Lammas Night (46 page)

“Yes, sir, sometime after two.”

“Humph. We'll see.”

Graham just about determined that the long silence that followed was a dismissal, but then the man laid both hands on the rail and threw his head back to squint up at the sun, casting a faint smile in Graham's direction before putting glasses to the horizon again.

“Incidentally, Gray, how would you fancy having your captain and his ship sent back to flotilla HQ for a few days when you're finished?” came the low-voiced question. “He could get a train south from there and be home in a few hours. I believe I might spare him until after the first if you think that might help.”

Graham closed his eyes briefly and allowed himself a faint sigh of relief at the sheer offhandedness of it all. He had wondered how he was going to get Selwyn back to Oakwood for the Lammas working and had more or less resigned himself to his chief's absence until receipt of Dieter's message. Now this remarkable man had turned all of that around with a few well-chosen words.

“I think it might help a great deal, sir,” he whispered. “And thank you very much.”

By the time Graham returned to London that night, he had dodged several German air raids, both on the convoy and in the Sunderland, en route home. He found Ashcroft and Basilby working late when he checked in at his office, with no progress to report on their elusive Thulists, so he went on to his flat and poured himself a stiff drink before ringing William. He was astonished to learn that the prince's day had been hardly less eventful than his own.

“Bertie and I went to Portsmouth to inspect the ships and barracks, and we had a gigantic air-raid warning,” William told him gleefully. “We had to wait in an underground shelter until the ‘all-clear.' The raid never did happen, but I think we must have been a great trial to Bertie's security people. While they were all worrying about what would happen if a bomb fell near the King, Bertie and I were enjoying our cigarettes and making jokes!”

William was in such good spirits as he recounted his adventure, close to the action at last, that Graham could not bear to spoil it by intimations of danger that might never materialize. Graham shrugged off his own activities of the past thirty-six hours with vague hints of intelligence matters that were best not discussed over the telephone and left it at that. His impending absence over the weekend elicited no particular reaction from William other than the remark that perhaps they might dine together sometime early the next week, since William's Friday schedule was utterly impossible.

Graham could only conclude that the prince had taken his experience of last Tuesday totally in stride and felt no urgent need to talk more about it, for which Graham was exceedingly grateful. Much relieved, he rang off to get some much-needed sleep and spent Friday catching up on the week's more general war developments.

From his own experience in Selwyn's convoy, it was clear that Channel shipping raids had increased dramatically in the past few weeks. Enemy action had escalated all along the Channel coast, with Dover being especially hard hit. In an effort to seal off the major British ports of Plymouth and Portland as well as Dover and Portsmouth, the Luftwaffe stepped up their bombing strategy all along the southeastern seaboard, with mine-laying runs night after night along the Thames and Severn estuaries in particular. RAF reconnaissance continued to note the steady buildup of ships and other materiel in French ports for a possible invasion force. Reports leaked from agents close to the German high command confirmed that plans for
Seelöwe
—Operation Sealion—were still going forward.

Graham's plans to stop
Seelöwe
were still going forward, too, though he had not counted on having to take time out to deal with Dieter. Denton drove him to Oakwood early Saturday morning to advise Alix of developments. She, in turn, assured him that everything else about Lammas was going smoothly. By three, he and Denton were airborne and headed out over the Channel to hunt for Selwyn, with a different air crew from either of Graham's two previous flights.

Finding Selwyn's ship proved more difficult than Graham had envisioned, for the weather worsened the farther out they went. Low-roiling thunder clouds churned the air and made the flying very rough. Even when they sighted the destroyer, Graham feared he and Denton might never be able to board it. He asked about the possibility of parachuting down if all else failed, but the horrified looks on the faces of the Sunderland crew answered his query.

“You'd never make it, sir, even if you managed to get clear of the aircraft,” one of the flight crew told him. “You'd drown before they could pick you up.”

