downstairs give a damn about what he tried to do to you? As far as they are concerned, you’re no better than me.”

“You’re wrong.”

Neumann flapped his hands in exasperation.

“How many people work for the Met?” He pointed at the ceiling again, and this time Rossett looked up.

“I don’t know.”

“A few thousand at least. How many of them are happy that the Germans are here?” Neumann pointed at the floor.

“Not many.”

“So . . . You worked with us, the Germans. You’re their enemy, or at least they think you are. This morning you killed a member of the resistance. A resistance that is probably paying half the coppers in London’s take-home pay in bribes.”

“He was a gangster.”

“What is the difference?” Neumann made to get off the chair again, but then thought better and remained seated. “Most of the resistance are gangsters. Fighting war costs money, and now the Brits aren’t getting any from the Americans, they’ve turned to crime.”

Rossett moved his mouth as if he was going to speak, but in the end no words actually came out. He stared at Neumann, judging him, weighing him up the way he would weigh up a suspect before an interview.

Neumann’s gray mustache made him look older than Rossett guessed he was. It was the color of the ash on the end of a cigarette, and it aged him to about his mid-fifties. He had the build of a light heavyweight who was finding it tougher to make the weight than he used to.