Whatever the answer, she and her rescuer were far away by now. Probably halfway to the coast at this hour. Together with Lorimer and Stephenson, Marsh had worked the phones, putting feelers out, quietly alerting every constabulary in southern England. But Marsh knew they wouldn’t turn up anything.
“‘Long day,’ he says. Hmmm.” Liv studied his face. Her expression softened in the way that meant she was finished teasing him for a bit. A frown creased the bridge of her nose, rippled her freckles, tugged at her eyebrows. “It’s more than that.”
And she was right. As she often was. Because on top of the demoralizing and humiliating defeat they’d suffered at the hands of the Schutzstaffel tonight, there was also the issue of Will’s encounter in the park. Marsh didn’t quite know what to make of that. But the poor fellow did have a bruise where he said the stranger clocked him with a briefcase. Will was having a bad week.
As were they all. Because if the bloke who rolled him in the park was a naval officer … The ease of Gretel’s escape suggested a mole. Will’s story, if true to the details, only corroborated that. Though it would take a rather bold kind of mole to show himself to Will like that. Very odd.
Ever since Marsh had returned from Spain, odd things had only meant trouble.
Liv was right. A long day, but so much more.
“Come,” she said. She pulled him inside, to where Agnes dozed in her bassinet. Marsh followed, half tripping while he kicked off his shoes. He collapsed into an armchair. Liv snuggled in beside him. She pulled his head to her shoulder. They swayed in time with her breathing. He listened to her heartbeat. She understood him so well. He could be vulnerable with her, and she knew when he needed it. And in spite of all the shit, she loved him. Sometimes Marsh felt as though Liv was his only human credential.
“Tell me,” she said.
Would that I could, Liv. Marsh cracked his knuckles. But what could he tell her? The truth, of sorts. I failed you, Liv. I failed Agnes. I can’t protect you.
“Hitler kicked us in the bollocks today.”
“Don’t let him do that too often,” said Liv. “Agnes will need a little brother or sister soon.”
His daughter’s face wasn’t as red as it had been when he’d first met her. But still her eyes and lips were scrunched under little creases of baby fat, as though her dreams were matters of deep concentration.
“Have you thought more about sending her to your aunt?”
Liv’s chest swelled with a long, steadying breath. “Something terrible has happened. Something you can’t say.”
“Yes.” What could he tell her? Again, he settled for simple truth. “I’m afraid things may get worse, much worse, before they get better. We’d do well by Agnes to keep Williton in mind.”
Liv sighed. “If we must.”
They held each other. Marsh closed his eyes. Drifted with the sound of Liv’s heart, the smell of her skin. His stomach gurgled.
She asked, “Have you eaten?”
“I … No. Not since breakfast.” He hadn’t realized it until she asked. But now suddenly he was famished. And the house was full of the smell of Liv’s cooking. How had he not noticed? That damn Gretel had him tied in knots.
“Well, there you have it. No wonder the Führer gave you such a drubbing today. You can’t save Britain on an empty stomach.” She shifted out of his embrace, climbed to her feet. “I’ll get you a bowl.”
Marsh sniffed the air again. “Fish stew?”
“Be thankful it isn’t eel stew. It would have been, had I got to the fishmongers any later.”
Marsh ate while Agnes had her midnight feeding. He dozed off in the chair. Liv woke him some time later when she lifted the spoon and cold bowl from his slack fingers. It felt like only a few seconds had passed. “You’ll feel better if you sleep in a proper bed,” she whispered.
Climbing the stairs and undressing took just enough effort to jostle the gears of his mind back into motion. He fell into the sheets. And lay awake.
Had von Westarp or the Schutzstaffel placed somebody in SIS? Watching Milkweed? Was that how the gypsy girl had known about Liv’s pregnancy? Marsh couldn’t let it go. Like a dog with a soup bone, he gnawed on it from every angle. But it held no marrow. Only splinters.
