8 June 1940
Milkweed Headquarters, London, England
Will shrugged with relief when the Admiralty came into view through the windscreen. He rode in the first of a line of three cars that had been sent by Stephenson. And, just as soon as Will made the appropriate introductions and explanations, the men in these cars would be the old man’s responsibility. Not soon enough. Will felt ridiculous playing mother duck to the men he’d recruited. He could endure a bit of silliness for the war effort. But it wasn’t concern for his dignity that gnawed at Will. It wasn’t the desire to be a proper host and ambassador to his charges that caused chilly tendrils of doubt to cling to him like winter fog.
He’d had grandiose dreams of raising an army. Of returning to London triumphant with Britain’s saviors at his heels. He’d imagined the warlocks as genteel but eccentric old men, united by a common goal.
How wrong he’d been in every detail. Will hadn’t raised an army. He’d found less than a dozen men. Of those, several were too far gone to be of use. Too mad, too ruined, or both. Nor were the remaining men the gentle protectors he’d envisioned. He’d gone in search of patriots, men like the father he barely remembered. Instead, he found men like his grandfather. Not evil, necessarily, but amoral. Cold. The questions they asked … the things they sought … The sooner he handed them over to Stephenson, the better.
Stephenson would sort them out. These men were dangerous.
Some of the warlocks, like Pendennis, were old enough to be Will’s grandfather. (And thank the Lord that drunken devil had passed away long ago. Bad enough dealing with this lot without tossing familial abuse into the mix.) Others, not much older than Will. But even the least of them wielded more power than the King. These men communed with forces beyond the fantasies of any monarch, potentate, or despot.
One by one, the warlocks had made their way to London. They’d needed accommodations in the city, so Will had reserved a block of rooms at the Savoy and charged it to his brother. Will had made the reservation open-ended, because he hadn’t known how long it would be before he’d finished tracking down the warlocks. The manager had been happy to meet Will’s unusual request; the war had been terrible for business. Will’s earliest recruits, like Shapley, had been at the Savoy for several weeks. White, the last recruit, had only been there for two nights. Will suspected the final bill was quite impressive.
He’d returned to his Kensington flat just long enough to bathe, shave, and change into a suit that hadn’t been on the road for weeks. The telephone rang twice in that short amount of time. Aubrey had not been happy.
Will emerged from the foremost car. The warlocks followed his lead. Two more emerged from the rear seat of his car, another pair from the following car, and another pair from the car behind that.
The most experienced warlocks, like Hargreaves, spoke in voices like shattered granite cloaked in shadows and cobwebs. The painful, inhuman sounds of Enochian had permanently etched the soft tissues of their throats. And they all had visible disfigurements. Every warlock, even Will, had a spiderweb of fine white scars on the palm of one hand. But as blood prices went, those marks were a trifle, a token fee. The scarring grew worse in accordance with the time and effort spent studying the Eidolons. Shapley’s knowledge of Enochian was just a bit advanced beyond Will’s; the mass of scar tissue on his hand caused his fingers to curl like claws. Most of White’s nose was missing; he wore a prosthesis in public. One of Webber’s eyes was a sunken, milky orb. Pendennis kept his dead arm concealed in a glove that extended to his elbow. Something had pockmarked every inch of Grafton’s skin. Hargreaves had burned.
Nobody looked twice at Will’s severed fingertip.
These men lived in a world divorced from the petty concerns of war and tyranny, King and Country. They were hermits and misanthropes. They maintained minimal interactions with the greater world, existing almost entirely separate from it. And they would have been impossible to find without his grandfather’s notes as guidance.
He’d learned quickly that appealing to their sense of patriotism was a dead end. What brought these men to London, what piqued their interest enough to meet Stephenson, was the chance to practice their craft with a freedom that hadn’t been known in centuries. The chance to perform real negotiations, the chance to bend and break the laws of nature. The opportunity to bargain with the Eidolons as hadn’t been done in generations. The occasion to fuel those negotiations with blood prices of a scope unattainable to solitary, secretive men.
