“They know what strings to pull, John. They’ll let it be known to the Americans that she worked for the SS, for me, rounding up the Jews. They can also let it be known that she still is working for us. That’ll soon make its way to Canada. They can make her look very bad, very, very bad.”

“Even though it isn’t true?”

“Some of it is, some of it isn’t. All you need to know is that the British government abroad hangs traitors. You don’t want that for Kate, do you?”

“She wasn’t a traitor.”

“Maybe not at the end, but whether you like it or not, she was a traitor, same as you are. You were both working for the Germans, and you were both involved in rounding up Jews. That’ll get you on the end of a rope. Your agreement to the official explanation I’m offering you now will make certain she is left alone.”

“So I lie?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Koehler tilted his head.

“Traitors to the truth,” Rossett replied, closing his eyes again.

“You got very close to her, John, in the madness of what was happening with the kid. I know you did. She was a special person. I was . . . well . . . I was very fond of her myself. If you have feelings for her, you’ll agree to what I’m offering.”

Neither man spoke for over a minute until Koehler tried again.

“Do we have a deal?”

“What about Schmitt, and the men who died?”

“If I go down, Schmitt goes down. He knows that; he isn’t an idiot. Shit rolls downhill, and if it doesn’t I’ll give it a push. He knows why I’m here, he knows what I’m saying, and he knows if we can make this stick we all stay alive, and maybe, just maybe, we’ll look good in the morning. If he keeps his mouth shut I’ll let him move on out of my office, which will buy his silence.”

“And the men?”

“This is war. Men die.”

“A dirty secret,” Rossett whispered.

“Our secret,” Koehler replied, looking longingly at the now long-­dead cigarette butt. “You get your medal; I get to give my bosses the resistance men you killed and the timber yard full of guns we uncovered. You just need to agree with the account of what took place.”

“The man who shot me?”

“He’s an old soldier, don’t worry. Just nod your head, come on . . . please, John, for me, for my family?”

Rossett opened his eyes again and looked sadly at Koehler.

“I can’t decide what would be better, to live or die. Isn’t that terrible?”

“Live to fight another day.”

“I’m tired of fighting, Ernst; I can’t go back to that job, what we do . . . I can’t, not anymore. I’ve changed. I’m not that person, the man who loads the trains. I can barely live with the thought of what we did, what we do.