The Milkweed Triptych 01 - Bitter Seeds (33 page)

“These actions aren’t free. If we tried to make this our standard means of waging warfare, the blood prices . . . well, we’d end up doing Jerry’s work for him. And consider this. Every person who goes on this little jaunt, including most especially your lad Marsh (don’t give me that look) will be giving himself to the Eidolons for safekeeping during the transition. And again on the way back. Assuming anybody comes back.” Will waited for his head to stop spinning. He summarized, “It’s a bit like using a pride of lions to escort a zebra across the Serengeti. Bloody daft.”

“I think you’re overstating things just a bit.”

“Overstating? Understating. Here’s yet another consideration for you: the blood price. Nobody knows what this will cost. This is so far beyond the pale that the others won’t even hazard a guess.”

“The prices haven’t been a problem thus far. I don’t see why this would be any different.”

Will tasted blood. He’d bitten a chunk out of the inside of his lip. The blood seeped across his tongue, chasing away the brandy.

Not a problem?
So that was it, then. The old man truly was an icy bastard. Will had first sensed it during the trip to Dover, where they’d seen the Eidolons in the Channel and the toll this took on local children. He’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. But it had.

Stephenson had an agreement with Hargreaves and the rest of the warlocks; he indulged their fanatical insistence upon keeping blood prices “in the family.” Anything that threatened to breach the connection between the negotiator and the price—such as appealing for outsiders’ help in paying it—was dangerous and therefore strictly forbidden. But the old man knew damn well what was happening. The escalating prices had forced the warlocks to seek out new tools and new training; Stephenson had arranged for their demolitions training with the Special Operations Executive.

Not a problem?
The old man didn’t consider the prices a problem, because he wasn’t the one paying them. But that would change, if they stayed on this course.

“You know nothing of these things.” It was all Will could say, and perhaps even that was too much. He stood. “Think about what I’ve said. Good evening, sir.”

Will paused in the doorway on his way out. “What I tell you twice I tell you true, sir. This will end badly.”

10–11 December 1940

Westminster, London, England

Reichsbehörde für die Erweiterung germanischen Potenzials

S
unrise was a dull glow peeking over Downing Street when Marsh entered St. James’ Park. The sleet and snow of the past few days had tapered off after coating London with slush. But the clouds had remained, shrouding the sky like a wet wool blanket.

A pair of sentries stopped him at the checkpoint on the east side of the park, just across from the Old Admiralty building. They recognized him, no doubt, but they did their jobs just the same. One of the sentries, a thumb under six feet tall with a blotchy face, stepped in front of Marsh, rifle held across his chest.

“Can’t let you through, sir. Password?”

Marsh said, “Habakkuk.” And to the other sentry, he spoke the second half of the password: “Rookery.”

The guards stepped aside, nodding their approval. “Have a good day, sir.” They didn’t know about Milkweed, or what it hoped to achieve from this impromptu base camp.

The park was silent. An early hour, and anybody with a modicum of sense would catch as much sleep as possible before to night. Later, Marsh would go back inside and try to do the same. But not now.

Ice water drizzled from the camouflage netting as Marsh picked his way between the tents. It dripped into his hair, trickled down his neck, down his back. Throughout the staging area, tarpaulins and tent tops had bowed inward under the weight of water, occasionally dumping it all without warning in torrents that doused the unaware and muddied the earth.

He went to the largest tent, in the center of the staging area. Pain twinged in his knee, strong enough to evoke a grimace. Marsh felt, for a moment, like an old man. He gritted his teeth and shrugged off the pain. It receded to a dull throb. More water dripped on his head and neck when he limped inside the tent.

Two rows of chairs arranged in a semicircle faced a table, a lectern, and two blackboards. This was where they’d deliver the final briefing before to night’s mission.

Wood-and-Bakelite mockups of a battery were arranged along the table next to the lectern. These were models of the battery they’d taken from Gretel. Snipers had been training with these models for weeks, taking target practice on dummies wearing battery harnesses.

The battery they’d captured bore no identifying marks, not even a manufacturer’s stamp. That by itself didn’t rule out the possibility that the batteries were constructed under special contract by one of the chemical corporations within the IG Farben conglomerate. Agfa, perhaps, or BASF. But it seemed plausible, based on what little they knew of von Westarp and the massive construction work carried out on his family farm in the late 1920s and early 1930s, that he kept every aspect of the fiefdom under his direct control. So there was a possibility that the batteries were constructed on-site—perhaps by engineers on loan from IG Farben—meaning Milkweed could destroy the
Reichsbehörde’s ability to make new batteries. Failing that, they’d eliminate the stores.

Objective: Destroy the technology.

Rows of photographs had been affixed to one blackboard. The first was an enlarged version of the single photograph in von Westarp’s dossier. The photo was thirty years out of date, but it was, Marsh hoped, better than nothing. Beneath the photo, somebody with a steady hand had printed
DR. KARL HEINRICH VON WESTARP
.

Objective: Get the research; capture the researchers.

Only one photograph other than von Westarp’s had a name printed beneath it: Gretel, the olive-skinned girl. Hers was the clearest of all the photos. They’d photographed her from every angle. It had taken an entire box of film just to map in detail all her surgical scars.

The remaining photos were grainy reproductions of still frames from the Tarragona filmstrip. There was a photograph for each person featured in the film. Each had a single question mark chalked beneath it in place of a name. Even under the shot of Gretel’s rescuer. In a few places, a key word or two had been chalked in a different color: Flight? Speed? Fire? Invisibility?

