Koehler put a finger over the cradle of the phone, killing the call before dialing the number again.

The phone rang, unanswered, eight times before he put the phone down.

He stood, pushing Schwarz onto the floor. Koehler paused, looking around the apartment for ideas as Schwarz rubbed his head against his boots.

Koehler looked at the phone.

“Should I phone the police?” he said out loud.

“Miaow.”

Koehler pushed a hand against his forehead and crossed to the window again. There was nobody there, just as he knew there wouldn’t be. He looked back to the phone and then down at Schwarz, who had followed him to the window.

Koehler knew he had no choice. He closed the window, grabbed his cap and coat, then left the apartment to go and get his wife and child.

KOEHLER GUIDED HIS car into the curb and killed the engine. The sudden silence seemed to drop the temperature inside of the car.

Queensway was thirty seconds’ walk from the north side of Hyde Park, in an area not dissimilar to the one he lived in himself. The drive had taken him less than seven minutes, and he was now sitting outside Queensway tube station, staring at the phone box on the corner of the street.

He wanted to get out and run to the box.

He wanted to search the area, look for clues, bang on doors, ask about strangers and strange cars. But he was too much of a soldier; he’d set and seen too many ambushes to run anywhere, regardless of how desperate he was.

He scanned the park.

Iron railings, dark hedges topped with a layer of snow.

Full of shadows, which were potentially full of snipers.

He took his Mauser out of his pocket and worked the slide.

The street was quiet, the snow keeping ­people at home. The tube station was still open, but aside from a light in the ticket office, there was no sign of life. A red London bus hove into view in the distance, coming toward him slowly. Koehler could make out the top deck’s milky white lights over the headlamps as it drew closer.

As the bus crept past at ten miles an hour on the empty street, Koehler rolled out of the car door, using it to protect him from any potential threat in the park. By the time the bus had gone by, Koehler was standing in the shadows of the entrance of the tube station, being watched warily by the ticket seller in the window.

The ticket seller’s eyes took in Koehler’s uniform and then dropped to the Mauser. He slowly slid off his stool, disappearing behind the CLOSED blind he lowered as he went.

Koehler stood behind the pillar at the left side of the entrance, eyes back on the park. He frowned, wondering if it was too late to call in the police to help him.

Some snow blew in from the street, tumbling over his feet.

He’d spent the drive over silently debating the pros and cons of what to do next. In the end he’d taken the easiest option and done as he was told.

He’d play along, learn what he could, wait and see, and then make a decision.

He dodged out of the station entrance and ducked around the corner toward the call box.

There were no snipers.

Why would they shoot me? he asked himself, embarrassed at his extra precautions but keeping hold of the pistol all the same.

The telephone box, like the bus, was bright red, and like the bus it was lit inside by the same milky white light.

Koehler pulled back the heavy door and stepped inside. He looked down at the concrete floor and saw that someone had been there recently. Wet footprints: he wondered how long they would last on a damp cold night like tonight. He looked through the windows at the intersection outside.

Both roads were major thoroughfares, but tonight they were deserted, the shops all closed. In the distance Koehler could see a green neon sign blinking on and off, as if the city had a pulse. He checked the upper windows of the nearby buildings, but even the ones that were lit revealed no movement in the flats behind them.

He turned to look at the phone, which sat on a shelf in front of him.

There was no message, no envelope, nothing.

He ran his hand under the shelf, bending to look as he did so.

Nothing.

He picked up the telephone directory that sat next to the phone and flipped through the pages.

Nothing but numbers.

He lifted the receiver, holding it to his ear. It purred, and he thought of Schwarz.

He put the phone down and took a tiny step back, as far as he could go in the tiny call box.

He looked up.

A brown envelope was jammed into the frame of the door just above his head. He pulled it down and ripped it open.

Another sheet of airmail paper: “WHITECHAPEL 6168.”

Koehler put the note in his mouth as he searched through his pockets for change; he came up empty.

He pushed the call box door open and charged out into the snow, running toward the tube station through the steady fall that had started again. He skidded around the corner, then skidded again on the wet floor tiles, before tapping the muzzle of the Mauser on the glass of the ticket office.

He waited five seconds and then tapped again, harder and faster this time. Beneath his feet he felt the vibration of a passing tube train and he turned to look toward the steps that led down to the platforms.

Adolf Hitler stared back, holding a laughing child in a sunlit pasture; behind him a tractor tilled the land and some farm laborers waved toward whoever was looking at the poster they were in.

“WORKING FOR THE FUTURE TOGETHER, WORKING FOR A UNITED EUROPE!”

Koehler looked at the laughing child, then hammered on the window with the Mauser again.

The blind shot up and the ticket collector stared back, first at Koehler and then at the Mauser.

“Give me money for the telephone.”

The man nodded dumbly and then grabbed some change and notes out of his cash drawer. He tossed the money through the slot at the bottom of the window, then raised his hands.

Koehler slid the change off the counter into his palm, then looked at the ticket collector’s raised hands.

“This isn’t a robbery, you idiot.”

The man lowered his hands as Koehler ran out of the tube station, back toward the phone box.

He dialed the number, waited for it to answer, then dropped the money into the slot and pushed the call lever.

“Hello?”

“You took your time.”

“I had to be careful.”

“No, Major, not had: have. You have to be careful. You have to be careful that you don’t mess me around. You have to do as I say, exactly as I say, and when I say it. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“Good.”

“Lotte and Anja?”

“They are well.”

“I want to speak to them.”

“In good time.”

“What do you want?”

“You to do something.”

“What?”

“We want a Jew.”

“You can have them, any of them. If I can get them you can have them.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Major.”

“I want you to know, I don’t have a problem with the Jews.