“You haven’t met our daughter yet.”
“She hadn’t arrived, last I saw you.” When last they’d seen each other, a month earlier, Liv had been in labor. Will had escorted her to the hospital because her husband the spy was in France at the time, though she believed he had gone to America. Will had hastily packed a bag for her.
“I’ve never thanked you properly for that,” said Liv. “You were my champion, Will.”
He followed her to the den, where a baby-shaped bundle of blankets rested in a bassinet. Liv bent over the bassinet; Will’s gaze lingered on her backside for a moment before he tore his attention away. Long enough to revive the memory of packing for her. Long enough to cause shameful speculation about the undergarments currently beneath her dress.
Will cleared his throat. “It was my pleasure.”
Liv cradled her daughter. The baby yawned, shifted. Quietly, Liv said, “This is Agnes. Say hello to your Uncle William, baby girl.”
Agnes was tiny, and fragile, and utterly foreign. Will couldn’t fancy himself a father. Couldn’t fancy himself a husband, for that matter. He supposed that nobody who knew him could imagine such a thing. And so he’d never had a Liv. Probably never would.
Will and Liv chatted, over watery tea, of matters small and large, profound and inconsequential. Less than a week after its conclusion, the Miracle at Dunkirk was still fresh on everybody’s minds and lips. Almost 340,000 British and French soldiers had made it off the beach. They had left most of their equipment behind, but that could be replaced. People couldn’t.
When the opportunity presented itself, Will asked, with as much nonchalance as he could muster, “And speaking of not seeing people in ages, where is your dashing husband? He’s been rather scarce these past few weeks.”
Liv fussed with Agnes while her lower lip trembled with the struggle to contain something. She took a shaky breath before answering him. And when her hazel eyes shimmered like puddles during a rainstorm, Will knew her smile was fragile as spun sugar. One tear would dissolve it.
It skewered him, this momentary glimpse at her sorrow.
“Off again to America. I tell you, I don’t know what the Foreign Office would do without him.”
Will inquired further, as gently and casually as he could manage. She confirmed her husband had departed late on the thirteenth. The night of the prisoner’s spectacular rescue from the Admiralty cellar. Coincidence or cause and effect? Either way, it was disconcerting.
He wished he could read Liv more effectively. Had Marsh lied to her, or was she lying for him?
“Well,” said Will, “at least he’s safely across the Atlantic. Seems as if the States are the only part of the world not stuck in this war.” Europe, Africa, Asia, Australia, and South America all were touched by the conflict, which promised to surpass the Great War in scope and suffering. “Aside from the Antarctic, I suppose.”
He had to make her smile again. “Now that I’m in London again it would be my pleasure to visit more regularly. I imagine it must be lonely without Pip making noise in the garden.”
The hesitation was so slight that Will thought he might have imagined it. “That would be brilliant. Cheers, Will.”
*
The garden gate had come unlatched, so when Will took his leave of Liv, she asked him to go out through the back and close the gate on his way. He was happy to oblige. It gave him a chance to duck into Marsh’s garden shed in the hopes of finding some clue as to where, and why, he had disappeared. But if some clue had indeed been hidden in the arrangement of tools and sacks of potting soil, it was lost on him. Certainly there was nothing so straightforward as a note. The gate gave off a tooth-shaking squeal when he pulled it closed, loud enough to scare off the Jerries.
Back at the Admiralty, Will reported to Stephenson.
“As you feared, Marsh departed late on the thirteenth, or very early the fourteenth. The night of the escape. According to Liv he’d been sent back to the States.”
“By whom?”
Will shrugged. “Foreign Office. The same cover he used when you sent him to France, yes?”
“He could be anywhere.”
“Yes.”
Stephenson said, “The observation team reported a visitor to his house late that night and some activity. I’d convinced myself he’d been snatched by the Jerries, Gretel and her rescuer.” He crushed a cigarette in the marble ashtray on his desk. Ashes drifted across the blotter. “But if he had time to tell his wife he was off again…”
“Yes.” Will shook his head. “I refuse to believe he’s turned on us.”
