Necessary Evil (Milkweed Triptych) (10 page)

By now, the entire building had erupted into pandemonium. I could hear it through the closed door. Klaus had made it downstairs. He’d be pulling Gretel out onto Horse Guards Parade in a few more minutes.

Stephenson’s typewriter sat on a credenza in the corner. The old man had had a secretary during his days as the head of T-section, but he hadn’t taken Margie to the Admiralty with him when he created Milkweed. I ran the blank transfer order through his typewriter.

And promptly cocked it up. I’d never learned to type.

“Shit.”

I tore it out, crumpled the ruined page into my pocket, pulled another blank from the bundle, and tried again. This time my hunt-and-peck produced better results. Not superb, but good enough. I scribbled an illegible signature at the bottom of the form.

The forgery went into my briefcase, and the ribbon-wrapped bundle of papers went back into the desk. I closed it up again, made certain the desk lock clicked into place, and slipped out of the office. I was careful to leave the door wide ajar, as had Stephenson.

By now it was safe for me to run. It would look like I’d joined the chase to catch Klaus and Gretel. Which in fact I had. I went out through a side door, emerging into a moonlit blackout.

The rain had tapered off and been replaced with a misty fog. Nervous sweat dampened my too-tight uniform, and now that moisture turned chill in the night air. I huddled beside the Admiralty, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. It took a few moments before I could make out the mulberries in St. James’, their rain-damp boughs limned in silver moonlight. I tried to remember exactly where Klaus and Gretel would emerge through the wall in the final moments of their escape. I counted down the row of windows in Milkweed’s wing of the Admiralty building, then set off around the corner.

A sigh of relief escaped from my chest, so deep it verged on a sob. I was free and clear. A few seconds either way wouldn’t matter at this point; I knew Gretel wouldn’t leave without seeing me. Klaus had delivered a battery to her by now.

“Stop! You there, stop!”

I spun—

—saw somebody approaching—

—and blurted, “Will?”

He stopped, taken aback. What the hell was he doing out here? Why wasn’t he helping with the chase? A vague memory: Will had done something smart. He’d come out here hoping to intercept the escaping Jerry agents after they’d left the Admiralty. We’d compared notes later, during the postmortem of the incident. But there had been something else, too. My sense of relief became anxious dread, like a nagging itch that told me I was overlooking something.

I hesitated. Should I try to talk to Will before meeting Gretel? Could I convince him to see past the naval uniform, convince him that I was a warlock? Talk him into delivering all information about the other warlocks to me? I probably could. But not in thirty seconds. That was a longer conversation. And we would have had it by now, too, if Will had had enough common sense to peek into my cell when the coppers called him down.

But I would have to speak with Will at some point and gain his trust. That meant I couldn’t afford to let him see me with Gretel and Klaus.

Will asked, “Do I know you?”

I hated this, but it had to be done. I already owed Will a slew of apologies. Still more regrets: the burden of my song.
I wish I had listened to you. I’m sorry I turned my back when you needed help. I’m sorry I didn’t care when Milkweed destroyed you. I wish I had been a better friend.

Instead, I said, “I wish I didn’t have to do this,” and cracked him with the briefcase. I tried not to break his jaw. His head snapped around, he twisted at the waist, and then he collapsed like a sack of grain.

I took a moment to unfold his crumpled arms and legs, hoping he wouldn’t be out long enough to catch his death from lying on the damp parade ground. It was the least I could do, and I reckoned I owed him that much. I wondered what he would remember when he came to his senses, what he would report to the old man, what he would confide to his good friend Pip.

Itch, itch, at the back of my mind.

He would report he saw a strange man lurking outside the Admiralty building. A bearded man. With terrible scars. Who addressed Will by name.

Itch, itch, itch.

Damnation. I knew exactly what Will would say. He’d told me this story twenty-three years ago. Told me of his encounter with a ghostly figure in St. James’ Park. A ghostly figure who, I now realized, matched my description.

We had chalked it up as another side effect of the Eidolons. We’d seen stranger things in the Admiralty building over the course of that summer, while the warlocks negotiated night and day to keep the Channel impassable: spectral images, phantom odors, noises without any source. We’d thought the Ghost of St. James’ had been one of those.

