I said, “It’s consistent with your theory about Gretel. But there’s a problem with our hypothesis.”
I’d seen the ghost, too, on a cold December night when Milkweed attempted to attack the Reichsbehörde. Didn’t realize it was a glimpse of my future self, of course.
Will interrupted my story: “In the knee?”
“I’ve had the pain all my life.”
And, like the way bad luck supposedly befalls those who speak of Old Scratch, the mention of my knee conjured the ache and twinge of arthritis. I realized I’d been limping slightly but too wrapped up in our conversation to realize. Cold weather stiffened my joints.
“But why would you shoot yourself? I know you two don’t get along, but that’s beyond the pale. Even for you.”
“‘You’ll thank me for this later.’ It made no sense at the time, but I understand it now. Nothing short of a kneecapping would have prevented me from going on that raid. But we didn’t understand Gretel’s ability. She knocked the operation into a cocked hat, and the Eidolons changed the price for our emergency retreat. They brought us back, but in return, they took the soul of my future son.”
Will said, “John.” I nodded. He said, “I’m still aghast at that. I am sorry.”
“First, it never happened now. Second, I was wrong to blame you for it. You did it to save my life. There was no way to know.”
Perhaps it was the sting of wind-driven ice that made Will blink. “So you were trying to stop yourself from embarking on the course of action that would lead to John and … all the rest that came with him.”
“Yes. But do you see the problem? Gretel’s escape unfolded identically in both time lines. But if my doppelgänger did as he claimed in Germany, there’s no longer any reason to stage an attack on the farm. There is no farm. So what was Milkweed doing that had me so worried?”
“Do you truly believe you experienced a reflection from a parallel future? A future echo?”
“Something is wrong, Will. Very wrong.”
We mulled this in silence during the walk back. The sun had set by the time we returned to the flat. I went straight to Will’s bedroom. Gretel hadn’t stirred.
3 December 1940
Milkweed Headquarters, London, England
The marine sentries devoted a long, hard stare to the cuts on Marsh’s face. Almost seven months had passed since Marsh had been inside the Admiralty building. It felt like seven decades. He’d lived an entire second life between then and now. So had his wife and daughter. But they’d made the first tentative steps toward healing that rift, he and Liv, and compared to that nothing seemed devastating. He’d have things ironed out with the old man right quick. He hoped.
These are the stairs where I chased Klaus, he mused. This is the wall where he and Gretel escaped into the night.
Marsh passed an empty pedestal outside the First Lord’s office. He wondered where the binnacle compass had gone.
Through Milkweed’s west-facing windows he glimpsed a new building that had sprung up between the Admiralty, Horse Guards Parade, and St. James’. Near the entrance, a crew of laborers received instructions from a member of the Royal Engineers; the structure wasn’t yet finished. The enormous, ghastly thing squatted upon the parade ground like a toad spawned not from mud but from concrete and iron. It wasn’t difficult to imagine a purpose for the bunker, given the current state of London.
This world of walnut paneling and matelots no longer felt like home. He kept expecting officers clothed in gray and black, but instead they wore blue, and it jarred like a jolt of ice water to a loose filling. Royal Navy, not Schutzstaffel. These are your people, he reminded himself. You’re safe. You’re home. You belong here.
Except he didn’t. He didn’t recognize these faces in Milkweed’s wing of the Admiralty. New recruits. Fallout from Klaus’s visit? Like the sentries, several of the newcomers gave Marsh’s injuries a second look. He realized, upon reflection, that they weren’t the newcomers. To their point of view, Marsh was the stranger.
At the very least, he expected to find Will roaming the corridors. Stephenson had given Will an office, back in the earliest days of Milkweed, but it was closed and secured. Marsh’s knock received no answer. Pity. Having Will around would have eased the reunion with Stephenson.
Sod it all, he wanted to say. He wanted to return to Walworth, to his family. Let these fresh-faced paper pushers deal with Jerry. The destruction of von Westarp’s farm, along with the eradication of the Schutzstaffel’s operational records of the REGP, had obviated Milkweed’s original raison d’être. You’re welcome. You lot can handle the rest from here out.
