I’m sure I can trust you not to get us, or for that matter, me, into any bother?” That was all he’d said when they first met.

And for the past nine months, that was how things had stayed.

Rossett and the other sergeant stepped across the road as a pack of cigarettes and some matches came out. Rossett shielded the flame with his hands as the sergeant held the match for him to draw on. Once their cigarettes were lit, they walked the short distance from the car to the corner of the street. Rossett blew the smoke from his mouth and, staying close to the corner of the building, sneaked a glance around like a sniper into Caroline Street, their eventual destination. He quickly ducked back after he’d checked the target house.

“Anyone moving?” said the sergeant.

“No.”

“It’s a bloody awful morning for this sort of work.”

“I’ve never known a good one for this sort of work.”

“I don’t know how you do it.”

“Someone has to. It may as well be me,” Rossett replied, checking his watch.

“When I was a nipper, there was a family of them used to live in our street. They weren’t a bad sort, kept to themselves. Not sure I could be all heavy-handed if I met them today. I used to play football with their lad, we was about the same age . . .” The uniformed sergeant spoke almost to himself as he looked at the end of his cigarette and picked a piece of imaginary tobacco off the tip of his tongue.

Rossett stared at him for a moment and then flicked his own cigarette toward the gutter. It fell short and rolled in a half circle, hissing to a halt in a puddle.

“We get in, we hit them hard and fast. Tell your lads lots of shouting and banging, and don’t let them settle or start to argue. If any of them gives any backchat, just give them a crack.” Rossett jabbed his thumb in the direction of Caroline Street. “They will offer all sorts of things—money, jewels, even food to be left in the house if you give them a chance. So you make sure you let your men know, if anyone takes anything he will be on that cattle wagon faster than the Jew who tried to bribe him. If everything goes to plan, you’ll be drinking tea in the canteen in an hour and all this will be forgotten. Understood?”

The sergeant dropped his cigarette and ground it out, suddenly aware of the tiny swastika badge on the lapel of Rossett’s raincoat.

“Yes, of course. I’ll pass the word,” he said, turning toward the trucks. Rossett watched him go and dug his hands into his coat pockets, very much aware of the tiny swastika badge himself.

 

Chapter 2

IT TOOK ANOTHER five minutes for the two SS officers to turn up, their Mercedeses contrasting with the battered old Austin and Rover as it eased to a stately stop.

When the Germans arrived in London, it hadn’t taken them long to requisition the best of everything Scotland Yard had to offer. The best cars, the best secretaries, the best offices, and the best officers.

That was how Rossett had ended up sitting across the desk from the new assistant commissioner and the senior liaison officer for Einsatzgruppe Six. Prior to that day he’d been working the crime desk over in Wapping, earning a reputation as a top thief taker.

The Oberst had sat and silently read his file as Rossett stood wondering what was going on. The assistant commissioner had shaken his head and given him a filthy look when, after five minutes, Rossett politely coughed in the hope it would jump-start something.

When the German had finally looked up, ten minutes later, Rossett was rocking backward and forward on his heels and looking at the ceiling, his patience with the whole affair long exhausted.

“Are you in a hurry to leave, Sergeant?”

“I’ve important work to do, sir.”

“You do, and you are going to do it with us from now on. Report to the Office of Jewish Affairs at Charing Cross tomorrow at nine.”

And that was that. No interview, no chance to ask questions, no chance to turn it down: no chance, and no choice.

When he got back to Wapping, he’d found his desk already cleared and the last of the lads lingering at the station steadfastly avoiding his gaze. He realized that news traveled faster than central London traffic, and he stuck his head into his DI’s office as a courtesy.

“Come in, Rossett. Take a seat.”

DI Rimmer had been waiting for him. On the desk had sat two glasses of Scotch, a rare commodity since the invasion, especially the Red Label that sat between them now. Rossett recalled having seen similar bottles being carried into the station evidence store a few days earlier, seized from the docks, if he remembered rightly. He wondered how many were left there.

“You’ve heard, sir?”

“We’ve all heard. Within ten minutes of your leaving, they’d cleared your desk. For a moment, I thought you’d been up to something you shouldn’t.