Look Behind You (The Order of the Silver Star) (3 page)

The
dědek
bowed low again and retired to stand among his fellows while O’Donoghue called for a herald and for servants to attend the refugees. Then the
dědek
who had spoken left with the herald while the others were led away to guest quarters.

Niamh shook her head and looked at her father. “I don’t understand. Why would a mortal need to place a thrall like that? Sure and he could have used other means.”

O’Donoghue sighed. “That he could, my dear. Something is wrong here, very wrong. No man should seek that kind of power over another. Why he wants it is a disturbing enough question; where he’s getting it from… to say nothing of what he plans to do with it hereafter….”

“What should we do?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps Oberon will.”

But Oberon didn’t know, and neither did their peers on the Continent. They opened their doors to refugees from Bohemia, but for much of the year, the mood was one of watchful waiting. Even when more worrying reports arrived regarding the SS actively seeking converse with the Unseelies and possibly casting spells on visiting diplomats like that Sassenach dunce Neville Chamberlain, the fairies had too little information to justify going to war.

Then a fresh wave of refugees arrived from Poland just before the fall equinox, bringing reports that Hitler’s command to attack that nation had not included only conventional weaponry. The Luftwaffe’s bombs, in particular, were laced with curses. The delivery method left quite a lot to be desired, if one had any investment in seeing the curses have full effect, but why would Hitler even attempt such a thing?

Debates raged in the Faërie courts all through the fall and winter and into the spring, just as they raged in mortal halls of government. But the question for the fairies was not whether Hitler ought to be stopped—the answer to that was obviously yes—but whether or not the Fair Folk ought to get involved. Even when curse-laden bombs began falling on London, the courts were split between those who thought the war was only a mortal concern and those who feared that the Germans were crossing too far into extra-mortal danger. Oberon’s court and the refugees they harbored did go to work dispelling curses through the course of the Blitz, but most of the Tuatha Dé still could not see their way clear to involve themselves in a mortal war.

Then, perhaps one raid shy of achieving his goal, Hitler called off the Blitz. That puzzled everyone.

“The queer thing,” Oberon said when next he met with O’Donoghue, “is that the warlocks seemed to be getting desperate several weeks ago. The curses were stronger, though very often the spell-work was sloppy. Some of them could have killed thousands if they’d been done right; as it was, they might have killed a dozen each, scarce more than the bomb itself. But the mistakes weren’t consistent.”

O’Donoghue frowned. “Slap-dash, then—hasty work.”

“Aye. That points to fear.”

“But what would they have to be afraid
of
? Sure and they can’t have known your lot were there.”

“No, and they cannae have known that we were the reason the earlier spells were failing, not after the poor showing in Poland. They cannae even have had time to test the spells properly to make sure they really worked, or that they still worked after the evils of the last war marred so much in France.”

The two kings looked at each other, absolutely stumped. What could have caused the Germans to panic so?

#####

2
Saxons

#####

*****

A few days after the fall of Paris, Christoph Schneider, alias Major Eric Engelbrecht of Luftwaffe Intelligence, OSS codename Hercules, strolled through the darkening streets of Königsee toward the Rathskeller and hoped against hope that one of the back tables—or better yet, one of the screened booths—would be free. He was grateful for the chance to get out of Berchtesgaden for a few hours, but he hated having rendezvous in public places. He’d looked normal enough back in the Hill Country; his brown hair and bow-legged first baseman’s build weren’t too far from the norm over here, either, nor was his 6'1" height. But the green eyes and freckles that were the only evidence of the MacDougal listed in the family Bible four or five generations back made him stand out here in Germany. And while that wasn’t much of a problem in his day-to-day role as a member of Goering’s staff, now primarily in the Luftwaffe headquarters in Paris, civilians… got curious.

Some days he really wished he’d proposed to one of those girls he’d dated back in Lubbock so his cover story of having a girlfriend wouldn’t have to be a lie. He’d initially considered stealing Matt’s identity as a widower before realizing that that kind of sob story might make women
more
likely to throw themselves at him, not less.

Not that it would do any good to complain. His contact, Nimrod, was also his superior on both sides of the English Channel, as well as his supposed uncle. They ought to be safe enough if seen together, so there wasn’t really a valid reason for Chris to object other than the state of his own nerves. And Chris did want to
have
the meeting. He’d been curious ever since Nimrod cornered him immediately upon arrival at Berchtesgaden that morning and told him they needed to talk tonight. The fact that the top brass had had a meeting with the Mexican consul that afternoon, which Chris lacked the clearance to attend, and that Goering and Goebbels had left cracking jokes about
den Texanischen Teufel
had only piqued that curiosity further. Odds were that Nimrod wanted to talk about that, not about the way things had just shaken out in France, and that was fine with Chris. He just… really didn’t want to do this in public.

As it happened, however, the only women at the Rathskeller that night were ones whose advances he’d rebuffed before, and the table in the back corner was indeed free. Chris sent up a silent prayer of thanks for small favors and took the table, choosing to sit where he could watch the door. Then there was nothing more to do but order a beer and wait for Nimrod, alias
Oberst
Johann Engelbrecht of Abwehr.
3

Even if he hadn’t been facing the door, though, the general murmur that went up a few minutes later would have alerted him that Nimrod had arrived. Everyone noticed Nimrod, for he was a tall man whose commanding stature was only enhanced by his uniform, stern hazel eyes, and grey-streaked dark hair and beard. But the women present didn’t try to approach him, either. The ladies of Königssee had long since learned that any advance toward him would be rebuffed with the remark that victory mattered more to him than pleasure. Only Chris knew that the victory Nimrod spoke of wasn’t Hitler’s—and Chris occasionally wished that he could get away with that excuse as readily as Nimrod seemed to. Maybe being the younger brother was a drawback when it came to having an aura of authority. Or maybe it was just a matter of Nimrod’s perpetual air of mystery, which people tended to think was better left unsolved.