Objective: Kill or capture the subjects.

A crust of snow crunched under Klaus’s boots as he walked the perimeter of the grounds with Reinhardt, Buhler, Pabst, and Doctor von Westarp. The doctor called a halt every thirty or forty yards to consult a map of the grounds. The map contained annotations in Pabst’s hand, based on intense debriefing sessions with Gretel.

“One . . . two . . . heave. One . . . two . . . heave . . .”

They watched a handful of mundane troops struggle to erect klieg lights inside the forest at the edge of the complex. The block and tackle clattered while the men ratcheted upright the heavy mast supporting the lights. The cables sang in a rising wind that smelled of cold snow and diesel fuel.

“Put your backs into it!” yelled Pabst. “I want these lights installed and tested before sundown.”

Farther back in the trees, more soldiers were busy hiding the generator that would power the lights. The bulk of the generator rested below ground level, in a hole they’d excavated. A buried cable ran from there to the lights. They’d also landscaped a fake thicket to hide the exposed portion of the generator.

In daylight, Klaus mused, the mess of boot prints and trampled snow around the thicket might have been a giveaway. But at night, in the pandemonium of combat, it wouldn’t matter at all. The lights would stay off until the attackers arrived. Then the lights would illuminate their landing sites and make it impossible to hide.

Installations like these were going up on the south, west, and east sides of the Reichsbehörde. Each surrounded what Gretel claimed would be a landing site.

Assuming she could be trusted. Klaus had severe reservations on that point, but he kept them to himself. He’d known for months, at least since she had maneuvered to get herself captured, that she acted according to her own interests and motivations, what ever those might be. But until the failed invasion, and maybe even after that, he’d clung to the belief that her personal motives more or less aligned with the interests of the Reichsbehörde and the greater Reich. But what she’d done to Heike . . .

When Rudolf had died, back in Spain, Gretel had used her prescience like a blunt instrument. But now she wielded it like one of Doctor von Westarp’s scalpels. Heike’s suicide had been
engineered:
the culmination of subtle, devious psychological manipulations that neatly excised the will to live from Heike’s heart and mind.

Von Westarp muttered to himself, nodded. He made a mark on his map and then set off again through the blowing snow. The tattered hem of a dressing grown dangled beneath his long leather overcoat, tracing snake trails through the snow. Klaus and the others followed.

Wind hissed through bare boughs, as though the oak and ash trees were commenting upon the preparations. It carried a knife-edge chill that pierced the tiniest gaps in Klaus’s clothing. The cold slipped through the buttonholes in his coat, sliced through the seams in his uniform,
raked his skin with ice. His breath caught, trapped by the constriction in his chest.

He considered using his Willenskräfte, letting the snow and wind pass through him by virtue of the Götterelektron, but the relief would last only until he rematerialized to breathe. It would waste his battery to no good effect.

No snow landed on Reinhardt, or in the steaming boot prints left by his passage.

Reinhardt the necrophiliac.

He was as arrogant and cocksure as ever, except around Gretel. Reinhardt avoided Klaus and Gretel as much as possible these days.

Klaus kept trying to avoid his sister, too, after Heike’s suicide. Though it was somewhat pointless. She always knew where he’d pop up.

Gretel had gone completely off the rails, and nobody knew it except Klaus. And, he supposed, Reinhardt. After all, in the eyes of Doctor von Westarp, Heike had taken her own life because she was weak. A failure. He spoke not of wasted resources, or of the de cades squandered creating the now-deceased invisible woman. He spoke only of the mistakes he’d made with Heike, and how he’d avoid these in the next batch of test subjects.

Pabst cleared his throat. “Respectfully, Herr Oberführer, I would like to reiterate my recommendation that we install gun emplacements. And land mines. The enemy may be more numerous than we expect.”

“No! Save the glory for my children.”

Buhler dug out a cigarette while the two argued. He struggled to light it in the cold wind. After a few moments he gave up, and glared at Reinhardt. Reinhardt smirked; the tip of the cigarette flared a brilliant ruby red.

In the end, von Westarp won. As of course he would. There would be no emplacements, no mines.

The inspection tour continued. Seeing the preparations was almost enough to make Klaus pity the doomed men who planned to attack his
home. He’d walked among them; breathed their air. They weren’t so monstrous.

No,
he thought, watching Reinhardt.
This is where the monsters live.

On any given evening, the train that passed along these tracks en route to Edinburgh carried perhaps a hundred passengers. One hundred souls: men, women, and children.

Hargreaves recited these details very matter-of-factly, like a physician listing a patient’s medical history, while he and Webber fastened an explosive charge to the iron rail. Their breath formed long wispy streamers as they labored in the lengthening shadows of evening. Both men pricked a finger; dribbles of blood froze instantly to the rail.

Will stood a little way off, sheltering from the wind in a stand of fir trees. He would have preferred to stay in the car and avoid the cold, or better yet to have avoided this trip altogether. That, of course, was out of the question. He had necessarily been a participant in the negotiation of the blood price, and as such, here he was, seeing that it be paid.

The cold made him numb, but it wasn’t the all-encompassing numbness he yearned for. He’d have hurried that along with drink, but he’d be damn busy in a few hours. Focus was important. He promised himself a treat if he made it through the night in one piece. A doubtful result.