“I just do my job,” he repeated, as much for his own ears as Koehler’s.

Koehler slid a pint toward Rossett.

“Well, John, all I can say is that I’m glad you do. I like working with you—you do it well. There are not many men in London who could do what you do as well as you. I salute you.” Koehler lifted his full pint and took a drink.

Rossett watched him, then leaned forward to stub out his cigarette in the half-full ashtray that sat between them.

“Why do you do it?” he asked softly. Koehler looked at him over the top of the pint glass. “You’re a soldier. This isn’t fighting—this is management, dealing with a problem. Why do you do it?”

Koehler finished his gulp and then placed the pint down on the table. He leaned forward and wiped a hand across his top lip to remove a line of froth that had settled there. The German realized that he was slightly drunk, so he paused before speaking and breathed deeply, considering his words.

“I fought in France, like I said, then across the rest of fucking Europe. I made it as far as Moscow.”

“I know, the Knight’s Cross.” Rossett pointed at his own throat to signify where Koehler wore his medal when in dress uniform.

“Knight’s Cross with oak leaves,” Koehler corrected with mock seriousness, wagging his finger at Rossett, who smiled in return.

“With oak leaves,” Rossett parroted, picking up his pint.

“I made it to Moscow. It was crazy there, John; you haven’t seen anything like it. Winter was setting in, the whole city had broken down, people were eating corpses they found in the street. Can you believe it? Corpses in the street? Animals, they are fucking animals.”

“Maybe they were desperate?”

“Nobody knew what they were doing. We’d charged halfway across Russia and ended up stuck in this shithole waiting for the weather to get better, when one day I get told to start rounding up Jews. I think they were just looking for a job to give us. The men were bored, no fighting, no training. You know what soldiers are like if they haven’t got something to do?”

Rossett nodded.

“Well, I set up teams, started dragging in rabbis plus Russian community leaders and civil servants.” Koehler leaned forward as he spoke, warming to the subject. “I realized, sooner than wander around the city rounding up two or three Jews, I could, with a little organization, get the bastards to walk into the fucking hotel we were staying in and hand themselves over to us. And to make matters certain, I told the Russians to let it be known that I would give a bag of potatoes and a loaf of bread for each Jew someone handed in. The next day the line was around the block. Half the fucking Jews the Russians brought me were dead already, but I didn’t care. It kept my men busy and the bosses off my back.”

“You did well.” Rossett nodded as he took a drink.

“I did brilliantly,” Koehler replied as he pulled a cigarette out of Rossett’s pack. He put the cigarette in his mouth and the tip bobbed up and down as he continued to speak. “I did so fucking brilliantly I got pulled out of Moscow and sent back to Berlin. People notice good work, John. You should know that, you got the Victoria Cross.” Koehler lit his cigarette and gasped as the smoke went down. He watched his exhalation a moment and then continued through squinting eyes. “Next thing I know I’m in an office being told I’m coming to London to ‘continue my great work with the Jewish Question.’ I couldn’t believe my luck. I swear to God, I nearly shit when I was told Himmler himself had taken notice of what I’d managed in Moscow.