But their intrepid Sunderland skipper finally found a hole in the weather and set them down less than a quarter mile from the ship. He was in the air again before the whaler sent to fetch his passengers was even halfway back. He circled for several minutes to see them safely aboard, then signaled,
“Ta-Ta,”
with his Aldis lamp before heading west for clearer skies. Graham spared a few seconds to watch the aircraft disappear into the twilight before following Selwyn and Denton below to the captain's cabin, thinking of Richard and Geoffrey.

The next hours seemed to crawl as the ship changed course and steamed east toward her midnight rendezvous, but they entered calmer waters. While Graham and Denton ate a meal washed down with mugs of steaming cocoa, Selwyn briefed them on the procedures that would be followed for making their German contact and then left them alone to catch a little sleep. He woke them at half-past eleven, taking Denton topside with him to escort their expected guest.

Graham left the lights off and watched through a spy slot in one shielded porthole until the small, pale blur of an inflatable dinghy had come alongside and disappeared from his line of vision. After securing the porthole, he turned on the lights and paced for several minutes, thinking about the German U-boat out there and the consequences if Dieter had set them up. As the tiny clock by Selwyn's bunk chimed the quarter hour, he sat warily in Selwyn's chair, at the head of the table. Soon he heard footsteps approaching.

Graham stiffened slightly, but he did not rise as Selwyn ushered in a man of similar height and build wearing a ski mask and dark oilskins that dripped on the pale-green carpeting. The newcomer paused just inside the door to stare at Graham, to give the room a cursory inspection, then pulled off the mask and continued on into the room, shedding his outer garments as he came. Graham caught just a glimpse of Denton taking up position outside as Selwyn closed the door behind them and leaned pointedly against it, arms crossed over his chest, pale eyes unreadable beneath his peaked naval cap. Dieter ran a hand nervously over close-cropped fair hair and tried a shallow smile.

“Well, David, you didn't tell me your second-in-command had become so dour of late,” he said with a slight Austrian accent, tossing his oilskins negligently on a chair and glancing back at Selwyn. “Why don't you offer me a drink and we'll sit down and discuss it like gentlemen?”

“You'll have to take that up with Gray,” Selwyn replied. “In this particular operation, he's in charge. I'm only providing the meeting place.”

Dieter, poised, aristocratic, and far younger looking than his fifty-plus years, raised one almost invisible eyebrow and pursed his lips.

“I see,” he said after a moment. “So that's the way it's to be, is it?”

“Did you expect some other reception?” Selwyn retorted coldly.

As Dieter turned back to Graham, raising both palms in query, Graham tossed a pile of oversized photographs on the table between him and the German. Dieter's face went very still as he recognized his own image on the top print. After a few seconds, he signed and nodded, moving slowly toward the table and the chair at Graham's right.

“May I sit?” he asked, elegant hands resting lifelessly along the back of the chair.

Graham inclined his head. “If you wish.”

“Thank you.”

When Dieter had taken his seat, Selwyn came around and sat on Graham's other side, tossing his cap on an empty chair and unbuttoning his mac. Dieter offered a silver cigarette case around, and when refused, shrugged and lit up for himself, inhaling several long, steadying lungfuls of smoke. After a moment, he reached across and turned the top photo face down on the rest of the stack, his pale eyes touching both of them.

“I'm not proud of that,” he murmured, breathing out smoke. “God knows, I'd hoped you'd realize that. It was the only way I could infiltrate Sturm.”

“By killing an innocent man in cold blood?” Graham asked.

Dieter took another slow, careful pull at his cigarette and studied Graham over its top through narrowed eyes, nodding slowly as he exhaled. “That's right. The same way you undoubtedly killed the unfortunate Mr. Wells—in cold blood.”

“What makes you think I had anything to do with Wells?” Graham said softly, refusing to rise to the bait. “As I heard it, Wells died in a car crash. Where did you hear otherwise?”