The warlocks wanted to try things of which they’d only dreamed. They wanted government sanction. Hargreaves had looked positively bloodthirsty when the possibility had dawned upon him. Hence the gnawing doubt that had become Will’s constant companion in recent days. How wise was it for Milkweed to throw its lot together with such powerful men when their concerns and motivations barely overlapped?
Was this a mistake?
Will would have to speak with Stephenson privately, to warn him. But he already had a strategy in mind for dealing with the blood prices. Will knew he’d rest more easily after he and the old man worked out the details and established some guidelines for the other warlocks.
Will thanked the driver, then ushered the warlocks past the marine sentries posted beside the sandbag revetments at the Admiralty entrance. The marines stared, but didn’t intervene. Stephenson had sent word down to expect guests.
Milkweed’s portion of the Admiralty had changed while Will had been away. The offices were no longer empty, and the corridors showed actual signs of life. Lorimer and Stephenson had done their own recruiting, too.
Rather than crowd into Stephenson’s office, the old man brought them to a conference room. A well-appointed space with leather and brass, it smelled of wood polish and cigarette tobacco. High-backed chairs flanked the windows and the empty hearth. Marsh wasn’t present, but Lorimer was. Will nodded at him.
It was a bit surprising Marsh wasn’t there. Disappointing, too, if Will allowed himself a moment of selfishness. He’d finally made a useful contribution.
Stephenson took the head of a long inlaid table; Will sat at the other end, and the warlocks joined them. Lorimer took a seat beside Will. A closed folder lay on the table before Stephenson.
One by one, Will indicated the men sitting along either side of the table. “Mr. Hargreaves, Mr. White, Mr. Webber, Mr. Pendennis, Mr. Shapley, Mr. Grafton: please meet Captain John Stephenson. The captain—”
Stephenson cut in. “I represent the Crown.” He looked Will in the eyes, as if in warning. “And before another word is spoken, I need each and every one of you to understand that the Crown puts the highest premium on secrecy. From now until the end of time, as far as the world outside this room is concerned, the conversation we are about to have never, ever happened.” He opened the folder and distributed copies of the Official Secrets Act. The empty sleeve pinned to his shoulder fluttered like a flag. “You’ll see there’s nothing for you to sign. This is a formality. A courtesy, if you will. This Act is law within the United Kingdom, and you’re bound by it, whether you’re aware of this or not. Take a good look, especially at the bit about penalties and prosecution, and think seriously about whether you want to stay in this room. Take the time you need until you’re satisfied.”
It was essentially the same speech Stephenson had given Will the previous summer. Less profanity this time.
Paper rustled while the warlocks studied the documents Stephenson had distributed. They read with more attention to detail than Will had done. But, after all, these were men who lived and suffered and died by nuances of wording.
Nobody backed out. These men were not easily swayed or impressed by human threats.
“Excellent,” said Stephenson. “Now. Lord William tells me that you gentlemen have certain skills that might be of use to His Majesty’s Government.”
Hargreaves rasped, “Politics do not concern us.”
“Perhaps you’ve heard that we’re at war.”
“
We are not soldiers to be called up at your leisure,” said Pendennis. “You know nothing of us. You should know nothing of us.” He glared at Will. “You don’t understand what we do. No outsider could.”
“I’ve seen what Lord William can do in a negotiation.” The warlocks looked torn between dismissing Will’s competence (he couldn’t blame them for that) and looking dismayed that Stephenson appeared to know the terminology. Stephenson continued, “He tells me your command of Enochian is far greater.” This earned more dismay, more angry glances at Will.
White said, “He does not speak for us.”
Perhaps I’m not one of you, thought Will. That didn’t stop you from taking me up when I offered a room at the Savoy, did it?
“And yet here you are,” said Stephenson. If he was unsettled by the disfigurements arrayed around the table, he showed no sign. Then again, a one-armed veteran of the Great War was no stranger to grievous injury. “Something lured you out of hiding.”
“An arrangement,” said Hargreaves. “Our assistance in exchange for the latitude to practice our craft. That is what we were told.”
Stephenson said, “You’re the most secretive men in the country. If not for Lord William, we’d have had no idea you existed outside of fairy tales. Nobody knows you exist. You already have latitude to do as you wish.”
