It was excellent German, perfect . . . almost. There was an accent.”

“What accent?”

“I don’t know. It sounds crazy, but . . . he sounded like an actor.”

“An actor? Which actor?” Rossett looked at the Scotch again.

“Not a specific actor. He sounded like . . . like one of those ones in a movie, you know? The ones who try to sound American, or who are playing Americans?”

“Yes?”

“Yeah, but he wasn’t trying.” Koehler looked up. “I think he was an American.”

Rossett shook his head. “A Yank, are you sure?”

“The more I think about it . . . yes, I think he was an American.”

“The Americans are allies of Germany, especially since Lindbergh got into power. Why would they be doing something like this?”

“Maybe it’s nothing to do with the government. They have anti-­Nazi factions.”

“It explains how they got to you,” Rossett added. “The diplomatic quarter is right next door.”

“They could drive right in and right out and all they would get is a salute.”

Rossett drew on his cigarette again; it crackled in the silence of the room. He let the smoke fill his lungs as he slowly scratched at his scar.

“Why do they want a Jew?” he finally said, staring at the wall, his fingers moving back and forth, tugging at his undershirt.

“I don’t care. They want her, they can have her.”

“Who is it?” Rossett looked up.

“Ruth Hartz. She works at Cambridge University.”

“Doing what?”

“Physics.”

“Physics?” Rossett stopped scratching his belly. “Why do all of this? Kidnap your family, force you to go there and get her? It would easier to go and get her themselves.”

“Maybe they can’t go?”

“They’ve got transport; they must have diplomatic plates to get into . . .” Rossett trailed off.

“What?”

“They’re spies.”

“Who are?”

“The ­people who called you. If she is a Jew who is still working, she must be important. There are hardly any of them still in employment, other than the ones who police the ghettos. So if this Hartz is working, she is important to Germany.”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t care about Germany. I want Lotte and Anja.”

“I know you do, but we need as much information as we can get. We have to understand the situation. If the Americans want her but can’t risk getting her themselves, she is important to them as well. And if she is important she’ll be guarded. It’ll be tough, maybe impossible.”

“I know,” Koehler said quietly. “That’s why I’m here.”

Rossett looked at his friend. He understood Koehler was there because he knew if anyone could get the scientist, Rossett could.

“THE BRITISH LION.” That was what the newspapers had called him around the time of the collapse at Dunkirk.

A country clinging on by its fingertips, its navy beaten back by bad weather as it tried to rescue a battered army off the bloody beaches of Dunkirk.

Not many had kept fighting in France once the evacuation had failed.

Rossett had.

He hadn’t given up, crossing the channel in a stolen torpedo boat twice with injured men and fleeing soldiers. He’d have gone back a third time if the boat hadn’t been sunk in the bombardment of Dover.

Churchill, desperate for heroes to rally an almost broken nation, had stood next to Rossett for the pictures at Buckingham Palace as the king pinned on Britain’s highest military honor.

John Henry Rossett, Victoria Cross.

King George saluted the British Lion as the papers took his picture and the sound of artillery crashed in the distance.

Over the king’s shoulder Rossett could see the packing cases being loaded on the trucks parked behind the camera.

The king knew the game was up, and he was running to Canada.

Rossett wasn’t.

Just as Churchill had asked, Rossett fought on the beaches, he fought on the landing grounds, and he fought in the fields and the streets.

He never surrendered.

But the government did.

Germany won, Rossett lost.

When he finally was captured, the Lion was caged, then broken, as his family were annihilated at Waterloo Station.

By the time he was released, the Germans were at home in London. Swastikas hung next to Union Jacks around the city.