Nimrod was the highest-ranking member of MI5 to have infiltrated German Intelligence and perhaps the greatest enigma posed to both sides. Nobody really knew anything about him, where he came from or why he had suddenly appeared in Berlin in 1939. He’d proven himself to London somehow, but Chris figured he was better off not knowing that story. The few British colleagues of his who held the clearance to connect Nimrod’s face with his codename thought he might be Welsh, but he spoke both the King’s English and High German with equal unaccented fluency, and his real name was known only to himself. He had a number of other contacts in the Underground, but only Chris was authorized to meet him face to face this way.

As he entered, Nimrod scanned the crowd until he spotted Chris, then spoke to the waiter briefly to order a drink before going to the back table. He and Chris hailed each other as “Eric” and “Onkel Johann” and exchanged pleasantries in German until Nimrod’s beer was delivered, at which point Chris lowered his voice and asked in English, “Now, what’s all this about the devils from Texas? El Gordo was about to laugh himself purple.”

Likewise switching to English, Nimrod replied, “Our honored friend from Mexico may be many things, but well informed about
los rinches
he is not.”

“
Los
—” Chris broke off with a puzzled frown, finally realizing that the term that had Goering so tickled was a translation from Spanish:
los diablos Tejanos
, one of the Mexican pejorative names for the Rangers. “Why the hell would Himself be asking about
them
? He’s not planning to use those damn
tequileros
as some kind of invasion force, is he? Prohibition’s over.”

“Nothing so straightforward as that. You remember that telegram from Frank Hamer last year?”

Chris nodded. When the war first started, Hamer had written to King George VI to offer his services and those of forty-nine other retired Rangers—including Matt, Chris had learned—to protect the coast. It had sounded like King George was all for it, but Washington had put the kibosh on it, preferring the appearance of neutrality to any obligation to help friends abroad. Chris imagined Matt’s reaction had been much the same as his own: unprintable.

Nimrod nodded once. “Someone in London got a glimpse of it but didn’t place the name. Not knowing the outcome, Himself has been worrying over it, especially now that Britain’s the next stepping stone.”

“So he asked our Mexican friend what he knows.”

“Indeed so, and got quite the fearful jumble in reply. Evidently these men are superhuman, indestructible, and answerable only to the governor, and if Roosevelt does not allow them to carry out the will of the people by assassinating Himself, your state will secede from the Union and send them anyway.”

Chris could hardly believe his ears. “Secession?! After what happened last time?!”

Nimrod held up a hand. “I know. But we can use this misperception to our advantage.”

“How? Hamer’s retired, and so are the men he offered the King. Besides, the State Department had kittens the first time it came up. They won’t let him go now.”

“I’m not saying we should convince anyone to reconsider—at least, not yet. But I dropped their right name in a conversation, and Himself was absolutely terrified. If we can make him think there’s a chance they might really turn up….”

“It’ll never work. It wouldn’t take a spy to find out that the consul was wrong about Hamer’s status; all he’d have to do is read up on what happened to the Barrow gang. And how is anyone going to buy that fifty retirees could stop an entire invasion? My brother’s probably the youngest, and he’s two years older than me.”

Nimrod leaned forward and lowered his voice even further. “Tell me, old man… have you heard them called the Order of the Silver Star?”

Chris frowned. “You mean that... that manuscript that turned up about forty years ago, supposed to be Merlin’s prophecies?”

“The same.”

“You think that’s legitimate? I mean, yeah, they’re the world’s best, and the stories we
can
confirm are the stuff of legend. But heirs of the Round Table, seriously?”

“True or not, the tale exists. And if nothing else, it can help us keep Himself off balance. If he thinks the Order of the Silver Star is guarding the coast of England, and especially if he thinks their magic might be stronger than his warlocks can counter, he’ll have to think twice about how to attempt an invasion. That hesitation may be all the edge we need.”

Chris shook his head. “They don’t
use
magic, beaudro. They’re just damn good lawmen.”

“I know.” Nimrod smiled and sat back. “But
Himself
doesn’t know that.”

Chris studied him for a moment, eyes narrowing as he pondered the idea. Then he leaned forward. “So you’re thinkin’… what, a whisper campaign? We start tellin’ tall tales about how Hamer made a deal with an old Comanche medicine man to track down Bonnie and Clyde, dig out some old dime novels, that kind of thing?”

“Exactly that kind of thing. Tales that can’t be verified one way or another. But subtle, diffuse. We want seeds of doubt, not a full-fledged diversion, not yet. Just enough to keep them off balance.”

Chris drummed his fingers on the table and nodded slowly as he thought. Then he smiled slowly and raised his beer. “To the men who wear the
cinco peso
.”

“
Prosit
,” Nimrod replied with a smile and clinked glasses with him.

On his way back to Berchtesgaden that night, Chris passed a bookstore that happened to be open late. He doubled back and, remembering his comment about dime novels, picked up a stack of Old Shatterhand novels, “for research,” he claimed when asked. He’d heard about Karl May’s tales of the Ranger and his Apache (!) sidekick, which were hugely popular in Germany and sounded sort of like the equivalent of
The Lone Ranger
, but he’d never read them before, and it turned out that he hadn’t missed much. The writing was laughably bad; no one who’d met an Apache would give him a Sioux-sounding name like Winnetou—hell, most Apache dialects that had been spoken in Texas didn’t even
have
the w consonant as such—and May actually thought coyotes were birds at one point. Still, Chris’ sudden interest in the series and howls of laughter over its inaccuracies did raise quite a few eyebrows among his Luftwaffe cohort.