He didn’t know how long he had lain there before Liv’s breathing eased into the long, slow breaths of peaceful slumber. She hadn’t fallen asleep immediately; she was listening to him, too, wanting to know if he could rest. But he was too tired for sleep, his mind too agitated for true relaxation. He needed room to pace properly.
Marsh eased out of bed, taking care not to jostle the mattress. He dressed in the darkness and tiptoed from the bedroom. Agnes’s face crinkled into a new pattern of wrinkles; her arms jerked in little spasms. Her blanket had slipped. He tucked it over her shoulders, caressed her chin with a fleecy elephant. She smelled of Liv’s shampoo.
He crept down the stairs, stepping on the outer edges so the boards wouldn’t creak, and into the kitchen.
*
“He’s coming,” said Gretel.
I jerked back to wakefulness, my stomach full of butterflies. Soft snoring drifted to my ears from the rear seat. “What?”
“Raybould is here. He’s coming outside.” She paused; whether for theatrical effect or because she was reading potential time lines, I couldn’t say. “Try not to anger him. He’s had an upsetting day. He won’t receive you well.”
As though I needed the warning. Gretel knew everything he might have done, but she still didn’t know him as I did. I knew what he was thinking. What he was feeling.
I checked my pockets, double-checking the forged transfer order I’d created in Stephenson’s office. My fingertips traced the embossed seal of the Royal Arms. It was my talisman, my only shield in the looming confrontation. And a bloody flimsy one at that.
Measured in terms of preparation, my mission tonight was a farce. And not a funny one. Beyond a considerable knowledge of the mark, my entire cover story rested on a single piece of paper. My plan made a mockery of proper intelligence procedures. A real SIS operation, even a halfway competent one, would have spent months creating an identity for me before I assumed it. Military service, school records, hospital records, birth certificate … Anything an outsider might have used to corroborate my story we would have constructed and inserted into the historical record long before we put the ball in motion.
But I didn’t have the luxury of time. Neither did my counterpart, and it was there I hung my hopes. He had one chance to infiltrate the farm. He couldn’t do that and verify my credentials. So the lack of preparation wouldn’t matter as long as he accepted my sales pitch.
I eased out of the car, but took care when closing the door lest the noise alert my doppelgänger. I leaned through the open driver’s window and glared at Gretel. The moon had shifted, so now shadows cloaked her eyes.
I whispered through the wreckage of my throat, “Don’t go anywhere.” She stuck her tongue out at me. Klaus murmured in his sleep. Something about hay wagons.
The scraping of my shoes on wet pavement echoed impossibly loud in the night. I moved lightly, on the balls of my feet, trying to minimize the noise. Ours wasn’t the only car parked on the street; another had appeared farther up the road while I dozed.
I’d just passed the hedge flanking the garden gate when the kitchen door creaked open. I spun, pressing myself to the hedge of barberries and holly so that he wouldn’t glimpse my moonlit form lurking behind the gate.
The fluttering in my stomach made me stumble. I was hiding from a younger version of myself, waiting to have a conversation with him, in the garden, in the middle of the night. The entire situation was absurd. Since my arrival in the past, I’d been working to get to this moment. But I was nervous about meeting myself. Frightened, even. We had a temper.
I forced myself to work through the apprehension. I listened for my moment. Susurration: footsteps on dewy grass. Pop-snap: cracked knuckles. Then nothing. Knowing that small space
so well, the way my garden shed crowded beside the Anderson shelter, I could tell exactly where my counterpart was standing. He had paused on his way between the house and my—his—garden shed.
What are you doing? Go inside.
But he didn’t move. He merely stood there, like a statue in the darkness.
*
Marsh shuffled across the yard toward his garden shed. His best thinking happened there; he could pace and mutter to himself without waking Liv and the baby. He cracked his knuckles again.
A faint glimmer beyond the gate caught his eye. Moonlight on metal. He stopped. Squinted.
A car. Parked behind the house.
Marsh looked away, shunted the vehicle to his peripheral vision. It traded acuity for sensitivity. He’d learned the trick at Fort Monckton before he joined the Firm.