But we were wrong.
I
was the Ghost of St. James’ Park.

My head reeled; pain flared in my knee. I had seen the ghost, too, albeit many months later. I thought back to that night, thought back to the figure I glimpsed in the shadows. Thought back to the ghostly figure who had pulled a gun and tried to shoot me in the knee.

What the hell had I been up to?

But I didn’t have time to pursue that line of reasoning, because just then I glimpsed two figures in the park. A man and a woman. Inside the Admiralty right now, my younger counterpart was cursing.

Klaus had stopped, nervously surveying their surroundings. Probably heard Will calling to me.

Gretel watched my approach without a hint of apprehension. If anything, the bitch looked delighted. I had seen her smile before, but never like this.

“It’s you,” she said. “You came for me.”

“It’s
you,
” I said.

We stared at each other. Sloe-eyed Gretel looked almost the same as the woman I’d last seen in ’63. This younger version even wore her hair the same way, in two long raven-black braids. The only difference were the touches of gray missing from her hair and the crow’s feet absent from the corners of her eyes. Her mannerisms, particularly the way she watched the world with an air of faintly condescending amusement, hadn’t changed at all. Wires spiraled around her braids and terminated in the battery at her waist.

Klaus whispered, “Gretel, do you know him? Who is he?”

She ignored him. Her eyes took in my beard, my scars. She had changed so little. But I …

The corner of her mouth quirked up. She said, “The beard suits you. Very rugged.”

Very funny, you bitch.
I’d heard that from her before.

“You know it all, don’t you? The entire chain of events that sent me here.”

Gretel said, “I remember all of it. Everything you did together. You and the other me.”

“
Together?
You—”

Klaus took her arm. In German, he said, “We have to go.” He added, with a nervous glance in my direction, “I assume this is why you came here. To meet him.”

She took my arm, hooked her elbow in mine. The fever heat of her body warmed my chilled skin, made it crawl. She grinned up at me. “Shall we?”

*

Traveling by taxi, Tube, or bus was out of the question. There was no conceivable way the three of us would pass unnoticed. Even at night. Klaus’s disguise did a decent job of hiding his wires from casual glances. But between my scars and her wires, Gretel and I might have escaped from a circus. Their German accents didn’t help. I could lose a tail and keep a reasonably low profile on my own. But the longer the three of us stayed in the open, the faster they’d find us. I didn’t trust Gretel to warn me of impending trouble. Who knew what she intended now.

But, for the moment, she did appear to be working toward the same or similar ends as I. So I did, grudgingly, trust her to pick out a car. I boosted it. We got away clean.

I hated myself for working with her. For relying on her ability. For not avenging Agnes. Again and again, I reminded myself that it was a necessary evil for the greater good. I promised myself I’d find justice. But I tasted ashes in those words.

Klaus rode in the back. His sister sat beside me, in the passenger seat. I couldn’t help remembering that the last time I drove with her; it had been through a London fallen under devastating attack. I kept one ear on the conversation flying back and forth between the siblings in a machine-gun patter of German.

Klaus asked, “Where are we going?”

“To meet a man who can help us,” Gretel said.

“We don’t need help. We can make the rendezvous on our own. But we’ll miss it if we keep wasting time.”

If Liv’s laughter was music, Gretel’s was fingernails on slate. “Dear, dear brother. You did read my letter, didn’t you? They’ll wait for us.”

“And who is he?” Klaus jerked his chin at me in the rear-vision mirror.

“A very dear friend.” Gretel patted my leg. I flinched so violently that we nearly went off the road. A lorry in the oncoming lane sounded off two short bursts of the horn. Gretel carried on, undaunted by my revulsion.

“He’s fucking hideous,” said Klaus. “He’ll draw attention.”

I said, “I’d like to point out, so there isn’t any confusion, that I can understand everything you’re saying. But if it makes things easier for you, I know about the U-boat. So please don’t speak in circles on my account.”

Klaus scowled. This younger version of him was more intense than the one I’d come to know. Twenty years in the gulag had made him more thoughtful.

“Is he really a naval officer?”

“I was.”
Not in a long bloody time, mate.