A long night’s conversation with Liv had ground his voice down to a nub of its usual self. It had wicked the moisture from his eyeballs, too, leaving behind only desiccated crumbs of sleep that crunched when he rubbed the corners of his eyes.
Marsh was on the verge of wondering whether his memories of the past spring were nothing more than a flight of fancy when he finally encountered one familiar face. He poked his head into a workshop to find Lorimer and a team of boffins assembling a strange device. Coils of copper wire girded the column, which was a bit taller than a man and about as thick through the middle as a postbox pillar. The bearded Scot dropped a spanner when Marsh entered.
“Hi, Lorimer.” Marsh held out his hand. Lorimer kneaded the curls of his thick black beard. The beard wasn’t dusted with flakes of ash as it had been in the past. And the odor of cigars didn’t waft from Lorimer’s clothing. Good tobacco had become a rarity.
Lorimer didn’t shake Marsh’s hand. “We’d written you off,” he said.
“Long story,” said Marsh. “Is the old man in?”
“Aye.”
Marsh stuffed his unshaken hand into the pocket of his trousers. He nodded toward the column. “What’s that?”
Lorimer squinted at him. Marsh sensed he was gauging the cuts on his face. “Stephenson’s going to shit himself when you walk in.”
Then he returned to his work. No “Welcome home.” No “Good to see you.” Marsh had expected awkwardness, and of course suspicion, but not outright hostility. But if he could make things right with Liv, of all people, he could turn this around. Marsh didn’t blame them for being wary. He would be, too, under the circumstances. But their tune would change when they realized he’d done their job for them.
Lorimer’s difficulty in finding tobacco worth smoking didn’t affect Stephenson. The scent of Lucky Strikes lingered like a fog in the corridor outside the old man’s office. An old friend, that odor. Marsh relaxed, feeling at home for the first time since entering the Admiralty.
Stephenson sat at his desk, paging through a file. His reading glasses were perched at the tip of his nose; a frown had etched itself into the corners of his mouth. A pack of cigarettes lay on the desk, alongside his jeweler’s loupe. Sleet pattered against the window glass behind him. He’d donned a pullover to ward off the chill from the drafty window, but hadn’t bothered to pin up the empty sleeve. It dangled at his side.
Marsh knocked on the door frame. “Permission to come aboard, sir?”
Stephenson had been Royal Flying Corps, not navy. But it seemed appropriate given their surroundings. And, Marsh hoped, it would break the ice a bit. Will would have known exactly how to accomplish that.
Stephenson hid his surprise better than Lorimer. He blinked, twice, then waved Marsh to one of the wingback leather chairs fronting his desk.
Stephenson tapped the Lucky Strike pack against the edge of his telephone, deftly shaking out a new cig. He struck a match, puffed until the tip of the cigarette glowed marigold orange, and stared at Marsh through a pearly cloud. He smoked the entire thing down to a smoldering cinder before uttering a word.
Stephenson crushed the butt into a marble ashtray. He said, “Well, well, well. At long last, the prodigal son returns.” The old man had smoked most of a pack since last emptying the ashtray. “I wondered when you were going to show your face. Have to admit I was a
bit hurt when you decided to check in at the Broadway Buildings first.”
“I had to,” said Marsh. “They had Liv.”
“I know.” Stephenson shook out another cigarette. He crushed the empty pack and lobbed it into the rubbish bin. His gaze hardened. “Where the blue pencil have you been? You’d better have a dynamite story, lad.”
The old man was a better listener than Liddell-Stewart. He didn’t interrupt. Only once did his reactions betray him. Confusion flashed across the old man’s face when Marsh described how an Eidolon had facilitated his escape from the Schutzstaffel.
Marsh’s second recounting of his activities since May proceeded more quickly than the first, in spite of the fact that he’d had to start the story earlier, in the immediate aftermath of Gretel’s escape. He omitted the part about trussing up the commander, then letting him go after learning about the events in Coventry. Marsh wanted the full story before Milkweed had a chance to trundle the commander away to an internment camp on the Isle of Man. The sleet tapered off while Marsh told his tale.
