Bitter Seeds

he couldn't see anybody in the mist and moonlight. It seemed to have originated from around the corner of the building they'd just escaped. Klaus sighed.

“I don't think that was meant for us,” he said, eyes still scanning the street. “Let's go while we still can.”

Klaus turned. And found Gretel face-to-face with a stranger.

“It's you.” Gretel smiled. “You came for me.”

“It's you,” said the stranger. His gravelly voice betrayed no joy as he said it. One side of his face had been badly burned; his beard hid the worst of it, but a puckered furrow ran from the corner of his left eye to the edge of his jaw and across his throat.

In a strange way, the man reminded Klaus of his sister. The constant shadow behind Gretel's eyes, the madness there, was a vestige of things seen and known, things not meant for either. Klaus recognized the same look, the same shadow, behind this man's eyes. This was a man who had seen things. A man burdened by knowledge.

Klaus took her wrist again, tried to pull her away from this madman. “Gretel, do you know him? Who—?”

Between one word and the next, the man disappeared. Much as Heike might have done. Klaus spun, searching for the mystery man, or an ambush. But the park was quiet.

A ghost?

Klaus shook his head, sighed. England was a strange place. He'd had enough of it.

Gretel still stared at the spot where the apparition had disappeared. He tugged on her wrist.

“We need to keep moving,” said Klaus.

She smiled. Beamed. “It's going to work.”

“What's going to work?”

But she wouldn't say.

After that, evading capture was a tedious but trivial affair. It took most of the night, but Gretel guided them back to the southern seashore without incident. They waited for their rendezvous, shivering in the dark amongst nets, green-glass net floats, traps, and fishing boats. Smooth round pebbles covered the beach, and they tinkled like glass beads underfoot. A rowboat came for them just before dawn. It ferried them to the shape looming out of the water like a shark fin in the predawn light. Brother and sister descended the hatch into dark, cramped Unterseeboot-115 as the sun rose over the English Channel.

seven

14 May 1940

Milkweed Headquarters, London, England

Stephenson had already worked himself into something just short of a foam-flecked tirade by the time Will arrived. Will glanced over at Lorimer and Marsh for a show of solidarity, knowing he was in for the brunt of it. They stood silent and motionless. Stephenson let loose as soon as Will closed the office door behind him.

“How the hell did he know where to find her?”

Cigarette ash swirled around Stephenson as he paced. He used the cigarette like a baton, gesturing at his troops like a displeased commandant. Little white flakes settled on his suit and tie like dandruff.

He turned on Will. “And you! What in God's name were you thinking? You insisted the prisoner wouldn't see anything she hadn't already seen. And then you bollixed everything up by tipping our hand to the enemy.”

Will found himself standing at attention. Stephenson's tirade evoked his grandfather's rages. I won't hide. I won't. He rubbed the palm of his hand. At least Stephenson wasn't drunk.

“She—I mean, I—it was the only thing that made sense,” said Will. “The only sensible explanation was that the Jerries had been communing with the Eidolons.” One of his grandfather's worst habits, the most infuriating and belittling, had been the way he'd blame Will for his own irrational mistakes. Will pushed back. “Implicitly or not, you'd made that assumption when you brought me on board. I was working within the parameters you gave me.”

In the corner of his eye, he saw Marsh stiffen.

Bad move.

“My faulty assumption was that you could think for yourself, Beauclerk.” Stephenson dragged on his cigarette again before continuing. “As for their escape, how did he find her so easily?”

“Not through the Eidolons. However they did it, it was through human means.”

“Do you honestly think,” Stephenson said quietly, “that bastard was human?”

Will preferred him when he bellowed. He understood eruptions of temper; quiet rages unsettled him. Marsh's patron had an iron presence that gave his gray gaze the intensity of a hammer blow.

Marsh piped up. “As a matter of fact, sir, I'm more sure of it now than ever before.” He'd known Stephenson most of his life, and so he didn't quail before Stephenson's fury. “They have fears and weaknesses just like the rest of us. Vulnerabilities.” His eyes went distant and unfocused for a moment. “Will's right, sir. This has nothing to do with the Eidolons.”

“Back to my question: How did he find her?”

“The girl did know a great many things,” said Marsh.

“Your point?”

Marsh shrugged, shook his head. Will watched the gears turning behind his friend's eyes, watched him sorting through puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit together. “At least we know her name now,” Marsh added. “Gretel.”

“Wonderful! In that case, I'd say we have this locked up tight. I'll just pop on down to the Prime Minister, shall I? 'No worries, sir, the Jerries caught us with our knickers down, but we have a single name now, so victory is assured.' Is that what you'd like me to tell him?”

Will tried not to breathe.

“How the hell were we supposed to catch that minger?” Now Lorimer pushed back. “Can't fight against something like that.”

Stephenson went very still, as though frozen in place with a veneer of ice. “Allow me to remind you gentlemen that our mandate, as handed directly to me by the Prime Minister himself, is to do exactly that.” One by one he stared them down as he continued. He stood nose to nose with Lorimer. “It is our job to find ways to fight them.” He moved in front of Marsh. “It is our job to thwart them at every turn.” Tobacco breath puffed across Will's face when Stephenson stood before him to conclude, “And it is our job to do so discreetly. It is not our job to go flashing our knickers to everyone we meet.”

Stephenson finally sat down behind his desk. He'd moved his office, including some of the furniture and most of the watercolors, into the Old Admiralty. Leadership of MI6's T-section now rested on other shoulders. The old man had parlayed all his political capital into the oversight of an obscure four-man operation.

“We need more men, sir,” said Marsh.

“And there, at least, is one area where your world-class cock-up might benefit us.”

“Sir?”

Pain returned to Will's fingertip. Phantom limb syndrome, the doctors called it. Aspirin no longer took the edge off his pain. He checked the bandages while Marsh's appeal echoed in his ears. We need more men.

“How many people witnessed your fumble yesterday?”

“Hard to say, sir. A dozen. Perhaps more.”

“More,” chimed Lorimer. “At least that many saw him bring the lass upstairs after he found her. And they ran through that many again... .” He trailed off, head shaking.

“Congratulations,” said Stephenson. He turned toward Marsh. “Your request for additional men and materiel has been granted. Those witnesses are your new recruits.”