A grim smile flickered across Dieter's lips, but it did not light his eyes. “Let's not play games, shall we, Graham? I don't have all the facts because Wells never got to report what he found out at that meeting, but I know who was supposed to be there, and I know that your Duke of Clarence hosted it. I also know that you have been involved up to your eye teeth in whatever is going on. Sturm knows all of this as well. If you're interested, I can tell you what Sturm is planning for August first as a foil to what David's—pardon me—
your
group is planning. I can also tell you what plans Sturm has for your precious duke. Now, did you come here to listen to me, or did you come to moralize and make accusations?”

If Dieter had expected a reaction out of either of them, he was disappointed. Graham stared back unblinking for several seconds—though it was not for want of shock—then shifted his gaze slowly and deliberately to Selwyn, just as deliberately back to Dieter. As he had hoped, Selwyn was not giving any clues, either.

“Very well, we're listening.”

Dieter inclined his head in mocking parody of Graham's earlier gesture, shifting indolently in his chair.

“Thank you. I shan't belabor you with justifications that you won't believe, anyway. Suffice it to say that I've done what I've done for a greater good which meets my own criteria of morality. I did not expect it to be complicated the way it has been.”

He drew at his cigarette again, searching for words.

“Your concern, however, lies with the success of what you plan for Lammas and the fate of your Duke of Clarence,” he went on. “Because of Wells's information—whether true or not—plus other intelligence which has been made known to Sturm from other sources since then, Sturm believes that Clarence is behind a powerful and concerted British effort to strike at the Führer magically on Lammas night.”

“Quite apart from the fact that Clarence is not involved, one must wonder how Sturm found out something was happening Lammas night,” Graham muttered darkly. “Wells never knew that—but you did.”

“You think I told Sturm?” Dieter blew smoke derisively. “My dear fellow, it's the next major Sabbat. Everyone knows that. You must admit there was a certain urgency about your duke's little meetings—only a week's advance notice for royal invitations? Given the third guest list, what other conclusion was possible?”

He smiled. “On the other hand, who would have thought it possible that your Clarence would be behind such a thing? I, knowing what I do of your Royal Family and of your own scruples, think the entire scenario highly unlikely, but nonetheless, Sturm believes that it is so. I have not misapprised him of this notion.”

“No, you're perfectly willing to let ‘my Clarence' take the heat to save your own neck,” Graham retorted.

“To protect my own cover for a while longer, yes. Because with my help, there is another way to handle this which could save him and incidentally accomplish both our goals.

“Which way is that?” Selwyn asked suspiciously. “And what possible goals could we have in common anymore?”

“Just this. The Führer is presently under the not inconsiderable protection of Sturm. Thanks to your very inconvenient Mr. Wells,
Magister
Sturm now expects a direct attack against the Führer on Lammas night, spearheaded by your duke—which means that Sturm will almost certainly detect and counter
any
magical working aimed at Hitler on that night, whether direct or indirect. Thus, your very well planned effort, while it might well have accomplished a great deal had it remained unanticipated, now stands little hope of going undetected—unless Sturm is given something else to think about.”

“Just what kind of a ‘something' did you have in mind?” Graham asked. “Yet another betrayal?”

Dieter gave a crooked little smile. “You anticipate me, colonel, though not in the way you suspect. I propose that since Sturm
expects
a direct attack, he should
receive
a direct attack—not against the Führer but an attack against
himself
. From
me
.”

“What the—”

“Please hear me out!” Dieter snapped, leaning forward to point with the butt end of his cigarette. “Only Sturm's death can ensure that the Führer is vulnerable to what the rest of Britain's enlightened ones will be working toward on Lammas night. I am not joking, David. I say ‘the rest' because I must ask you of the Oakwood family to assist me if we are to be certain of killing Sturm. It is also the only way to keep your royal duke from danger,” he added, looking from Selwyn to Graham hopefully.

Dieter's sheer audacity so stunned Graham for the first few seconds that he could only stare aghast. That the man could actually expect them to work with him and trust him, after consorting so deeply with the very man he now claimed ready to betray, left him speechless. Not so, Selwyn.