Klaus continued to address Gretel: “What is he now? A double agent? Does he work for the Schutzstaffel?”

What a nauseating suggestion. The very idea made me ill again, though I knew better than to deny it outright. But Klaus had a point: by participating in their escape, I was guilty of treason against the Crown. Or perhaps treachery, depending on whether time travelers counted as British subjects under the law.

Necessary evils, I reminded myself … I let the Queen of Evasions cover that question.

Gretel said, “He’s an ally. We can trust him.” She twisted in her seat to look at him. “Trust me. Please. This is important.” The “please” was a particularly nice touch. And it had the intended effect. Klaus piped down. He was, after all, still devoted to her in this stage of his life. Foolish bastard.

She settled back in her seat. I tensed as Gretel leaned closer, adopting a conspiratorial pose. “He worries about me. But he means well.”

“He wants to see my country ground into dust beneath SS jackboots.”

“Well, yes. What do you expect? But he means well for
me.
”

“Very touching. I’ll surely weep.”

“It is touching. Also frustrating.” She whispered, “We’ll have nearly the same argument again tomorrow morning.” She sighed, tossed a braid over her shoulder.

I drove our stolen car past the Walworth house. It was dark and shuttered, a hole in the night. Pangs of jealousy clawed at me, alternating with tremors of anger; I wondered where Liv had gone. Had she gone to one of her other lovers? The aftershave men?

Had she been doing this all along? Cuckolding me as far back as 1940?

But then I realized, with no small amount of shame, that the darkness arose from blackout curtains, not from vacancy. Liv’s affairs hadn’t begun until much later. After my anger and shame had pushed her away. After I failed to be there for her, after I became somebody other than the man she loved and needed. More than ever, I hated myself at that moment. Hated myself for being so unfair to Liv, then and now.

Of course Liv was home. Caring for their daughter while she waited patiently for her husband. As she’d always done. But her thrice-damned husband, the lucky sod, wouldn’t be home for a while. The aftermath of Gretel’s escape would see him and Stephenson scrambling to get a handhold on the situation. It wasn’t a fond memory.

But it meant Liv was alone. Even now I struggled with the temptation to go to her. If only she knew I was home. If only she know badly I needed her warmth, her affection, her approval.

I took the car around the corner, parked on the pavement, killed the engine. The spot gave me a line on the garden gate, past the curve of the Anderson shelter to the kitchen door. I didn’t need light to see these things. I knew the layout like I knew my own name.

“Why have we stopped?” said Klaus. Still to Gretel, still in German. Nobody answered his question.

We were in for a long wait. And I reckoned this was the only chance I’d have to try to suss out Gretel’s angle in this new time line. I watched her. A distant expression had settled over her face, part rapture, part concentration. The moonlight was too faint for me to read the gauge on her battery.

I said, “Do you—”

“Yes.” She didn’t open her eyes.

“Don’t do that.”

She said, “I was trying to save you effort.”

“I want you to know that I’m not doing this for you. I couldn’t care less if the Eidolons get you. Or me, for that matter.”

Exasperation in the backseat: “What the hell is an Eidolon?”

I continued, “You deserve to die screaming.”

“Hey!” The
click
of wires entering a battery. A ghostly fist emerged from my chest. Warning me. I froze. I didn’t dare breathe.

“Klaus.” Gretel raised one hand, sharply. A pause. He withdrew. Another
click.

She turned. Moonlight glinted on the whites of her eyes, and just for a moment I thought I could see something else lurking in those depths. But the shadows of her madness didn’t unnerve me. Not I, who had been disassembled and reassembled by the Eidolons more than once. Who had spoken to the Eidolons directly when they took the guise of my son.

“You’re still angry,” she said. “You hate the thought of working with me.” She patted my leg again. “Aren’t we the strangest of bedfellows?”

Again I flinched away from her feverish touch. “If this is to work, it has to happen in two parts, simultaneously. I can handle things here with the Eidolons and their … brokers.” Now it was my turn to speak in circles around Klaus. “But I won’t move against them unless it’s safe to do so. I’d rather let the Eidolons take it all than condemn my daughter to growing up in the Thousand-Year Reich.”