“Let me see that I’ve got this,” said Stephenson. “A stranger swans in, some piker whom you’ve neither seen nor heard of, feeds you a line about Jerry infiltrators inside Milkweed, and you decide on the spot to hop on a U-boat for Germany. Once there you single-handedly win the war for us. Would you say that’s an accurate summary?”
“I said nothing of the sort. And I had help. It would have been impossible without Gretel.”
“Oh, you’re too modest, lad. Very well. Perhaps not the war. But I do think I should get on the horn to the PM, don’t you? He can disband Milkweed now that you’ve been so considerate as to fulfill our mandate for us. I’m sure he’ll sleep better knowing the REGP is no longer a threat.”
“I know how it sounds, sir. But I also know you’re tapped into communications intercepts. If you’ve been monitoring Jerry’s wireless traffic, surely you know—”
“Don’t burden yourself,” said Stephenson. “We’ll take a close look at your story. You can be certain of that.”
“I had to take the opportunity. I have at least as many reservations as you regarding Liddell-Stewart. But I have to give the bastard credit. His information about the Reichsbehörde was bang right. All of it.”
“Lucky for us he’s on our side.”
Marsh shook his head. “I didn’t say that, either.”
Smoke jetted from Stephenson’s nostrils. “I notice you’re moving a bit stiffly. Feeling well?”
“If you still have a quack on staff, I could do with a visit.” Marsh lifted his shirt to show the bandages around his chest.
“Ah, right. Your tussle with the invisible woman. You did mention that. I presume that’s also where you won the cuts to your face?” Marsh nodded. Stephenson said, “She sounds a bloody dangerous witch. Glad to know she’s out of the picture.”
“Me, too, sir.”
“There is one detail that bothers me. Tiny thing, but there it is. One of my men turned up dead recently. Shapley. There’s no way you could possibly know him, of course. He came along after your time. He was found dead in his hotel room. There had been a struggle. Messy business. Whoever did it managed to slip in and out while eluding Shapley’s protection detail. Quite a professional, from the look of it.” Marsh opened his mouth to object, but Stephenson didn’t give him a chance. “I confess I didn’t know Shapley particularly well. They’re an unpleasant lot, Beauclerk’s contemporaries. One thing I do know about the warlocks, however.” Stephenson crushed out his cigarette, then lifted the handset of his telephone. “They all carry knives.”
He dialed a single number. An internal line. “Dickie. John here. Send up a pair of sailors, won’t you?”
They tossed Marsh into a cell in the citadel.
5 December 1940
Admiralty Citadel, London, England
The bladder gurgled gently in its hiding place at the crook of Will’s elbow. It wasn’t audible over the whirr of the ventilation system, the bang of slammed doors, the echo of footsteps, and the clatter of a Teletype. Sound ricocheted along the citadel’s bare concrete corridors as easily as shell shrapnel through aspic.
He handed his identification papers to a sentry. The marine was a stocky fellow who, judging from the time he took to study Will and his papers, took his responsibilities seriously. Will feigned boredom and poise, meanwhile wondered which, if any, of the doors he’d seen on the way down held Marsh the Younger.
The marine waved Will along. Will passed through a sally port to the deepest, darkest heart of the citadel. The air here scraped rather than flowed across Will’s skin. The Eidolons’ displeasure had imbued it with the moist sandpaper texture of a cat’s tongue.
Tonight’s rotation put White in charge of the negotiation, with Grafton as his second, and Webber on map and Teletype duty. Will and the others were to stand by and join in as necessary, depending on the flow of the negotiation. But Will had volunteered to spell Grafton, who had vomited blood and broken snail shells in the aftermath of the Eidolons’ burst of displeasure last time around.
The Teletype clattered. Paper tape spooled from the machine. Webber moved map pins in accordance with what he read on the tape.
Will took his place alongside White. The older warlock launched into Enochian, cutting himself as he did so. Will provided the expected chants at the appropriate times, like a parishioner attending a demonic High Church service.
