Necessary Evil (Milkweed Triptych) (24 page)

“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.

Something jostled Will. It dragged him into wakefulness, where the last echoes of a sonorous rumble still lingered in his ears.

Awareness slowly percolated through his cottony mind. His mouth was open. He’d been snoring. Hard enough to rouse himself. That only happened when he was knackered beyond words. Which he had been, after weeks of traveling back and forth across the United Kingdom.

He cracked one eye. Pale light limned the bedroom shades. Morning, then. But early. And he hadn’t slept in a decent bed since leaving London. He closed his eye, rolled over, sank back into warm silk sheets.

Knock knock knock.

Damned woodpecker. Will pulled a pillow over his head.

Woodpecker?

He pushed the pillow aside. Listened. It came again, a few moments later. Tapping. Or knocking. But it was too early for visitors.

Knock knock knock.
Too early for polite visitors.

He’d already given the issue too much thought. His mind was waking up, even if his body wasn’t. Nothing to do for it but answer the door. He slid out of bed, grabbed his robe from the back of the chair over which he’d thrown it all those weeks ago, and shuffled for the stairs.

Knock.
“Just one moment, please,” Will called.

He hoped, halfheartedly, that it might be Marsh at the door. Perhaps the whole thing had been a misunderstanding.

Will had gone immediately to Marsh’s house after the conversation with Stephenson. Nobody answered the door. He’d lingered in Walworth, endured a perfectly mediocre supper at a pub not far away, then returned. But neither Marsh nor Liv, nor Agnes for that matter, were present. He’d begun to worry in earnest. Until that point he’d been able to convince himself that Stephenson had been somehow mistaken. The street hosted a handful of parked cars; Will had wondered if one of those belonged to the SIS surveillance team, and if so, whether it would be worth trying to speak with somebody. In the end he’d decided against it and resolved to return in the morning.

No, it wouldn’t be Marsh. Stephenson, perhaps. He was ex-military, wasn’t he? Early risers, those types. Someone from the Admiralty? One of the warlocks? Aubrey? A very persistent and very upset Aubrey? Will sighed.

He pulled the robe around himself and drew a deep breath, expecting to find Stephenson, a warlock, or a grim-faced Duke of Aelred.

What he didn’t expect to find was the man who had attacked him in St. James’ Park.

*

My God. He looked so young.

By ’63—when Gretel came back, when everything went to hell—I hadn’t seen Will in the flesh for nigh on twenty years or so. We’d both aged by then. He a little better than me. Money can do that for you. But still there’d been creases beneath his eyes, and a weariness within them. Milkweed had made its indelible mark upon him, stamped his clay and tossed him into the kiln. Years of hard living after the war etched that mark more deeply. And though he’d made up for it later with a decade or more of the pampered life he’d been born to, the look in Will’s eyes had never fully recovered.

But the Will Beauclerk standing before me now was nothing but fresh clay. Clean, unblemished, naïve clay. I’d expected this to be easier than meeting myself, easier than meeting young Liv again. It wasn’t.

This was the original Will. The real Will. The cheerful Will. My long-forgotten friend. It was difficult not to break into a smile. The pleasure at seeing him again hit hard. I realized just how badly I’d missed him, realized again just how acute my loneliness had become. And I accepted, truly accepted for the first time, what a right bastard I’d been to this man. Including when I’d walloped him in the park a few weeks ago.

He remembered. A flicker of recognition played across his face. His gaze alternated between my scars and my uniform. Was I a warlock or a sailor?

Will rubbed his jaw. He straightened, wrapped himself in indignation. “I don’t know who you are, sir, but I have half a mind to—”

“My name is Lieutenant-Commander Liddell-Stewart. I’m here to talk with you about Milkweed.”

Will blinked. Crumbs of sleep had dusted the corners of his eyes. A second too late, he protested, “I don’t—”

I bulled past him. Last time I’d been here, this flat had been the home of an alcoholic and a morphine addict. Not this time. This was the unremarkable home of an incorrigible bachelor and sometime rake. No clothes on the floor, no piles of old papers, no dishes and cutlery piled on the settee. No noisome squalor. Just Will, spluttering.

