The Milkweed Triptych 01 - Bitter Seeds

by Ian Tregillis

  Marsh cleared his throat. The brandy hadn’t flushed the roughness out of his voice. “The situation is more complicated now. We ought to reassess.”

  Stephenson nodded, tapping his ashes into the tray. “The recruitment drive.”

  “If the Reichsbehörde has gone public, we can be certain old Joe knows about it. The Kremlin likely knows all about von Westarp’s research by now.” The Soviets were rumored to have an extensive and aggressive spy network operating inside Nazi Germany. The Jerries referred to it as the “Red Orchestra.”

  “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.”

  thirteen

  11 May 1941

  Kensington, London, England

  Will 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 yo
u 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.

  The working class took a dim view of funk holes. As well they should have.

  Will, being not of the working class, knew of several such places. Places where those with enough money—more money than conscience, certainly—could wait out the war in comfort. The residents typically pooled their rationing books together, enabling the proprietor or proprietress to prepare more suitable meals. And in return for a not-inconsiderable fee, the residents spent their war time years painting, punting, playing bridge, or listening to the wireless with a glass of sherry on hand while complaining about how Mr. Churchill had done everything so very wrong.

  The driver sped off—grumbling about the well-to-do, his son in the Royal Navy, and his daughter in the Women’s Land Army—as soon as Will had his suitcases out. From Will’s vantage point there before the main house, he could see a tennis court, a fishpond, a whitewashed pergola, and a horse stable. A breeze carried the perfume of bluebells and hollyhocks blooming down in the garden.

  It was, Will decided, a perfectly fine place to die.

  22 May 1941

  Bielefeld, Germany

  The weather turned on them yet again. But it was different this time: a relentless, eyeball-cracking cold, equal parts ice and malice. And although this seemed impossible, or perhaps too disturbing to contemplate, Klaus felt as if the deepest freeze, the very worst of it, was following them. Dogging them. It seemed drawn to their uniforms, their regalia.

  Klaus had never before in his life seen Reinhardt shiver. Now they all did it, constantly.

  At night, when the temperature plunged and every snowflake became a crystalline fléchette, patterns emerged within the interplay of moonlight and shadow. Wind sculpted the snowdrifts into unknowable shapes. Phantom scents lingered like half-remembered dreams on a wind that murmured in a language too alien to discern.

  But most disturbing of all were the rumors. Klaus had heard in each of the last two towns they’d visited that the local children had begun to act strangely. They babbled endlessly, and they babbled in unison, as though chanting to some unseen presence that lived inside the weather.

  Klaus had heard reports from Channel weather spotters the previous year, during the run-up to the invasion of Britain. Those men had reported strange shapes, sounds, even scents in the fog. More than a few of those men had gone mad. Gretel had told him so. He believed her; her voice had carried an undertone of wry amusement, as though it were an inside joke to which he wasn’t privy.

  She’d also told him about the British warlocks, and the beings they commanded. This was their work.

  Turnout for the Götterelektrongruppe’s demonstrations had declined steadily as they performed their pointless road show in Heidelberg, in Frankfurt, and in the shadow of Cologne Cathedral. It was too cold for people to venture outside their homes, no matter the promised entertainments.

  Their tour was forced to linger in Bielefeld—the birthplace of poor, martyred Horst Wessel—for an extra day when thigh-deep snowdrifts closed the road to Hannover. The mighty Götterelektrongruppe could have pushed through, had its members been so inclined. But after more than a month on the road, they
couldn’t stand each other’s company long enough to discuss the issue. And besides which, they had only so many batteries.

  Klaus took his dinner, alone, at an inn down the road from where he and the others stayed. A late-spring sunset washed incongruously against frost-etched windowpanes, bleaching the room in diffuse white light. The décor was a thoroughly unconvincing re-creation of a beer hall. The stag heads, enameled tankards, and filigreed woodwork around the doorways would have been more natural farther south, in Bavaria. A true hall (Klaus had seen several; populous Munich had yielded many volunteers) required dark walnut paneling, stout ceiling beams, and casks of beer stacked behind the bar for fueling the gemütlichkeit. This place had none of these things.

  It was the kind of place that didn’t know itself, didn’t know what it was meant to be. Klaus liked it. Though it was chilly, he felt more at ease here than anywhere else they’d visited.

  The fireplace was empty and dark. Klaus inquired about a fire. He was told the flue had frozen shut soon after being closed to keep out vicious downdrafts.

  He ate in a bubble of silence. All the other patrons stepped widely around Klaus’s table. The wires unnerved people, but he was too weary of the issue to hide them any longer. People were polite when forced to interact with him, but jittery, too.

  His meal was as slapdash as the décor. Gristle marbled the corned beef so thickly that Klaus was hard-put to carve out each mouthful. Brine squeezed out of the too-pink meat each time he sawed his knife through it. The water sloshed over the lip of his plate and made a ring around his glass of lukewarm cider.

  But the beets weren’t so terrible, and the venison sausage was edible if slightly gamey. Best of all was the black bread, which was warm enough to melt butter. It must have been made in-house; carrying it just across the street would have leeched away the heat, rendering the bread as cold and hard as a hearthstone in an abandoned house.

  “Where are your companions?”

  Klaus looked up. A short ruddy man stood across the table. He stood with elbows resting on the back of an empty chair, forearms extended over the table and fingers interlaced. He fixed a wide grin on Klaus.