The vial in White’s lap contained several thermometers’ worth of mercury. Will had been among those who painstakingly recovered the liquid metal, one tiny silvery bead at a time, from the previous negotiation attempts. It made more sense than continually destroying thermometers and barometers. Otherwise, by springtime, at the rate Will was sabotaging negotiations, the Met Office wouldn’t have anything left for forecasting the weather.
Will nudged the stopcock hidden beneath his wristwatch. He feigned the motion of cutting his palm, simultaneously using a gentle squeeze of the elbow to squirt a trace of pig’s blood into the cup of his hand. He flicked his tainted contribution into the circle.
A hand clamped on his wrist.
Will tried to pull away, but Hargreaves twisted his arm to expose the rubber tube still dribbling animal blood.
“I knew it,” he said.
Sweat instantly dampened the undersides of Will’s arms. His forehead, too. This was the very thing he’d feared. They executed traitors.
Will blurted, “Listen, this isn’t what you think. I’m not a traitor.” But of course it was. And, technically, he was.
Webber abandoned the Teletype and smoothly took Will’s place in the circle. The negotiation continued without interruption while Hargreaves forced Will from the room.
Stephenson was waiting in the corridor. He shook his head as though weighing a personal tragedy.
“You were right,” said Hargreaves. He used his own pocketknife to slice open Will’s shirtsleeve. Stephenson grabbed Will’s arm to inspect the bladder.
He said, “Why, Beauclerk?”
Will didn’t know what to say. His racing mind couldn’t find the magic incantation that would release him. There wasn’t one. He repeated, “This isn’t what you think.”
“I believe it’s exactly what I think,” said Stephenson.
Together, Stephenson and Hargreaves frog-marched Will away from the negotiation chamber. They brought him to a steel door. Hargreaves tied Will’s hands behind his back while Stephenson produced a brass key. He twisted it in the lock; the corridor lights glinted on the lustrous finish of the brass.
Stephenson heaved on the door, using his body weight to lever it open. He beckoned into the shadows. Marsh stepped out, blinking and shielding his eyes from the bright light of the corridor.
“Your story checks out,” said Stephenson.
Marsh stared at him. Then he noticed Hargreaves, looking triumphant, and Will, who stood with shoulders slumped with his hands behind his back. “Will?”
“Pip! You—”
—must trust the commander, he wanted to say. But Stephenson clapped his hand over his mouth.
The old man said, “Gag him.”
Hargreaves removed his own necktie. The warlock shoved it between Will’s teeth and tied the loose ends behind his head. It tasted of the starch in Hargreaves’s collar. The salt from stale neck sweat stung the corners of Will’s mouth, where the skin had split open. The old warlock tasted of rancid strawberries.
Stephenson shoved him into the cell just vacated by Marsh. Marsh asked, “What happened?”
“Liddell-Stewart was right after all,” said Stephenson. “We’ve found his Jerry infiltrator.”
“Trust the commander,” Will tried to say. But it came out as muffled gibberish. When the reverberating clang of the cell door finally died away, he could hear the rush of blood through his ears and the whisper of his breath through the silk of Hargreaves’s necktie.
29 December 1940
Bermondsey, London, England
Central London burned while I paced the ruins of yet another warehouse. Jerry’s raids had come less frequently as December weather settled in, but old Göring wouldn’t let the year end quietly. Seemed like they’d doubled up on incendiaries this time around. The worst fires were a few miles to my west, near the center of London. They cast an infernal glow on low passing clouds and the smoke smudges of antiaircraft flak.
Smoke wafted from the barrel where I’d started a smaller fire of my own. It rode a cold wind through gaping holes in the ceiling and the jumble of crumpled beams at the far end of the bay. The cold made me shiver; the smoke burned my eyes. I wrapped myself in an army surplus blanket from the Great War. It stank of motor oil. I tossed the last of von Westarp’s journals into the flames.
Embers of the burning city spiraled up into the night like departed souls, following the paths slashed into the darkness by the sway of searchlights. I wondered what would be left of the city, come morning. The Blitz had made it damn difficult to find undamaged properties near the docks. My original hiding spot had long ago succumbed to the raids. I’d moved twice since then.
Necessary Evil (Milkweed Triptych) Page 34
