I won’t do it again.”

“I can get you a nice quiet job, little office with some paper to shuffle, out of the way? I could maybe get you back in the police, just like old times? You just have to nod your head, take your medal, sign a statement. That’s all. Then you get a quiet life.”

“I want to be a policeman again. I want to go back to my old job.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll not put another soul in a boxcar. I want to do some good again, be a better man.”

“Okay, you can be a policeman.”

Rossett shut his eyes and rested his head back on the pillow. For a moment Koehler thought he’d fallen asleep, and he leaned forward slightly to check.

Finally Rossett spoke. “All right, I’ll sign.”

“It makes sense. We’ll be heroes, John, smelling of roses.”

“We’ll never be heroes again, Ernst, not after the things we’ve done.”

Koehler didn’t reply. He stood up off the bed and smoothed his tunic before looking down again at the man he hoped was still his friend. After a second or two he nodded silently and turned to leave through the gap in the curtains.

“Ernst?”

Koehler stopped and looked back at Rossett, who had opened his eyes again.

“Yes?”

“The boy, have you heard?”

Koehler rubbed his hand again before struggling to button his coat against the cold November afternoon that waited outside.

“They are on a plane to America. My contact in Dublin says the boy is well and has an American passport.”

Rossett closed his eyes and rested his head back on the pillow.

 

CHAPTER 2

ERNST KOEHLER TRIED punching some life into the pillow for what seemed the thousandth time that night, then rested his head on it once more.

In the distance Big Ben started to chime.

Six. He was an hour early.

He grunted, rolled out of bed, and picked up his dressing gown before crossing to the window.

He flexed his toes as he pulled back the heavy curtain an inch and looked out.

No snow: the forecast was wrong again.

He put on his dressing gown.

“Ernst?”

Koehler smiled, crossed back to the bed, and bent to kiss Lotte, his wife, softly on the forehead.

“Go back to sleep, it’s early,” he whispered.

“Come back to bed.” Lotte didn’t open her eyes. Just half her face was visible above the blankets, the rest hidden under her thick blond hair.

“I might as well do some work, now that I’m awake,” Koehler whispered as he brushed her forehead with his lips.

Before he could rise, Lotte reached with her arm and pulled him close. They kissed before she set him free, her arm snaking back under the blankets.

“I love you, Ernst Koehler.” Lotte’s voice was thick with sleep.

“I love you, Lotte Koehler,” Koehler replied as he pulled the blankets up further around her.

“I’m so happy, together again,” Lotte said, drifting off to sleep.

Koehler smiled, traced a fingertip across Lotte’s cheek, and left the bedroom, carefully closing the door behind him. He padded through the plush living room of his apartment and into the small kitchen, where he lit the stove and filled a kettle.

A small, sleepy-­eyed black kitten appeared at the door. It yawned, flicked its head, then padded across until it was weaving around his legs, like long grass in a breeze.

Koehler felt the brush of the kitten’s tail and looked down. He smiled at the get-­well-­soon gift from Anja, his daughter. She had christened the kitten “Schwarz,” and Koehler had a feeling that when it was time for his wife and daughter to go back to Berlin, little Schwarz would be going with them.

Koehler hoped he would be going, too.

“We’ve got a big day ahead of us, little Schwarzy. Today we find out if I’m ever going to leave this shithole, England.”

Schwarz purred even louder.

“Maybe we’ll get a house with a garden for you?”

Schwarz sat down, staring at Koehler.

“Or would you sooner leave me here, and go back to Germany with just Lotte and Anja?”

Schwarz meowed and Koehler smiled, as the kettle started to boil.

“Yeah, sure. You just want your breakfast.”

 

CHAPTER 3

YOU WANT TO come back?”

“I’d like to.”

“You want to come back here?”

“Yes.”

“Be a policeman?”

“Yes.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

Chief Superintendent Bernard Reade leaned back in his chair. He looked at Rossett’s written request, then back up at Rossett, who was standing directly in front of his desk.

“Here?”

“Yes.” Rossett tried not to frown.

“Wapping?”

“Yes . . . sir.” Rossett heard his nerves stretching in his reply.

“There is nowhere else you’d rather go? A desk at Scotland Yard, maybe? Nice office, secretary, spot by a teapot?”

“No, sir.”

“You want to come back here?”

“I do.”

Reade tapped his index finger on his top lip, adjusted his position in his seat, and leaned forward so that his elbows were back on the desktop.

“It’s just that, well—­and please remember, this isn’t me saying this, Rossett, this is just me letting you know that . . . well . . .”

­“People might not want to work with me, sir?” Rossett filled in the blank.

Reade nodded, opening his hands as he did so.

“It’s not that you aren’t a good policeman. I’ve read your record.” Reade looked around his desk for the folder, gave up, and smiled at Rossett. “Plus there is all that medal-­winning stuff in France, which was exceptional work.”

Reade waited for Rossett to reply, but Rossett was staring out of the window at the Thames, watching a barge battle the wind, as he waited for whatever was going to come next.

“Inspector?”

Rossett looked at Reade, who tried again.

“Your exploits in France, they were exceptional.”

Rossett nodded.

Reade chewed his lip and scratched behind his ear, then gestured that he wanted Rossett to say something.

Rossett blinked, turned his head a quarter of an inch, sighed, and then spoke.

“I was told I could apply to any station that I wished. I was told that my application would be a formality. I was told that I would be allocated a detective role commensurate with my rank.”

“But here?”

“Yes, here.”

“Why?”

“This is where I started my career, this is where the challenge is, and this”—­Rossett paused, fixing Reade with a stare—­“is where I want to be.”

Reade removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes with his finger and thumb, then squinted up at Rossett, who had returned to staring out of the window.

“I’ve had no official confirmation of this, Rossett.” Reade sounded tired.

“One phone call can get you that, sir.”

“I don’t even know for certain if you’re still a policeman.” Reade offered up his hands to Rossett, then flopped them back down.

“I’ve still got my warrant card.”

“But you work for the Germans. I’ve checked. We don’t pay your wages; you don’t have an office, or a department, or men working under you.” Reade gestured to the window.

“Find me a job, sir.” Rossett looked at Reade.

“It isn’t that easy, Inspector.”

“I can do anything. My record speaks for itself.”

“That’s part of the problem, John.” Reade used Rossett’s first name for the first time.