Nobody challenged them, and everybody was staring at him.

He looked at the sheet, trying to avoid the foot, glacier white against the dirty sand and the Thames.

Lotte’s foot.

A plainclothes English detective crouched down next to the canvas, taking hold of the corner with finger and thumb, looking up at Koehler, waiting for the nod.

It came.

The sheet folded back eighteen inches, and Lotte stared into the sky, lips parted, tips of teeth showing, hair wet, yellow strands across her cheeks, lifeless.

As Koehler looked at his love, a snowflake brushed her face and then settled on her lips, unnaturally staying in place, not melting. She was cold.

Koehler crouched, reached with a fingertip, and touched the flake. It melted, and the water trickled across her lip. He gently wiped it away, then ran his finger across her cheek, moving her hair.

For the first time since they had met, her eyes didn’t smile at his touch.

He lifted his head. A few of the policemen were looking out across the Thames, letting him have his moment. He blinked a flake of snow from his eyelashes and looked down again to Lotte, just as the policeman covered her face once more with the sheet.

“Major?”

“It’s my wife.”

The English detective nodded to one of the uniformed bobbies. “Victim identified by husband.”

The policeman looked at his watch and wrote something in his notebook.

Victim, thought Koehler.

Koehler stood up, nodded to Neumann, then walked a few paces away from the group along the riverbank. He stared to the south bank of the Thames, with its cranes and its steaming ships getting ready to run, move on to the next place. A seagull swooped low across the water, fifty feet away, its wingtips tapping on the Thames, leaving two tiny wakes.

The old river didn’t notice; it kept moving, in and out, time and tide; nothing else mattered, changing of the seasons, here long after all of them.

“I’m sorry,” Koehler said softly.

Neumann came up behind him and stood to his left.

A horn sounded as the snow increased, casting a shroud across the far bank and making it harder to see.

“They’ve had men and dogs up and down the bank in both directions.”

“Anja?” Koehler didn’t look at Neumann as he spoke.

“No sign of her.”

“The river?”

“They’ve boats looking, but the man who found your wife said there were a lot of tracks in the snow when he arrived, all covered now, I’m afraid, but he thought it was a few ­people. Maybe . . . maybe she was here?”

Koehler nodded, then lowered his head, looking at the water lapping at his feet.

“This doesn’t look like resistance,” said Neumann. “They prefer more of a . . . statement.”

“It isn’t resistance.”

“Who is it, then? Help me.”

Koehler lifted his head to look toward the south bank; he licked his lips and gave a slight shake of the head.

“Do you have family, Neumann?” Koehler finally spoke as a gust of wind caused him to rock slightly.

“I do.”

“What would you do for them?” Koehler turned to face Neumann as he asked the question.

Over Koehler’s shoulder, Neumann saw March watching from where he was standing next to the body, maybe thirty feet away.

“I’d do anything for them.”

“Would you kill?”

“If I had to.”

“Would you betray your country?”

Neumann paused. “Why are you asking?”

“Answer the question.”

“If I had to.” The words barely carried on the wind.

Koehler turned back to the river before continuing. “You said before I had a window of time.”

“I did.”

“I think my daughter is still alive. I need that window to save her.”

“The window was to save you.”

“I don’t care about myself.”

“Same as you don’t care about your country?”

“I care about my daughter.”

“And in saving her you are going to damage Germany?”

Koehler nodded.

“If I have to.”

Neumann stared at him and then turned to follow his gaze across the river.

“What have you gotten yourself into, Major?”

“Hell.”

 

CHAPTER 20

FRANK KING HAD chosen a house almost directly opposite the one where he had seen Eric being taken. He’d been pushed for time, only allowing himself one pass in the car before parking around the corner and walking down to the place he’d picked out.

He’d chosen it for several reasons, but mostly because he had seen a little old lady struggling to pick up a milk bottle from the front step as he approached.

One old lady.

One milk bottle.

No big family, at best an old man to take care of as well.

Perfect.

He’d strolled, collar up, head down, to the house and cheerily tapped on the door. When it opened he’d been fast. One hand had covered her mouth and the other had gripped her throat as he walked her backward into the living room. He’d asked her if anyone else was at home; she had shaken her head with scared eyes that had already begun to brim with tears.

She’d fooled him.

“If you are quiet, you are quite safe. Please, go sit down,” he had whispered. She had taken a step backward and then punched him squarely in the mouth.

She wouldn’t fool him again.

King ran his tongue across the split just inside his lip, then looked at the tough old lady sitting on the floor.

“Are you all right?”

She grunted something through the gag that sounded rude and angry.

“If you behave, you can sit on the chair.”

Frank got the same reply, so he shrugged and went back to looking out of the window and stirring the cup of tea he had made himself.

Before he had chosen the old woman’s home he’d checked the back alleys that crisscrossed behind the houses opposite. He had counted off the tiny brown brick buildings and sneaked a look through the half-­broken back gate that led to the tiny yard. He’d seen that the windows and back door were boarded up, meaning that only the front door was available as a means of rapid entry. King needed to figure out how many ­people were in the house, which was why he was sitting at the window of the old lady’s house.

If the situation didn’t change and his information didn’t improve . . . well, he didn’t want to consider that. He would watch for a few hours at least. He guessed Koehler would be heading to Cambridge by now, but he knew the journey would be a tough one in this weather.

There was no panic, everything was in hand, he could give Cook a few hours of his time. He owed Eric that much, at least. Plus, King had a feeling Dulles wouldn’t be happy if a dead embassy worker turned up on the news.

No, he would try his best to save the boy, for everyone concerned.

King looked at his watch, sipped his tea, and waited.

He didn’t move for two hours.