“I’m quite impressed,” I said, parroting something said to me long, long ago. “When you cock something up, you do it good and proper.”

Will managed, “What?” It came out sounding strangled.

“Milkweed, son. It’s barely set sail, hardly past the jetty, and already you’ve found a way to sink it.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Well, he was trying. I had to give him credit.

“Oh, come off it. I know Milkweed better than you. I know you work for John Stephenson. I know you were recruited by an agent named Raybould Marsh. I know the Admiralty was recently compromised by one of von Westarp’s progeny. And, more to the point, I know you’ve just returned after several weeks spent tracking down every warlock you could find. The end result being that you’ve let a half-dozen complete strangers in on Britain’s most important secret.”

“Why don’t we back up a bit, shall we? Because you’ve conveniently omitted the part where you assaulted me. In fact, I think I’m going to call the police.” He reached for the telephone on the end table in the entryway.

“I wasn’t assaulting you. I was saving your life.”

Not true, but at least it stopped him. His hand hovered over the receiver. “You nearly broke my jaw.”

I said, “If you had accosted the Jerries when they came through the park, it would have been a fatal mistake. There was more to that evening than you realize.” Profoundly true, that bit. “Think about how easily they orchestrated that rescue. They must have had help from inside the Admiralty. And if you’d given chase, it’s highly likely the traitor would have killed you.”

“This is absurd,” said Will. “There were only four of us at the time. Do you truly expect me to believe that Stephenson is a traitor? Or Lorimer? Or Marsh? You don’t know that man at all, if that’s what you believe.”

Well. That was touching. Christ, it was good to see him.

“It could have been anybody in the Admiralty building. Or in SIS. But the point remains. Milkweed’s operations have been compromised. And you’ve managed to make the problem worse.”

“I’d have to say the most suspicious character in our little drama thus far is you. A complete stranger, to use your phrase.” He lifted the telephone receiver.

I sighed. “Don’t be such a fool. A mole has to be inconspicuous. Do I look like a fellow who passes unnoticed everywhere he goes?”

Will frowned. “Are you…” He glanced at my hands.

“No. I’m not one of your warlocks.” That’s what I would have claimed a month ago. And I could have pulled it off, as long as I sidestepped the Enochian. But now, after his recent adventures, Will was probably the foremost expert on the history of warlocks in the UK. “But that’s the point. How much do you truly know about those men?”

*

There was something familiar about the wretched fellow. He reminded Will of John Stephenson, if the old man’s personality had been dragged by its ankles through a slurry of broken glass and vinegar. Same with his voice.

Will shook his head, trying to cast off the last cobwebs of sleep. He desperately wanted tea.

“Look,” he said. “If you’re so knowledgeable, you must understand how badly we need their help. Without the Eidolons, we haven’t a prayer of holding back von Westarp’s brood. I mean, my God, man. Have you seen that film?”

The commander rasped, “Yes. Yes I have.”

A warning Klaxon went off inside Will’s mind while a chill raised goose pimples on his arms. Prior to the escape, only five people had seen the film: Marsh, Will, Lorimer, Stephenson, and the PM. And then the reel had disappeared. So when did this fellow see it?

Will decided not to point out the discrepancy. Not yet. Not while this stranger was inside Will’s home, close enough to shoot or stab or even strangle Will. He’d already demonstrated his willingness to use violence. Will tried to hide his anxiety, gauging his chances of making it out the door while the commander continued.

“I repeat. Milkweed has been compromised. The ease of the prisoner’s escape should tell you just how badly.” He paused. “And I assume you know about the vault?”

Now how in the world could he know about that? Well, he’d know if he’d been the one doing the pilfering.…

“How do I know you’re not behind that?”

But the commander ignored him. “The Reichsbehörde has been playing us since the beginning. Since Marsh returned from Spain with that damnable film.”

