Necessary Evil (Milkweed Triptych) (22 page)

And so I told myself I was being smart. Whatever her intentions toward Liv and Agnes, I knew Gretel wouldn’t let anything happen to me. After all, I was her savior.

That meant Liv and Agnes were safe as long as they were with me. I’d make certain they wouldn’t leave London if the bombs came. They’d be under my umbrella. As long as we were in the same city, I could protect them from Gretel.

Just until her husband returns,
I constantly reminded myself.
This is an illusion, this oasis of domesticity.
It couldn’t last. He’d come back, and then she’d be his forever and ever. But if he didn’t return … No. I refused to acknowledge the evil thoughts that smoldered like banked coals in the fire pit of my soul.

What had Gretel done to me?

Things would be well again. If I could stave off the growing compulsion to confess everything to Liv. If I could suppress the urge to reveal myself. If I could overcome the jealousy I felt toward her husband.

I handed Agnes back to Liv, whose face had grown long with pity and compassion.

She hesitated. Asked, “Won’t you stay for supper?”

If I could resist the temptation to come home.

6 June 1940

Reichsbehörde für die Erweiterung germanischen Potenzials

Along with the major objectives of Marsh’s mission—destroy the farm, destroy the records—Liddell-Stewart had included one particularly strange requirement. Marsh didn’t know why the commander wanted a blood sample from one of the Twins, but the abrasive codger had been insistent.

Marsh knew the request must have had something to do with the Eidolons. He remembered how Will had shed his own blood to draw their attention, and how he’d used a sample of Gretel’s blood to show her to them. But at the time, Marsh had been more concerned by the mechanics of the order than by the twisted logic behind it. The problem, as explained by the commander, was that the Twins had been deployed in the field. And he didn’t know where.

Marsh had been prepared to write it off. Bad enough he still hadn’t a clue how to scuttle the Reichsbehörde records stored in Berlin. He couldn’t orchestrate that, and the destruction of the farm,
and
accommodate the commander’s eccentric addendum. Not when the targets could have been anywhere in the world.

But Gretel had taken care of that. And so the strangest of Liddell-Stewart’s demands also became the easiest to fulfill. Not simple, but straightforward.

He watched the Twin as much as he could manage. He tried to note the frequency of her visits to the loo, though it was difficult to watch her that closely. But it didn’t take much attention to he see how much time Pabst spent alone with her. Ostensibly the debriefing sessions were used to retrieve information from her sister. But more than once Marsh heard the faint, rhythmic squeaking of wooden table legs across a tile floor, or the jangle of a belt buckle. Followed afterwards, of course, by the smell of sex, and the glimmer of tears in mismatched eyes.

Marsh had been at the farm three weeks. Today his menial task was to keep Kammler occupied while a trio of technicians readied the morning’s test. Buhler lounged in the shade behind the icehouse, waiting for the test to begin. He spent no more time with Kammler than he had to.

Clouds drifted across a patchwork sky. Hot sunlight accompanied a breeze cool enough to make the shadows uncomfortable. It rustled oak leaves in the forest and fluttered swastika banners atop the farmhouse. Marsh didn’t mind the chill; the wind washed away the sour-milk scent of Kammler. Off to the west, a line of lower, darker clouds made a strategic advance upon the farm. Rain by lunchtime.

Mundane soldiers dumped fine golden sand from a supply truck into a pit in a distant corner of the training field. Reinhardt oversaw their work. Wind tore the falling sand into sheets and ribbons. It carried across the field to Marsh and stung his eyes with grit. Kammler seemed not to notice. But Marsh tugged at the larger man’s arm, turned his face out of the wind.

“Here. This should be better for you,” he said.

“Mmmmmm. Muh,” said Kammler.

That was new. He usually said, “Buh.” Which was as close as he could come to pronouncing “Buhler.”

Marsh felt grateful that he didn’t have to use the leash. But they only fastened the collar on Kammler when he had a battery, and they didn’t let Marsh near the telekinetic when that was the case. Buhler, for his part, relied heavily upon the choke collar.

Marsh kept up a steady string of encouragements and kindnesses. No reason to expect Kammler understood any of it. But it made the imbecile familiar with Marsh’s voice and manner. It achieved, superficially at least, a sense of comfort and familiarity. And it kept the large fellow calm.

From his vantage alongside Kammler, Marsh watched Pabst escort the Twin from the mess hall into the farmhouse, and, undoubtedly, the debriefing room. He wondered where her sister had been deployed, and whether it was strategically important enough to justify the standartenführer’s constant need to question the girl.

You fucking pig,
he thought.
I won’t have any qualms about plugging you when the time comes. Your victim, though …
He didn’t like thinking about what he’d have to do to Kammler, either, when the time came.