“Beyond a certain point, the practice of our craft faces limitations. We lack resources.”
They were dancing around the issue, the warlocks and Stephenson both. Nobody wanted to come out and state the issue. Will wasn’t about to let them sweep the ugliness under the rug. This arrangement could turn very dark if handled poorly. He’d see it wasn’t.
He jumped in. “They’re referring to blood prices. Human blood secures the Eidolons’ cooperation.”
Will hated the way Stephenson very much did not look dismayed by this. Well, I suppose one doesn’t become King of the Spies without knowing how to affect a certain level of aplomb.
“I’ve seen a blood price in action,” said Stephenson, nodding to Will’s injured hand. It didn’t throb as much as it had in the days immediately after the injury. The seepage had stopped; Will had removed the bandages midway through his cross-country sojourn. “And forgive me for saying it, but it seems to me you gentlemen have expended no shortage of blood and pain in pursuit of your craft.”
“Nevertheless,” said Hargreaves, “there are some actions our blood will not purchase. But if you have experienced the Eidolons, then you know in your bones and your heart they exist outside physical laws. Nothing is beyond them.”
“You’re saying that given the proper resources”—Stephenson put a slight emphasis on that word, slipping comfortably into euphemism—“you gentlemen could bend the laws of nature?”
“I am saying that with the proper resources, the laws of nature become irrelevant.”
Stephenson fell silent while this sank in for a beat or two. A clock ticked on the mantel. He cleared his throat.
“Why do they need blood to fuel those acts?”
“They don’t. They use the blood to study us. The acts are inconsequential to the Eidolons. An afterthought. A means of acquiring blood, and thus a means of learning more about the human stain.”
If Stephenson wondered what Pendennis meant by that, he didn’t inquire. He pulled the conversation back to his original point. “No doubt the metaphysics are quite fascinating. How much blood?”
“It depends upon the—”
Stephenson knocked on the table with his knuckles. “I’m sorry. You seem to have confused me with somebody content to deal with generalities. So let me put this another way. You lot are negotiators. But how good are you? Must people die?”
At last, the opening Will had hoped for. He threw himself into the conversation. “Certainly not,” he said. “In fact, I’ve devised—”
But Pendennis spoke over him. “Not necessarily.”
Not necessarily? Was he mad? The only acceptable answer was an emphatic, “No.”
But then something disturbing happened: Stephenson didn’t balk. Will shivered. What was that saying about when somebody walked over your grave?
Stephenson said, “In that case, I would like to retain your services. Welcome to Milkweed, gentlemen.
“Now let me explain some background. The story begins early last year, when one of our agents retrieved a remarkable film in Spain. His contact was a man who claimed to have worked in a deep cover Schutzstaffel unit testing exotic technologies. The film was damaged in transit. I brought on Lorimer here, who reconstructed it.” Lorimer nodded at the newcomers. “What we saw left no doubt the Jerries had achieved something extraordinary. Unnatural.”
Will said, almost to himself, “This will make sense once you’ve seen the film.”
Stephenson shot him a look that could have etched glass. But he ignored Will, continuing, “I’ll get to the details in a moment, but we believe the breakthrough is the work of a man named Karl Heinrich von Westarp. A medical doctor…”
Lorimer tapped Will on the arm. Will leaned over. The Scot whispered, “It’s missing.”
Will spun to face him. “What?”
“Aye. The film vanished. Along with everything else in the vault. Probably happened when the lass escaped.”
“Good Lord.”
Will excused himself while Stephenson continued the précis on Milkweed’s backstory. Somebody had pilfered the vault. The Germans had outmaneuvered them yet again. He had to clear his head.
Will took a seat on a bench near the stairwell. Several of the offices had opened their windows, attempting to dispel some of the early summer stuffiness. He could smell the lake in St. James’ Park.