He spoke with the fervor of a fanatic. His claims were slightly absurd. And he knew a staggering amount.

*

I was getting through. I could see it. He didn’t trust me—nor should he—but I had his attention.

Will asked, “Do you mean to say that the creation of Milkweed is all part of Hitler’s master plan?”

“Not Hitler’s, but a plan, yes. A very thorough, very dangerous plan.” Gretel’s plan. But I skirted that issue. Didn’t want to get lost in a long digression about the Nazi oracle. “And that’s why you’re going to be my eyes and ears within the warlocks.”

“Aha. I see. For what, exactly, shall I be watching?”

“Anything unusual. Anything out of the ordinary.”

Will laughed. I knew the man, knew it wasn’t intended unkindly. But people of his station had a way about them, a way of turning the tiniest gesture into a class statement. And so it was with him now. Gentle condescension.

“I’d say that sums up everything the warlocks do. It’s their raison d’être.”

“Tell me something, Wi—” I caught myself. “—Lord William. If Hargreaves and the rest launched into negotiations on behalf of Milkweed today, how confident are you they couldn’t slip something past you? Some peculiarity of Enochian grammar, or a snippet of vocabulary not in your grandfather’s lexicon?”

I’d surprised him again. But he conceded the point.

He said, “You think there may be traitors among them.”

“We must be aware of the possibility.”

Will asked, “How do you know I’m not the traitor?”

My doppelgänger had asked the same question. I gave the same answer. “You aren’t.”

This Will, the Will of 1940, was poised to endure terrible things for King and Country. And he had. Only much later had he sold us out to the Soviets.

He said, “I would be a traitor if I did as you say. You speak of turncoats and spies, yet you’d have me be one of them!”

It was easy to underestimate Will. Easy to forget there was more to him than just another chinless toff. He was Milkweed’s guilty conscience. He would betray the project, if he believed it was the right thing to do. And I knew how to push him there. I knew the shape of the dark worries that scurried through the back of his mind even now.

“Tell me something else. Have you spoken with Stephenson about the blood prices yet?”

He blinked, fell silent. Quietly, warily, he said, “What could you possibly know about that?”

That’s when I knew I’d set the hook. Yes, Will was concerned. He’d seen the shape of things to come. And even if he hadn’t yet admitted it to himself, he desperately wanted an ally in the ethical firestorm to come.

“You’ve spent so much time recruiting those men. Surely you have a plan in mind for what to do when the negotiations begin. Something humane, something sensible.”

Will said nothing. But he looked at me as though I’d just read his mind.

I said, “Mark my words, Lord William. Stephenson won’t go for your hospital idea. It will be worse. Much worse.”

“I don’t believe you,” he whispered. Did he look pale, or was that my overeager imagination?

“You might change your tune after they’ve trained you in planting explosives.” Will looked appalled. But I kept the pressure on. “Let me guess. You suggested blood banks, but Stephenson waved it aside. He cited concerns about leaving a paper trail.”

He chewed on this for a long moment. Then he looked at me again, squinting. “Who are you?”

I said, “Just think about what I’ve told you. And don’t let the warlocks engage in any activities without first reporting their plans to me.” I stood. “I’ll check in regularly.”

And together, with you as my cat’s-paw, we’ll keep them from doing anything whatsoever.

Will said, “Excuse me, but don’t you think you’re being just a bit overconfident? You’re making some rather stunning assumptions about me.”

God bless him, the man was trying so hard.

“You’ll come around.”

“I am not remotely comfortable with this conversation.”

“Unnecessary.” I stood. “Just keep your mouth shut and your eyes open.”

*

Will followed the commander to the door. The rising sun was a smear of light in a thin, gray sky.

The commander paused on the landing. “Your bell is broken, by the way. You ought to mend that.” He donned his hat. “Good morning.”

He was doing this intentionally. Leaving before Will could get his thoughts in order. Before he could start asking questions. The older man trotted down the stairs. But there was one thing Will had to know immediately.