The Milkweed Triptych 01 - Bitter Seeds (15 page)

Keeping her unconscious during the relay race back to Britain was a challenge. People frowned upon a man who drugged his wife. But he’d anticipated this, so he’d also purchased chloral hydrate. Slipping it into her water—“Drink up, dear, you’re not feeling well”—worked best. People always plied the ill with fluids. Things got easier after he met a regiment from the BEF and could abandon the artifice. Still, he watched her for the entire journey.

Who was she? She knew him. She had
waited
for him.

Had they been watching him since Spain? He fought the urge to hunch his shoulders, to gouge away the target etched between his shoulder blades. Then he thought of Jerry spies staking out his life. Perhaps they were watching Liv this very moment. He clenched his jaw until he felt a headache coming on. Anger and frustration made his face feel hot.

They crossed the Channel in the cargo hold of a Dutch merchant ship running supplies for the BEF. As soon as he had privacy, he untied the kerchief over her hair. He traced the wire bundle from a bulge at her waist—probably a belt like those in the film—up her back, neck, and into her scalp. At the back of her head it split into four smaller wires, each connected directly to a different location on her skull. When he sifted through the hair on her scalp, thick black locks that smelled of sweat and dirt and wood smoke, he found her skull riddled with a monstrous assortment of surgical scars.

What
was she?

He needed a closer look at her belt, too, but couldn’t achieve that without stripping her naked. It would have to wait until he got her to Milkweed.

The mysterious woman woke again during the passage across the Channel, perhaps roused by the choppy waves knocking on the hull beneath them. Marsh reached out to dose her with more ether.

“Wait.” She grabbed his wrist.

His skin tingled under the intense warmth of her fingertips.

She fished in the folds of her dress for the café daisy. “Congratulations.” She handed it to him, adding, “It’s a girl.”

Then she pulled his hand to her face and passed out again.

11 May 1940

Walworth, London, England

M
arsh arrived home before sunrise. But for the chatter of songbirds ushering in the dawn, the city was quiet in this hour when the distinction between night and morning lost its meaning. The blackout kept the streets dark.

Though Liv had been sleeping fitfully in the past few weeks, he didn’t want to ring the bell and risk waking her. He fumbled through his pockets, seeking his house key. Several moments passed, during which he envisioned the key jostling out of his pocket during his motorcycle ride (had that been just yesterday morning?), his encounter with the girl, or during the bumpy Channel crossing. He even started to wonder if the girl had picked his pocket, but then his fingers brushed the cold metal.

The door swung open, sending bright light spilling down the steps and into the street, when he pushed the key into the lock.

The door was unlocked. It hadn’t been latched. And the lights were still on.

Exhaustion resisted him as he forced his mind into focus again. Too many hours on constant alert had frayed his nerves, but a single thought burned through the fog in his mind. Just hours ago he’d been speculating about Jerry spies watching him and Liv.

A setup. Oh, God, how did I miss this for so long?

Marsh slammed the door behind him. “Liv? Liv!” His voice echoed through a quiet house. He trotted from room to room. She wasn’t in the den; she wasn’t in the kitchen. He went to the garden, hoping that perhaps there’d been an air raid alert and she’d simply fallen asleep in the Anderson shelter. But she wasn’t there, either.

Back inside, he bounded up the narrow stairs two at a time. The bedroom was a scene of disarray: the drawers of Liv’s wardrobe stood open, and her clothes were strewn across the bed and floor.

Scenarios, event sequences, spooled out in his head. He captured the girl in France . . . her handlers contacted assets in London . . . they snatched Liv in retaliation.

No, no, no, no
. It made no sense.

But if the girl knew him, she probably knew something about this, too.

I’ll yank those goddamn wires from her head one by one.

Marsh had the telephone in hand, ringing Stephenson, when he found the note:
Darling—Labor started. Have gone to hospital with Will. Love, Liv. xx P.S. Stop worrying, you lovely fool!

She’d taken the time to leave a message, knowing how terribly he’d fret if he came home to an empty house.

The sudden release of tension left his knees weak. Marsh slumped against the wall, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. He did a little of both.

Hailing a cab at this hour was out of the question. Marsh covered the first two miles to the hospital on foot. He would have run the rest of the way, too, but for an alert ARP warden just coming off his watch at dawn when he heard the echo of Marsh’s footsteps down the street.

“Olivia Marsh? Olivia Marsh?” At the hospital he chanted her name like a mantra, confronting people with it. A nurse directed him to the room Liv shared with two more new mothers.

Liv slept propped up in bed, her head tipped to one side and her mouth slightly open. Sweat had plastered her hair to her forehead, but now it had evaporated, leaving her bangs frizzy, disheveled. Dark bags hung beneath her eyes. Her face was round and puffy.

She’d never been more beautiful.

And in the crook of one arm, held close to her chest, nestled a bundle of pink swaddling.

Marsh tiptoed across the room to Liv’s bedside. He leaned over her, tugging as gently as he could on the folds of blanket to get a first look at his baby.

“Hi, you,” said Liv in a hoarse voice. She smiled. It was an exhausted smile, but it touched her half-open eyes. “You’re home.”

Marsh kissed her sweat-salted lips. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t home sooner. I’m so sorry.”

Liv lifted the bundle. “Meet your daughter.”

His baby felt lighter than a snowflake. Her tiny face was bright red, and her eyes and mouth were scrunched together under folds of baby fat. Wisps of pale hair traced across her perfect scalp like gossamer.

