Rossett guessed they had minutes to get moving again; he signaled for Koehler to stay in his car with the engine running as he made his way along the line of cars, pulling on door handles.

The fourth car, a tiny, battered, dark blue Austin Seven, was the only one he found to be unlocked. It sat like an ugly duckling at the end of the line, half buried in snow and barely the size of a shoebox.

Rossett waved Koehler across, then went to the bonnet and pulled up one of the side panels.

“This? We go in this?” Koehler said as he approached.

“Pull the choke and I’ll try to start it.”

Koehler shook his head and climbed in. Inside of three seconds the little engine turned over a few times and then caught. Rossett dropped the bonnet and quickly brushed the snow off the windscreen before jumping into the passenger seat.

The car was so narrow that their shoulders banged together as Koehler looked down at the gear lever and fumbled for first.

“As soon as we can, we ditch this thing,” he said as the gear ground home and the car dug its way out of the four inches of snow that had half buried its narrow tires.

They had barely got moving when the first police car sped past, not slowing to take a look at the comical little car and its occupants. Rossett looked over his shoulder and then wiped at the windscreen with the back of his hand before lowering his window an inch or two.

“What do we do now?” said Koehler.

Rossett lit a cigarette and took his time blowing the smoke out of his nose and mouth, then turned to look at Koehler.

“We go get your family back.”

 

CHAPTER 13

ALLEN DULLES TOOK another drink from the glass on his desk. His mind was wound like a spring. He’d already drunk a quarter bottle of brandy, but his shoulders and back still ached as if he’d been beaten with a bat.

He stood up and walked to the window.

All was quiet; the snow cast a pink glow on the street outside as he watched two guards share a cigarette at the checkpoint barrier. The barrier was a new addition, set up to protect the embassy from threats unknown.

Dulles didn’t like it. He argued it sent out the wrong signal; it was as if they were under siege, hiding from the Germans, scared.

Dulles stared at the barrier and realized he was scared.

The telephone rang on his desk. He crossed the room and picked it up before it had the chance to ring twice.

“It’s done, she’s gone,” King said, his voice faint, echoing in the call box.

“What about the girl?”

“She’s fine. Cook is with her.”

“That boy is an idiot. I want both of you to be with her. We can’t lose her as well. Do you understand?”

“What happened to Koehler’s wife wasn’t Eric’s fault.”

“I don’t care. I want both of you with her, do you hear me?”

“Yes.”

Dulles sank down into his chair and leaned forward, resting his forehead in his hand.

“I’m sorry, Frank.” He lifted his eyes and stared through his fingers at the brandy glass.

“I understand, sir.”

“This has to work, you understand?”

“Yes.”

“We can’t afford any more mistakes. The future of our country depends on it.”

“We’re very exposed here, sir. Maybe if I could take her to one of our safe houses?”

“We’re off the books, Frank; you know that.”

“Maybe if I had some backup out here, sir?”

“You knew there was no backup when you signed up, Frank.”

“I didn’t sign up to kidnap children, sir.”

Dulles lifted his head out of the palm of his hand.

“You listen to me, Frank, and listen well. You signed up to defend the United States by whatever means necessary. What you are doing now is those means, you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

KING PUT DOWN the phone and checked the street outside the booth before exiting. The door creaked loudly behind him as he crossed the pavement back to the house.

He stopped.

Did he hear something?

He waited.

He watched the darkness, not sure what he was waiting for. He waited so long he felt the chill start to eat into his bones; he shook his head, and then headed back up the stairs to the bedroom at the back.

Anja was back under the sheet on the mattress, and Cook was sitting, arms folded, hands tucked into his armpits, dozing in the tattered red armchair next to the door with a Thompson machine gun in his lap.

The ceiling light was off. King had been worried it might leak through the loosely nailed boards across the window, so a fat stub of a candle was flickering at his feet. Cook opened his eyes and looked at King as the floor creaked under him.

“Did you speak to him?”

“Yes.”

“What’s happening? Can we go to the embassy?”

King scowled at Cook, held a finger to his lips, and pointed at Anja.

Cook shrugged in the half-­light.

“What does it matter if she knows? We’ll be gone by the time she says anything.”

King ignored him and looked around the room for somewhere to sit. It was a hovel; the place reeked of squalor. King had chosen the building because he knew some Jews had been recently evicted. Normal practice was that it would have been left empty for a few weeks until the civil ser­vice had finally gotten round to letting it out. He wondered how long the poor ­people had been forced to live there?

Waiting for the next step that took them nearer to never having existed at all.

It stank of damp and dirt, and King was reluctant even to shift Cook out of the armchair for fear it would be infested with fleas.

He sighed.

“I’ll be in the other room, on the settee. Do not sleep. I’ll have a few hours and then you can.”

“Fine.” Cook yawned and shifted slightly in the armchair, adjusting the Thompson.

“Don’t sleep, understand?”

Cook held up a hand of acknowledgment. King shook his head before going to the front room and its damp settee.