The Milkweed Triptych 01 - Bitter Seeds (41 page)

“That’s why,” said Stephenson, “you have to be ready.”

“Sir?”

“If our ploy succeeds, I want you in Germany the moment the Red Army starts to move.”

Pangs of guilt and irritation jabbed at Marsh. He couldn’t leave Liv alone again. He’d only just found her. He’d forgotten her scent for so long, but now he could smell her hair on the collar of his shirt.

“Sir. I doubt I could achieve anything that an RAF bomber squadron couldn’t. I’m just one man.” A feeble protest, and he knew it.

Smoke jetted from Stephenson’s nostrils, signaling impatience. “I don’t give a toss what you think. And you’re the only man we have left because of your monumental cock-up in Germany. Your mess, you clean it up.” He dragged again on his cigarette. “Flattening the REGP is only part of the equation. If the Soviets take Berlin, they’ll get the files. Unless we destroy them first.”

Marsh sighed. Stephenson was right. This wouldn’t be over until somebody destroyed the Schutzstaffel records of von Westarp’s program.

And at the end of the day, it was Marsh’s fault that Milkweed had been reduced to a single field agent.

At least he’d get to say his good-bye to Liv in person. He hadn’t done so prior to the raid in December; he knew now with utter conviction that if he’d died in Germany, that regret would have been his dying thought.

Eddies of cigarette smoke curled around Marsh when he headed for the door. “I’ll start preparing.”

“There’s one last thing.”

“Sir?”

“I’ll need you to find new accommodations. Can’t have you staying downstairs any longer.” Stephenson tapped the pile of papers beneath his ashtray. “We’re planning a bit of work down there.”

“That won’t be a problem.”
I won’t miss that cot.

“Good.”

Marsh cocked an eyebrow. “What sort of work?”

Stephenson picked up his telephone. Over the receiver, he said, “Let me know when you’ve spoken to Beauclerk.”

Marsh turned to leave, pondering the new plan. Something about it still bothered him, tickled the back of his mind. Eidolons weren’t tactical weapons. Weather savage enough to shatter the Wehrmacht would also freeze earth and rivers solid, kill fish and spring plantings.

The invaders would meet little resistance. If anything, they’d be welcomed as saviors, when the Great Soviet brought bread to the starving masses.

Marsh paused with his hand on the door handle. He turned. “Question, sir?”

Stephenson paused in mid-dial. “What?”

“What will we do when Soviet France is parked on our doorstep?”

“One problem at a time. We’re long overdue for some good fortune.

“And if fortune decides to kick us in the bollocks?”

“Then we’d better bloody well start things off on the right foot when we meet our new allies.”

11 May 1941

Kensington, London, England

W
ill decided, while packing up the Kensington flat, that his brother W Aubrey might have been on to something with his ceaseless harping about the necessity of hired help. It rankled, the thought of taking on a valet. Will had always rejected the notion.
I can clothe myself, thank you kindly.

But now half-empty boxes sprouted from every corner of the flat like corn poppies blooming on the grave of Will’s old life. A knowledgeable hand to help prune the disarray wouldn’t have been unwelcome. Perhaps what he truly needed was an undertaker.

He opted to leave the bone china. The notion of packing and shipping it back to Bestwood presented a headache he didn’t care to indulge. Instead, he’d leave it for whomever succeeded him. A gesture of goodwill. And who knew? The next residents might be related
to one of the many people he’d killed to satisfy the Eidolons’ prices.

It occurred to him that his closet contained a ridiculous number of suits. He took a few shirts, some trousers, a pair of ties, and abandoned the rest. He left the paisley carpetbag sitting on the floor of the closet. Let the next residents make what they would of its bloodstained contents. He didn’t give a damn.

The bell rang while he was emptying the bookshelves of Rudyard Kipling and Dashiell Hammett. Will peeked through the curtains. Marsh stood outside, his boxer’s face hung low.

“One moment,” Will called. He rolled down his sleeves to hide the bruises and puncture wounds on his forearms. He buttoned the shirt and his cuffs, checking himself in the mirror above the umbrella stand. There was no hiding the bags beneath his eyes, but they could be attributed to a sleepless night. Or ten. The hollows beneath his cheekbones and the pale, papery skin were another matter.

He opened the door. “Pip.”

Marsh removed his fedora, ran a hand through his hair. “Hi, Will. Can I come in for a moment?”

Will stepped back, beckoning him into the foyer. Marsh stopped short when he saw the boxes. His nostrils twitched, and his hand started to move toward his face before he caught himself.

“Packing?” he asked, breathing through his mouth.

What—oh.
The kitchen.
I’d forgotten about that. It hasn’t been that long, has it?

“I’m going away for a while,” said Will, leading him toward the den, where he hoped the smell wasn’t so offensive. “I’ve decided it’s time for a change.” He tucked the eviction notice under a half-finished Sunday
Times
crossword puzzle, while Marsh perused the boxes. Then he tucked the crossword between two books, suddenly self-conscious of his shaky handwriting.

“In that case,” said Marsh, “you know why I’m here.”

“I’m to be cut loose, am I?”

“Yes.”

“And then what happens?” Will asked.

“Nothing. You’ve served the country well. Go back to your life, Will.” Marsh paused. “But please don’t tell anyone about Milkweed.”

Will asked, “If I do?” Marsh looked uncomfortable. Will waved his discomfort aside. “No, no. I haven’t forgotten poor little Lieutenant Cattermole, you know.”