As always, von Westarp oversaw everything from his study while the technicians arranged cameras and equipment for Kammler’s test. They struggled with dollies and jacks to spread a half-dozen rusty metal-bound crates across the field. Heavy things, too, judging from the way the ground shook each time they rolled a box from the dolly. Looked like they were planning to stretch Kammler’s limits by making him focus on multiple objects.

Good luck,
thought Marsh. Meanwhile, Kammler picked his nose and rubbed a hand across his shaven scalp.

The technicians made final adjustments to the cameras. Pabst emerged from the farmhouse. He slammed the door hard enough that the
bang
made Kammler jump. The colonel stalked across the field toward Reinhardt’s sandbox.

Marsh thought,
Oh, ho. Got tired of you, did she?

But he saw no scratches on the colonel’s face, nothing to suggest she’d resisted him. She didn’t dare. Pabst had changed his mind. And didn’t look happy about it. But he’d been as eager as ever to have it off with her not ten minutes ago.

What could snuff a man’s ardor like that? There were times, a few particular days out of each month, when he and Liv didn’t … Pangs of regret, fear, and loneliness speared him in the chest and stole his breath.
Oh, Liv.

He shoved aside the gnawing ache in his mind and heart. Concentrated. This was his opportunity to fulfill one of Liddell-Stewart’s goals.

Marsh watched the techs from the corner of an eye made rough with grit and wind. One of the men made final checks to the camera arrangement. He nodded to the others, then called to Buhler. The hauptsturmführer levered himself to his feet and slung Kammler’s leash over one shoulder. His footsteps left trails in the dewy grass as he approached.

Marsh made a show of inspecting Kammler. “God damn it,” he said, loud enough for Buhler to hear before he came too close.

Buhler said, “What?”

“He pissed himself again.” Marsh reached up to Kammler’s neck and fished the long wires out from under his shirt. He shook the bare copper connectors, as though flicking away beads of moisture. Then, for good measure, he frowned in disgust and wiped his hands on Kammler’s shirt. “It’s everywhere.”

“That’s why,” said Buhler, “you’re supposed to take him to the bathroom before we start a test. Now we have to wait.” He shook his head. “You’re worse than Kammler. At least he has an excuse.” He sauntered back to the shade.

Marsh tugged at Kammler’s wrist. “Sorry about that,” he whispered. “Let’s go inside for a minute.”

The farmhouse had two lavatories. Von Westarp’s study had its own en suite accommodation. His children shared a single facility on the ground floor. Support staff used the outlying buildings. Past renovations to the farmhouse had included an upgrade to the plumbing, but only halfway. There were several sinks but still only one toilet—and that in sore need of cleaning (no doubt they’d hand that task to Marsh as soon as somebody thought of it). It allowed several people to shave or brush their teeth simultaneously, but gave no privacy to anybody who otherwise needed to use the facility. But they’d been raised without such expectations, and thus understood nothing else.

To his credit, Kammler knew what the bathroom meant. He pushed his pants down and shuffled toward the toilet with his trousers around his ankles.

Marsh knelt on the hard tiles beside the rubbish bin. He took care when reaching into the bin, not knowing what he might find. The nub of a pencil. An empty tube of dentifrice. The cold, wet trail where somebody had blown their nose on a serviette. Something hard; a chip from the handle of a cheap straight razor.

And, shoved near the bottom, a wad of bloody linen. Marsh fished it out. The material was still tacky with clotted blood. He gave it a sniff. Menstrual.

It might have been Gretel’s, or Heike’s, but given what he’d seen of the sudden change in Pabst’s behavior—

The door opened. Reinhardt barged in. He froze, taking in the scene: Kammler standing over the toilet with his pants down, mumbling to himself; Marsh hunched over the rubbish bin, studying a bloody rag.

Marsh froze, too.
He can’t possibly understand what I’m doing,
he thought.
Whatever he makes of this, it won’t be the truth.

He fished around for a quick and plausible explanation, but Reinhardt obviated it with barking laughter. “I knew it! You fucking pervert.” He pointed at Marsh. “I knew there was something wrong about you the moment Gretel brought you home. Anybody who’d willingly make himself her pet had to be bent.”

Reinhardt went to the toilet and pushed Kammler aside. Unbuckling his belt, he said, “Is that Gretel’s discharge? No, no, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” He voided his bladder. Over the loud ring of water on porcelain, he added, “You two are even more disgusting than I’d imagined.”

Marsh shoved the moist linen into his pocket while Reinhardt had his back turned. Reinhardt shook, rebuckled, pulled the chain to empty the bowl. Marsh re-dressed Kammler while Reinhardt washed his hands.

“Englishman, you’ve made my morning,” said the salamander. He departed, still chuckling to himself. Marsh led Kammler back outside, a sample of the Twin’s blood tucked firmly in his pocket.

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.