“I don’t know what to think.”
An alarming confession from the old man. He and Marsh were quite close. Will stood to leave, not wanting to intrude on Stephenson’s anxiety.
“Good work, Beauclerk. Go mind your ducklings.”
Will hesitated, debating whether he ought to tell Stephenson about the visit from Lieutenant-Commander Liddell-Stewart. “Something else?”
Will remembered Stephenson’s words from the previous day: Let me worry about the blood. And the commander’s words from earlier that morning: It will be worse.
The commander might have been winding him up. And what reason was there to trust him? None. And yet the things that man knew … What if he were right about the blood prices? What if the doubt that chewed at Will every quiet night as he crisscrossed the country had been gnawing on the truth? Will decided to wait. Just for now.
To cover for his hesitation, Will said, “Any problems with the new recruits?”
“The day is young,” said Stephenson. “How long until they’re ready to contribute?”
“We must collate our individual lexicons and journals, to bring them into agreement. It could be rather perilous otherwise. Inconsistencies would play merry hob with the negotiations. Merry and deadly, I would wager.”
“How long?”
“Difficult work. A few weeks? Perhaps a month.”
“Damn,” said Stephenson. He bowed his head, rubbed his forehead. “Not as soon as I’d like.”
But in fact …
“Do you remember the day Pip returned from France?” Will asked. “I’d been on my way to find you.”
Stephenson looked up, his eyes bright for the first time since Will had returned to the city. “Yes! You said you’d been cooking up a way to find Marsh.”
Will had been worried Marsh might have been caught up in the invasion of France. He wanted to know if his friend had found himself on the wrong side of the front.
Will nodded. “Yes. It might not have worked, had we tried it then. But it should be straightforward now. The Eidolons have seen his blood.”
Not only that, but when they did see Marsh, the Eidolons gave him a name. Maybe Pendennis or Hargreaves or one of the others could make sense of that.
“Excellent. Make it happen as soon as you can. Come straight to me with any problems. I’ll ensure you get what you need.”
Will took his leave of the old man. What would it cost, this effort to find his missing friend? He’d see the price paid, if it meant an end to Liv’s misery. But would it be the beginning of the descent? Is this what the commander warned him about? It will be worse.…
17 June 1940
Westminster, London, England
I’ve killed for my country. Oh, yes.
I once strangled a man with a garrote and my bare hands. Shot another in the temple the same afternoon. But it was war, and they were the enemy. A thin comfort when caught without a coat in a cold autumn rainstorm, or all the times I woke in the middle of the night to find Liv’s side of the bed cold and empty. But there it was. And I’ve never killed a countryman, though I suppose Cattermole’s shade might disagree. I’ve been many things, but never a murderer. But now, watching the people coming and going from the Savoy, I wondered if that was soon to change.
Age and ruin lay heavy over the man I’d been following. He walked with a peculiar shuffling gait, as though one leg bone had fuse
d to his hip. His arm swung listlessly; I’d watched him long enough to suspect it was dead, or lame. I’d contrived to get a solid look at him earlier in the afternoon when he took his leisure in the Savoy’s tearoom. His good hand, the one that wasn’t shriveled inside a leather glove, was ribbed with fine white scars.
A doorman tipped his hat, opened a door for the warlock. I checked my watch, memorized the time, and tossed another handful of crumbs to the pigeons at my feet.
I wondered how he’d rated a room at the Savoy. He appeared to be one of the oldest warlocks. Perhaps they did things by seniority. That was consistent with what I remembered of Will’s interactions with them, and my own. Either way, for a reclusive misanthrope—and weren’t they all, these sorcerers?—he certainly seemed to be enjoying the accommodations. Probably had the others staying in hovels over in Limehouse, bloody hypocrite.
His name started with a P. He’d died of a heart attack in August of 1940. Killed by the strain of keeping the Jerries’ invasion fleet out of the English Channel. Will’s warlocks had been running round-the-clock negotiations that summer.