“I know you won’t reveal anything,” said Marsh. “It had to be said. For the record.”

“Of course it did. Even so, don’t let Stephenson make you his hatchet man, Pip. It doesn’t become you.” Will perched on the edge of a chaise longue upholstered in long satin stripes of royal blue and sunflower yellow. He stretched his legs before him, exhaling heavily as he did so, and waved Marsh toward the matching chair.

Marsh sat. The chair creaked as he shifted back and forth, trying to find a comfortable position. He reached down into the gap between the cushion and the armrest and pulled out a saucer crusted with something black. It clinked against the glasses clustered on the coffee table when he set it there. His gaze drifted from the glasses to the empty decanter on the sideboard.

“I’d offer you something to drink,” said Will, “but I’m fresh out.”

Marsh sighed. “What happened to you, Will?”

“The war happened, Pip. I’m weary of it.”

“So are we all. But I meant . . .” Marsh stopped. He sighed again, and encompassed the flat with a sweep of his arm. “Will. This place is squalid. And pardon me for saying it, but you look like three-day-old shit.”

“As would you, had you done the things I have.”

To his credit, Marsh ignored the barb. He changed the subject. Looking around the room, he said, “Where are you headed? A change of scenery would do you good. You’ve earned a rest.”

“Here and there. Home, eventually. Bestwood.”

“I’d offer you a place here in the city,” said Marsh.

“I wouldn’t hear of it, Pip.”

“It’s just, right now . . . Liv and I. Things are improving.”

Somewhere deep inside Will, a slender asp, green like emeralds,
twined through his gut.
Even after all this, after all we’ve done, she still wants
you,
doesn’t she.

He forced a smile. “That’s good. I’m glad,” he lied.

Marsh fell quiet, looking at the wine-stained carpet. Finally, he said, “You were right, Will. I should have listened.”

Will rocked back in his seat. “Now this is rather surprising. What’s happened to
you?”

The other man shook his head. There was an air about Marsh, something new that Will hadn’t seen. It wasn’t exactly tranquillity, but rather an absence of anger.

No, not an absence. It was there, hidden deep in the caramel-colored eyes, if one knew where to look. But it wasn’t bubbling away just a hairsbreadth beneath the surface, as it had for so many months. And in that Will recognized Liv’s influence at work.

Aubrey might have thought Will needed a batman. But what man could want for anything with Liv at his side?

“We should have dinner, the three of us,” Marsh said. “Like we used to.”

At this, Will brightened. “I’d like that.” Any chance to pretend the past year hadn’t happened. . . .

“Though I don’t know when. I might be away, traveling, for a while.”

“‘Traveling,’ he says. Would this be related to the old man’s grand plan?” Milkweed’s bid to end the war.

“Yes.”

“Have you stopped to consider what we’ll do if it works? It’s trading one basket of concerns for another.”

“I have,” said Marsh, nodding. “And I’d be lying if I said it didn’t worry me. But I don’t see that we have any choice. We’ll deal with it when the time comes.”

“Do you know you
can
handle it? What if you can’t?”

“We’ll find a way. We have no choice.”

Will jumped to his feet. “That’s
exactly
the sort of cocksure attitude that got twenty-six men killed.” He paused, alarmed by his own intensity. He’d thought that by now any passions had long since drowned. “Yes,
you’re very clever, but there are still some problems too great even for you to fix.” He sat again. “Don’t think you have it all sussed out, Pip. You don’t.”

Marsh’s puckered, knobby knuckles turned pale as he squeezed the armrests of his chair. But again, to his credit, the man held his temper.
Ah, Liv.

“I’ve said you were right about the raid,” Marsh said in a quiet monotone. “I’m well aware of the men we lost.”

Equally quiet, Will said, “I notified the next of kin. All of them.” It was a statement of fact, a commiseration more than an accusation.

“You’re a better man than I am, Will.” Marsh peered out the window, his gaze momentarily distant. He changed the subject again. “Have you heard anything about some work going on downstairs? At the Admiralty.”

“I’m sure I’d be the last person to know anything.”

“Ah.” Marsh slapped his knees with the palms of his hands, and stood. “Well. Need any help?” he asked, gesturing around the flat.

Will said, “Thank you, but no. I’ll send somebody for my things once I’ve returned to Bestwood.”

He showed Marsh to the door. As his friend descended the stairs to the street, Will called after him.

“Pip? I’ve—” He paused.
I’ve what? I’ve consigned a child’s soul to the Eidolons? I’ve lost track of the men I’ve killed? I’ve forgotten who I am?

It was all true, but none of it was right. He didn’t know what he was looking for, what he was struggling to say.

“What, Will?”

“Never mind,” he faltered. “See you soon, I’m sure.”

Will abandoned the Kensington flat. He called a taxi to Fairclough Street in Whitechapel. He took two suitcases; the one he’d packed, and another, smaller, empty case.

He had learned about Fairclough Street by following one of Stephenson’s men. Stephenson couldn’t come down here himself, of course, but the man did adore his American tobacco. And the only place to get it was on the black market. Almost anything could be found on the black
market, if one had the money: Food. Extra ration books. Petrol. Cigarettes. Clothing. Even medicine.

Will traded almost the entirety of his month’s allowance from his brother Aubrey, to fill the smaller case with syrettes of medical morphine. With the leftover cash he purchased a rail ticket to Swansea, and from there hired another taxi. The driver followed Will’s directions through the Welsh countryside, and frowned with silent disapproval when they pulled up to a boarding hotel surrounded by landscaped acreage.