He found it over the back of the solitary armchair and pulled it over his head. The muscles in his stomach pulled tight as he raised his arms, a legacy of the hundreds of sit-­ups he was doing to help repair the damage.

The pain felt good.

“Do you want a drink?” Rossett gestured toward where his whiskey had been the last time he had seen it.

“Are you drunk?”

“Mostly,” Rossett replied as he made another attempt with his hair.

“No, I don’t want a drink. Can I sit?”

Rossett nodded and redundantly pointed to the armchair. Koehler passed close and Rossett thought he heard his boss inhale as he went by, checking for the smell of booze. Rossett saved him wondering: he sat down on the bed and picked up the bottle that had fallen on the floor from his hand when he had collapsed a few hours earlier.

He unscrewed the top, then looked across at Koehler.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve a hangover brewing.”

Koehler didn’t reply and Rossett took a drink, then scratched at his scar again, this time through the shirt.

“What’s up?” Rossett said after half the Scotch had gone down.

Koehler stared at Rossett and then reached into his coat and pulled out his cigarettes.

“Are we friends, John? I need to know before I tell you. I need to know, because if we’re not, I’ve no right to burden you with this.”

Rossett shifted slightly.

“You’re about the only friend I have.” Rossett took another sip and reached for his own cigarettes off the chair. “I don’t know what that says about you or about me, though.”

Koehler shook his head. “I don’t know what to do.”

Rossett paused midway through opening the cigarettes.

“What?”

Koehler ran his hand through his hair again and then shook his head. “This was a mistake. I’m sorry, go back to bed.”

He pushed himself out of the threadbare armchair, and as he crossed the room Rossett stood up.

“Ernst, what’s going on?”

“Nothing. It’s okay, go back to bed.”

Koehler had the door open; his shadow reached the top of the stairs.

“What’s the matter?”

Koehler looked out into the darkness of the landing. Someone was snoring behind one of the boardinghouse doors. The smell of boiled cabbage, body odor, and sweat filled his nostrils.

He looked back at Rossett.

“They have Lotte and Anja, and I don’t know what to do.”

“Who?”

“Lotte and Anja have been taken.”

“The resistance?”

“No.”

“Who is it?”

Koehler looked at his friend, his only friend.

“I’ve been driving around, trying to think. I don’t know what to do, I’m . . . I’ve no right to be here. I’ve no right to ask you for your help.”

Rossett shook his head.

“Close the door.”

Koehler paused, then stepped back, shutting the door quietly. Rossett sat down on the bed once more, giving Koehler some space.

Koehler sat, removed the unlit cigarette from his mouth, ran a weary hand over his eyes, and shook his head.

“Lotte and Anja are being held hostage. If I want to see them again I have to do something.”

“What?”

“I have to get a Jew from Cambridge and bring her to London. I’ve got a name and a place of work, and that is it.”

“And then?”

“When I have her, I get further instructions.”

“From who?”

“I collect a parcel or an envelope from a post office.”

“So you don’t see who the instructions are from?”

“Yes.”

“Why you?”

Koehler shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve got . . . I had my family here? There aren’t many officers with family in London; it gives them leverage over me, plus it’s my job to move Jews. I’m the obvious choice.”

Rossett nodded.

“Can you think of anyone you know who might be connected to this?”

“No.”

“How did they get in touch with you?”

“At my flat, a message with a number. I called it, and they told me to go to a call box by Hyde Park. I went there, got another number, and spoke to them.”

“They wanted you out of the flat in case your line is monitored.”

Koehler nodded. “It’s an open secret the Gestapo monitor calls, and after last year, the trouble with you and the boy . . .”

“Jacob.”

“Jacob . . . well, let’s just say I’m sure to be of interest to them.”

Rossett took a drag of his cigarette and looked at the whiskey.

“Did you see them drop off the note? Did you get a description?”

“I saw one of them, across the street; I didn’t get a good look.”

“Was he in uniform? Did he have a car? Did anyone else see him?” Rossett was coming awake, turning back into a policeman.

“No uniform, black car, no make, nobody else has a description.”

“That’s a lot of nos.”

“I know.”

Rossett looked for the saucer he used sometimes as an ashtray; he tapped his cigarette and then leaned across to pass the saucer to Koehler.

“I can’t believe the resistance would just walk up to your front door and leave a note. Tell me everything you can think of, everything: voice, sounds in the background on the call, everything.”

Koehler passed back the saucer and paused, staring off into space. Rossett gave him as long as he needed, silently watching with his head still pounding behind his eyes.

Eventually Koehler broke the silence. “He spoke German and English.”

“A lot of ­people do nowadays.”

“No, no.