Shapes coalesced from the darkness. Yes, there was a car. And it was occupied.
Somebody was watching the house.
Had they seen him yet? That depended on whether they’d heard the kitchen door. The moon was slightly behind the house, putting him in the deepest of the shadows.
He kept an extra revolver stashed in the shed. Liv didn’t know about it; she hated guns. But he was glad he’d taken the precaution. Marsh sidestepped out of the car’s line of sight, walking on the balls of his feet.
*
I knew he’d made us when he finally started moving again. Faster, more quietly. Were I in his shoes, I’d—
Bugger. He was going for the Enfield.
I tensed, listening. There was no shaft of light to tell me when he’d entered the shed. I had to go by the not-squeak of oiled hinges.
There. I tugged up on the slats again, as I’d done earlier in the evening, and stepped through the gate. I didn’t let it clap shut behind me. No need to startle him. Forcing his hand would only make things worse.
My dark-adapted eyes easily picked out the shed’s open door. He was already inside. I crossed the yard, knowing I’d be an easy shot for him when framed by moonlight in the doorway. I reached the entrance.
His voice came from somewhere in the darkness, past the familiar smells of mildew and potting loam. It brimmed with cold anger. “There’s a gun pointed at you,” he said. “Try anything, anything at all, and I’ll put a bullet in your gut.”
“No, you won’t.” I stepped inside, feeling as though I’d already had this conversation long ago.
I knew damn well he was bluffing. He’d jump me instead. Nobody could answer questions while dying in agony from a gut shot.
“Try me,” he said. “Who are you?”
“No,” I said. “The real question is do you intend to have this conversation in the dark, or will you let me close the door so we can turn on the bloody light?” He didn’t answer. “I’m going to turn around and pull the door shut. I’ll keep my back to you while you flip the light.”
“You don’t move unless I say you do.”
Christ, what a belligerent sod. I wondered if everybody found me so abrasive. I took a steadying breath, turned around. Over my shoulder I said, “If you do shoot me, try to aim for my head. I’d rather die cleanly.”
I closed the door, then raised my hands. There was a faint click and then weak, mustard-colored light filled the shed.
“Turn around,” he barked.
I did. We stared at each other for a long beat.
He said what I was thinking: “Son of a bitch.”
*
The intruder was older than Marsh expected. Perhaps around Stephenson’s age, or even a bit older, but it was hard to tell because one side of his face was a mass of scar tissue. The graying beard couldn’t hide it. The scars might have been war wounds; he appeared old enough to have fought in the Great War. His throat had been damaged, too, judging by the sound of his voice. Mustard gas? Phosgene?
He wore a naval uniform. Lieutenant-commander.
“My God. I know you.” The codger’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. Marsh continued, “You’re the bastard who jumped Will in the park.”
The stranger let out a long, shaky breath. Marsh might have sworn it was a sigh of relief. The duffer asked, “How is he?”
What?
“You nearly broke his jaw. I’m tempted to shoot you on his behalf.”
“Are you angry about his jaw, or feeling guilty about his finger?”
Only five people had been present for that. Marsh struggled to maintain an outward calm while his mind shuffled crisis scenarios. “How do you know about that?”
The stranger gave Marsh a long, hard look. “I know everything about you.” He nodded contemptuously at the revolver. “And do stop with the threats. We both know Stephenson trained you better than that.”
“Who the bloody hell are you?”
“As of right now, I’m your immediate superior,” said the stranger.
He reached into a pocket. Marsh kept the Enfield trained on him. But instead of a weapon, the stranger produced a folded paper. He tossed it on the bench.
“Transfer orders,” he said. “You work for me now.”
*
I recovered from the shock of thinking he’d truly recognized me by pushing to keep him off balance. Didn’t push too hard, however. I stared into the barrel of his revolver, reminding myself that he had a bit of a temper.
The Enfield didn’t waver an inch while my younger self unfolded the forged transfer orders with his free hand. His eyes scanned the page. I could see him mulling it over, trying to gauge the document’s authenticity.