He was, in short, a bloody dangerous bastard. He knew Enochian; he could talk to the Eidolons. He carried knowledge that would one day destroy the world if it became the tool of Whitehall.
I didn’t want to kill my countrymen. Even twisted old codgers like these. But I wouldn’t have to kill them immediately, if Will fed me the information I needed to sabotage the negotiations. Stephenson would give up on the warlocks right quick if they failed to deliver results. They’d still be around in case of emergency.
Once my counterpart carried out his mission at von Westarp’s farm, the warlocks would become superfluous. The key was to ensure that Whitehall never embraced “Enochian realpolitik.” For now, I’d start by discrediting the warlocks. Later, after they had been cast out and were no longer worthy of Whitehall’s attention, I’d kill them.
Which is why I’d been tailing this warlock for the past four days. Like the warlock before him, and the warlocks I’d study after him. Learning his routine, seeing how he made his way to the Admiralty and back, picking out his protection. (Blue fedora, gray trousers, shoulder rig. Flat cap, coveralls, pistol tucked behind the breast panel.)
Stephenson had put two SIS minders on every warlock. Just like last time.
Every warlock except Will, that was. He had refused. Said it wouldn’t do for the Duke’s brother to be seen about town with two bodyguards everywhere he went. That would raise eyebrows and invite questions. He was right.
I tried not to think about Will. What would you do if you knew, beyond any possibility of doubt, that your best friend carried knowledge that would one day destroy the world? And what if you knew that determined persons could rip it from him? Because if it wanted to, Whitehall could force Will to reveal the process for creating more warlocks.
Destroying their credibility was essential, if I didn’t want to murder my friend.
22 July 1940
Kensington, London, England
Took me over a month to learn all I could about the warlocks from the outside. During that time, the Luftwaffe started regular attacks on shipping. By the time I neared the end of my surveillance campaign, the Jerries had begun air operations against ports along the Channel, too. But their strategy was haphazard, almost spasmodic. It lacked the cold precision with which they’d dismantled our air defenses the last time around. I wondered how Gretel was framing her advice. Somehow, she had the OKW believing this was the best possible scenario. Then again, she and I were the only people on earth who knew firsthand of scenarios that played out much better for the Luftwaffe.
Though things were better than they’d been the first time around, they weren’t good. France had folded in late June, and now the beleaguered Royal Navy was tasked with blockading the Continent. Meanwhile, the Ministry of Aircraft Production took up a collection. “Saucepans into Spitfires,” they called it. We were weak. Weak enough that the British Empire could offer no resistance when Japan demanded closure of the Burma Road. Hitler made a final “peace offering” to Britain a few days ago, with predictable results. Even America rebuffed the overture: Roosevelt signed an act that would greatly expand the Americans’ naval presence in both the Atlantic and Pacific. (I didn’t remember that from the first time around, but it was becoming difficult to remember such details. It was a challenge to keep straight both versions of this accursed war.) The most chilling reminder of the original history came when the Soviet Union annexed Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia. I watched, and wondered if Stalin would take the rest of Europe as he’d done last time.
Will and his colleagues had also been quite busy during those same weeks, as he reluctantly explained to me when I returned to his Kensington flat.
“We’ve done nothing that would be of interest to you,” he said. “Merely paperwork.”
He didn’t want to tell me anything. Couldn’t help but respect him for that. But I had to know what was happening inside Milkweed. I said, “Tell me.”
Will sighed, running a hand over his face. “Before we can collaborate on negotiations, we have to ensure that we share a common frame of reference. A canonical text, if you will.” He delivered this explanation in a bored monotone, as if by rote. I reckoned he’d gone over this more than once. I saw shades of my mentor’s impatience in that. “Every warlock has his own journal. And his own lexicon. A personal, idiosyncratic record of Enochian. These documents are old and, sometimes, unreliable. They’ve been passed down for generations. Centuries in many cases.”
“You’re combining them. Writing a master lexicon.”
“Master lexicon.” Will scratched his chin. “Yes. I suppose you could call it that.”