She smelled marvelously. She smelled like family. Her silken skin tickled Marsh’s lips. He hadn’t shaved, so he took care not to let his whiskers scratch his daughter. Nothing would
ever
hurt her. He’d tear the world apart, brick by brick, if he had to.

Liv scooted over on the narrow bed. Marsh lay on his side, cradling their daughter between them.

“You look absolutely manic,” she said. “I left a note.”

“I found it. Eventually.”

“I’m glad you’re home.”

“Me, too.” He kissed his daughter and his wife again. “Me, too.”

In spite of his exhaustion, hours passed before the cogs in his head finally ground to a stop so he could sleep.

Congratulations. It’s a girl.

11 May 1940

Westminster, London, England

T
he invasion of France forced Will’s hand. He’d planned to pitch his idea to Marsh before approaching Stephenson. But Marsh was stuck somewhere in France with the Jerries closing in. Will had to speak with the old man at once.

To hell with von Westarp. They needed to find Marsh, and Will knew how to do it.

Will tried SIS HQ first, knowing Stephenson hadn’t finished moving his office to Milkweed’s new space in the Old Admiralty. The old man had used his clout to turn Milkweed into a semiautonomous agency isolated from the rest of SIS. By declining the promotion his seniority deserved after Admiral Sinclair died, Stephenson gained a few favors from Lieutenant Colonel Menzies, the new C.

But Stephenson wasn’t in the Broadway Buildings. Will decided to cut through the forty acres of St. James’ Park on foot, because walking to the Admiralty was easier than riding the Tube to Charing Cross and then backtracking.

He exited the park directly across Horse Guards’ Road from the Admiralty. He found Lorimer having a smoke on the steps. It appeared the Scot was having a rest. But then Will saw that Lorimer was studying something in his lap. It looked like a belt with a strange battery attached to it.

A smoldering cigar hung from the corner of Lorimer’s mouth. The man smoked less frequently these days; good tobacco was hard to come by. Lorimer looked up as Will approached. He removed the cigar from his mouth with fingers discolored by long exposure to developing reagents.

“Missed the excitement, Yer Highness.”

“So I gather. I can’t find Stephenson.”

Lorimer jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Just returned from meeting the new PM.” He paused to puff on his cigar, then added, “He took the film with him.”

“Ah.” The old man hadn’t wasted any time briefing Churchill on Milkweed. “Good. I need to speak with him about Marsh.”

Another puff. “They’re in the cellar.”

“They?”

“Marsh, Stephenson, and the prisoner.”

“He’s back?” Giddy relief flooded through Will, followed by confusion. “Wait. Prisoner?”

Lorimer waved off the question while he took another puff. “Have Marsh explain it to you. I’m busy.” He focused his attention back on the battery, turning it this way and that.

“I certainly intend to,” said Will. He bounded up the stairs two at a time. Near the top, he paused, patted his pockets, and turned. “Oh, damn. Hi, Lorimer, I wonder if you’d part with a cigar?”

“You don’t smoke.”

“Heavens, no. Dreadful habit. Can’t abide it.”

“I had a shit time getting my hands on these.”

“Ah. Well. It’s for a good cause. Morale, you know.”

Lorimer fished another cigar from the breast pocket of his overalls. He handed it over, grumbling. “My last.”

“Brilliant.” Will tipped his hat to Lorimer. “Cheers.”

The space beneath the Old Admiralty was a rabbit warren of vaulted brick tunnels that intersected in groined arches. They extended almost to St. James’ in the west, under Whitehall in the east, and practically to the Admiralty Arch in the north. The fortified section had less character, gray concrete corridors lit with naked lightbulbs that cast severe shadows.

Will found Marsh and Stephenson standing outside one of the storage rooms at the end of a long corridor. The pair spoke quietly, occasionally peering through the square window of glass and wire mesh set high in the steel door.

Marsh was saying to Stephenson, “And then she gave me this.” He twirled a daisy in his fingers. The crumpled flower had seen better days. A petal fluttered to the concrete at Stephenson’s feet like a bit of crepe paper.

Will cocked an eyebrow as he took in the flower. “You devil, you. I see it clearly now: a trail of broken hearts across France, winsome milkmaids and Parisian grandes dames.”

Stephenson ignored him. “She didn’t say anything else?” he asked, again staring through the grille.

“No. I dosed her after that. Hi, Will. And nothing of the sort. It’s—”

“I should hope not,” said Will. With a little flourish he produced the cigar and popped it into Marsh’s mouth.

Marsh jerked back in alarm, yanked the cigar from his mouth. “Blech.” He spat. Marsh didn’t smoke. “A simple ‘congratulations’ would suffice. Blech.”

Will laughed. “I’d get used to this if I were you. I believe it’s traditional.” He pounded Marsh on the back.

Stephenson indulged in a little chuckle. “He’s right.”

“So,” said Will, “boy or girl?”

“Girl,” said Marsh. He smiled, but the hard light highlighted the dark papery skin under Marsh’s eyes. It made him look gaunt. And his hair was mussed. The poor fellow looked as though his last sleep had been several days ago. In a haystack.

“You look awful,” said Will.

“I’ve heard.” He started to turn toward the window again, but then the stopped and turned. “Thanks for getting Liv to the hospital, Will. I can’t thank you enough.”

“It was nothing, Pip. I was glad to help, and as it happened your neighbors had left her high and dry.”