“Liddell-Stewart,” he muttered to himself. “That’s you, I presume.” He came to a decision a few seconds later. I crossed my arms and leaned against the workbench. But my relief became rage when he crumpled the paper and tossed it aside. I balled my fists, simmering.
Stubborn ass.
But I knew the man before me, and I knew the transfer had snagged his attention. But he refused to admit it. I wanted to strangle him. It would have felt good to try. But I reckoned he had the advantage of age. I clamped down on my anger. And nearly gave it all away: I raised a hand to crack my knuckles against my jaw, as I often did when agitated, but caught myself at the last second and scratched my beard instead.
I nodded toward the wadded paper. “Perhaps you didn’t notice the Royal Arms. You might not like them, but your orders stand. So do your goddamned job.”
“Work for you?” He shook his head. “You helped them escape. That’s why you silenced Will.”
“Beauclerk would have thrown everything into a cocked hat. Witless toff. I couldn’t let him.”
My younger self sneered. “I can see why you never made it past lieutenant-commander. You’re an insult to that uniform.” He said, “It’ll be the gallows for you.”
Jesus. Was I always this self-righteous?
I thought about Stephenson, and tried to model my behavior on the old man. “You don’t understand a damn thing, lad.” He straightened, bristling at the condescension. But it was true. “I’m not working for the Jerries. The girl is working with us.”
For the moment, anyway. But I didn’t tell him that.
He hesitated. “Preposterous. I—”
“She let you capture her. And don’t pretend you haven’t suspected as much. By now you’ve already concluded it’s the only sensible explanation. Or you should have.
“That’s why I came to you. You’re supposed to be the clever one.”
*
It was eerie, and maddening, the way this bloke seemed to anticipate everything. Something about him … Had they interacted before? Marsh had a vague sense that they had, but surely he would have remembered that face.
Marsh said, “Have we met?”
The plug-ugly codger sneered at that. “You should get out of the intelligence trade if you can’t remember a face like mine.”
You weren’t born that way, thought Marsh. But he turned his thoughts back to Gretel.
“She couldn’t have arranged her own capture,” he said. “Nobody knew w
here I would be on that morning. Not even me. I made a decision in the field to take a quick foray toward the invasion front. What you’re claiming is impossible.”
“Not for her,” said the stranger in his ruined voice. Amazing, how much emotion he could pack into that barren rasp. Sorrow, bitterness, anger. A man with heavy issues and heavier burdens.
Marsh asked, “What is she? What can she do?”
“Gretel is clairvoyant,” he said. “She knows the future.”
Of all the things Marsh expected to hear, this was not one of them. He reeled. The implications … If it were true, that girl was the most powerful of von Westarp’s creations. She would make the Third Reich unstoppable.
“That’s—”
“Unthinkable? Incomprehensible? More ridiculous than a man who walks through walls?” The stranger also had an infuriating tendency to finish Marsh’s sentences. Marsh balled his empty fists in frustration. “By now you’ve already realized it fits all the facts.”
Damn him. He was right.
Marsh asked, “Why would she help us?”
“It’s one thing to see the future. Quite another to like what you see.”
*
That finally shut him down. My younger self stared at me through narrowed eyes. But I knew he wasn’t seeing me. Liv and Will had always said they could tell when I was deep in thought. I finally understood what they meant.
He didn’t set down the Enfield, but he did glance at the crumpled transfer order.
Warily, he said, “Why have you come to me?”
Finally. I hadn’t won him over yet, but at least now he was willing to listen. Took long enough. Never in my life had I met anybody so bloody obstinate. I wondered if people still saw me that way.
I’d given much thought to how I would answer this question. It had taken careful effort to make inroads with him. I wasn’t about to piss it all away with a tale of the far future, cold wars, and time travel. He might just barely be able to accept that Gretel was an oracle. But only a madman would believe he was talking to an older copy of himself. He had seen a number of strange things over the past year or so, but when I was his age I still didn’t fully understand what the Eidolons were and what they could do.
Necessary Evil (Milkweed Triptych) Page 9