“Quill pens and parchments. I take it Milkweed hasn’t found a use for you.”
I tried not to let my eagerness show. But with the war evolving so differently this time, the circumstances that had forced us to rely upon the warlocks to blockade the Channel hadn’t crystallized. With France under heel, the Jerries had of course looked across at Britain and begun to salivate. But this time we had an army with which to repel the invasion force. And, so far at least, we still had the RAF.
Invasion was still a threat. But if the world was lucky, we’d find a way to counter it without magic. Perhaps, I thought, allowing myself a glimmer of optimism, we’ll manage to fight this entire war without magic.
But it’s never that easy.
“I’m happy to say,” Will said, “that we’re poised to do something rather valuable.”
I concentrated on a neutral tone: “Oh?”
“A Milkweed agent went missing two months ago. I mentioned him to you. Marsh. Quite a good friend of mine, in fact. We’re going to have the Eidolons locate him.”
Shit. This was a disaster. The problem immediately sprang to mind: If the warlocks delivered on this promise and managed to discern that my doppelgänger was in Germany, Stephenson would have to draw one of two conclusions—either Raybould Marsh had defected, or he had been trussed up and shipped to the Continent against his will. But both paths of reasoning led to the same place. Whether willingly or under torture, it ended with Raybould Marsh giving up everything he knew about Milkweed.
Stephenson would have no choice but to order the warlocks to find a way to silence my younger self. They wouldn’t kill him outright. That was their one ironbound rule, and God knows I’d learned to respect it. But there were other ways. Subtle ways.
I asked, “Can you do that?”
“It’s complicated, but yes. The key is that they’ve already seen his blood. The Eidolons, I mean. They know him,” said Will. “In fact, they seem to be rather fascinated by him.”
Will was still trying to decipher the name the Eidolons had given me. Poor sod. It took us twenty years to get the answer to that particular riddle.
Your map is a circle. A broken spiral. That’s what the Eidolons had told me through the empty husk of my son.
“Whose idea was this?
”
Will said, “Mine.”
Damn it, Will. Why do you have to be so fucking helpful at the worst possible time?
So I aimed for his weak spot. “And the blood prices? How will those be paid?”
“It’s just information we seek.” He flexed his hand, glanced down at his wound. “The price should be minor.”
He didn’t add, “This time.” But I could see from the look on his face that it was on his mind and on his tongue. So I gave the hook a little twist.
“Are you certain?”
His only answer was to go a little pale. I didn’t enjoy it, but I had to undermine his faith in Milkweed. Meanwhile, if the warlocks located Raybould Marsh, it would ruin everything. I had to stop them.
26 July 1940
Berlin, Germany
Nobody knows I’m here.
It was a deadly, dangerous thought. A loose pebble, bouncing down the towering scree of piled-up fears. The first rumble of an avalanche that would bury hope.
Marsh had fended off despair as long as he could manage. Kept his body active with stretches and exercises. Kept his mind occupied with plans, strategies, tactics. He’d even devised a plan for destroying the Reichsbehörde, if he ever returned there. But after nearly seven weeks in a lightless prison, sleeping on a cold hard floor, steeped in the smell of his own bodily functions, unable to block out the screams of prisoners in adjoining cells, his resolve had weakened.
He spat out another torn piece of fingernail. Reviewed what he knew.
They’d kept the bag over his head for the entire journey from the farm. But Gretel had sent him here for a reason. That implied he was deep underneath SS Haus, the Schutzstaffel headquarters that Himmler had placed inside the former Prince Albert luxury hotel.
There couldn’t be many cells down here. They would be reserved for the prisoners of highest interest to the SS.
He’d inferred that based on the screams.
He’d spent every day waiting for his own turn with the interrogators. But they hadn’t come. Not yet. They were patient. Wearing down his resolve before they laid a single finger upon him. They let the cold and wet and hunger soften him. He knew that, in the part of his mind still capable of evaluating the situation objectively. But that part of him had atrophied while the rest of him rotted away.
Necessary Evil (Milkweed Triptych) Page 20
