Bitter Seeds

Liv.

“Not dead,” said Stephenson. “Moribund.”

The plan was to lure the Soviet Union into the fray. Break the Wehrmacht's back, use the Eidolons to freeze the German war machine to death, and let Stalin's predatory instincts do the rest.

The enemy of my enemy ...

Marsh cracked his knuckles. None of this speculation seemed to matter. He said so: “Isn't this all a bit academic? The warlocks can't deliver.”

They'd scrapped the plan because the warlocks had failed repeatedly to produce the necessary results.

Stephenson dragged on the cigarette dangling at the corner of his mouth. Marsh took a marble ashtray from the windowsill and handed it to him. Stephenson placed it on a stack of papers. Construction manifests and requisition orders for building supplies, by the look of them.

Stephenson snuffed out his cigarette. The hunter-green Lucky Strike box bobbed up and down as he shook out another. American tobacco was virtually impossible to get via legal means these days. But with position came privilege, and the old man had many contacts.

“Well. As it happens, that remains to be seen.” He skritched a match along the edge of his desk. It released the sharp and unpleasant smell of sulfur. “Had an interesting discussion with Hargreaves and Shapley yesterday. They've unearthed the root of the problem.”

Marsh returned to the mullioned windows behind Stephenson's desk. The base camp for the December raid had long since been dismantled. St. James' was a park once more, and a greening one. Sunset glinted off the lake, causing Marsh to squint. The same lake from which Milkweed had fished several bodies after the raid in Germany.

I'm sorry, Will. I should have listened to you.

He sighed. “It's Will.”

Behind him, Stephenson's chair creaked. “He's become a liability.”

Marsh turned. “What are you proposing?”

“Oh, relax, for God's sake. He's out of Milkweed, but we needn't do more than that,” said Stephenson. “Though of course, we'll have contingencies in place. If he talks, we'll destroy him.” Outside, robins serenaded one another.

Destroy him? We've already done that, haven't we?

“I'll tell him.”

“It's my job. But I thought you should know.”

Quietly, Marsh said, “I'm the one who brought him into this in the first place.” He shook his head again. “It's my responsibility.” I've made my amends with Liv. I owe Will at least as much.

Stephenson harrumphed his assent. “Very well. But see to it quickly.”

“Yes, sir. I will.” Marsh's voice cracked again. He drained the tumbler.

So. Milkweed would have at it yet again. Like a hound begging for a soup bone, getting kicked away time after time but still coming back for another try. He turned his attention back to the map.

Black pins and little swastika flags marked the known positions of Nazi army groups and divisions across the Continent. They weren't entirely static, but the overall pattern hadn't changed appreciably since the consolidation of forces in January and February. Pins moved most frequently in the region around the Balkans, where German and Italian forces dealt with the guerrilla tactics of Greek and Yugoslav partisans. Farther south, beyond the bottom edge of the map, the Afrikakorps had been much more dynamic. Britain had reluctantly written off North Africa as another casualty of the Dunkirk failure.

The locations of the red markers and hammer-and-sickle pennants on the eastern side of the map were a bit more speculative. Reliable intelligence regarding the distribution of Red Army forces was difficult to obtain.

Twin rows of blue map pins indicated corridors the warlocks would attempt to open in the weather by nudging the Eidolons aside, thus providing the Soviets with routes into Germany. Several of the corridors converged on Berlin. The weather would be peeled back as the Soviets advanced.

A single orange pin marked the location of the Reichsbehorde; there the Eidolonic weather would be strengthened into a bulwark that kept the invaders at bay.

It was a tricky balancing act. They needed the Red Army to strike deep into the heart of a paralyzed Reich, to deliver the killing blow that would end the war. But they also had to make damn certain von Westarp's farm didn't fall into the wrong hands. Which meant, given Britain didn't have an army on the ground with which to occupy it, the REGP couldn't fall into anybody's hands.

Hence the long-range bombers in southeast England. Britain's aircraft production was a pale shadow of what it had once been, but the RAF could scrape together enough bombers for one particular mission. The Luftwaffe was effectively grounded so long as the warlocks could keep the weather in place; Jerry's radar and antiaircraft measures would be similarly blind.

But it all came down to timing. It required lifting the barricade around the REGP just before the RAF arrived to carpet-bomb the grounds. It was imperative the Soviets found nothing of value if they sent forces there.

The strategy hadn't changed since early spring, just before the warlocks' first attempt to shut down the Continent with endless winter. On paper, it made a desperate kind of sense. Except ...

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 Reichsbehorde 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.