It had seemed like such a good idea, such a noble cause, finding and recruiting Britain’s warlocks for Milkweed’s secret war effort. And it seemed Milkweed needed help more than ever. But the warlocks had turned out to be bloody-minded wretches, while Stephenson proved perfectly blasé about the blood prices. But perhaps that was the spymaster’s natural cunning at work. Perhaps he was being careful, getting a feel for the warlocks before he made the crucial decisions. Yes, Will thought. That had to be it.
Doubtless the old man would put the warlocks to work. And sooner than later. That meant Milkweed needed access to human blood. Done wrong, that could lead to atrocity. But done right it would weigh on nobody’s soul. Will had given this thought during interminable hours spent in automobiles and trains. He closed his eyes, tipped his head against the wall, reviewed his ideas.
Some time later, Stephenson emerged from the conference room. Pendennis and Hargreaves were arguing; it sounded like a pair of granite boulders in full rut.
The old man fished a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, shook one out. “Good work, Beauclerk.”
Well, now. That was nice to hear. “Thank you.”
“We need those men.”
“In that case, we’ll need blood. I’ll make arrangements with the blood banks. It can be done through my brother’s foundation, with a fair amount of legerdemain.”
Stephenson shook his head. “If this goes forward, we are not leaving a paper trail.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “The hospitals are going to need their stores of blood. The Jerries will have France locked up soon enough. It won’t be long before they’ve stationed fighters and bombers. Then they’ll start coming over the Channel.” He scraped a safety match along the wainscoting. Around the cigarette dangling from his mouth, he said, “Let me worry about the blood. I have another job for you.”
Will pointed. “If we’re not careful those men will push as hard as they can to get the sanction they crave.”
“I told you I’d handle it,” said Stephenson.
It wasn’t the least bit reassuring. A bit of history came back to Will, whence he didn’t know, but enough to make him realize he was wrong. He had returned with an army at his back. And they had just crossed the Rubicon.
Stephenson touched the flame to his cigarette, blew out the match,
tossed it aside. The cigarette glowed marigold orange when the old man puffed on it. Tobacco smoke stung Will’s eyes. It tasted like a bad decision.
“Marsh is missing.”
This brought Will up short. His teeth clicked together. “I beg your pardon?”
“Nobody has seen him since the night of the prisoner’s escape.”
The bottom fell out of Will’s stomach. Good heavens. And that was probably when the vault got cleaned out. “You don’t suspect Pip was complicit in that?”
“I don’t suspect anything yet because I don’t have solid information. Pay a visit to Olivia.”
“Wait one moment. Marsh has been missing for weeks but you’ve waited until now to investigate?”
Pearly smoke jetted from Stephenson’s nose. “Don’t be obtuse. SIS has men watching their house.” Will frowned, but Stephenson quickly added, “At Marsh’s own request. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that the prisoner knew a great deal about Marsh and his family.” Ah. That. He hadn’t forgotten. Stephenson continued, “We need to know what Olivia knows. You’re the man for that job.”
That was probably true. Stephenson was something of a father figure to Marsh, which made him an in-law to Olivia. She seemed fond of Stephenson, maybe even found his gruffness endearing. (Will suspected that was possible only because she had never dealt with the man in a work environment.) But Will was a close friend.
Or he had been … Perhaps that changed when Marsh returned from France with that cipher of a Jerry girl in tow. His reaction to the way she spouted impossible knowledge of his family was to isolate Liv and Agnes from anything that might connect them back to Milkweed. Thus Marsh had forbidden him from visiting. Will still hadn’t met their daughter.
“I’ll do what I can,” said Will.
“Good. Find Marsh.”
9 June 1940
Kensington, London, England
The woodpecker in Will’s dream spoke fluent Hungarian, wore jodhpurs and a forage cap, and was very, very persistent. Tap tap tap. It was trying to get into Will’s cupboard. The locked one, where he kept his beetles. Tap tap tap. Splinters flew. Soon the diamond beak would reduce all the carpentry to flinders. The bird had a rationing book tucked under one wing. It paused in its relentless tapping, peered at Will with a pale rheumy eye, as if to commiserate. “Getting so that an honest bird can’t find decent blood for love or money these days. Curse the Jerries.” Tap tap tap.
Necessary Evil (Milkweed Triptych) Page 18
