Lammas Night (3 page)

“We never expected war on this scale again, either,” she reminded him a little sharply. “A lot of us are having to do things we weren't trained for. Look at Audrey. She should be going to betrothal parties with Peter and planning her wedding, not wearing a uniform and tracking enemy bombers and worrying whether he'll come back to her in one piece—or even whether he'll come back at all!”

He forced himself to glance at the girl apparently asleep on the floor behind him, then reluctantly returned his gaze to Alix.

“I'm not arguing that we don't all have to make sacrifices,” he said softly. “God knows,
I'm
not exempt. And I'm not even afraid to die if it comes to that. But if word were to get out, I could lose my military effectiveness and maybe even be locked away. They do strange things in time of war. I think that's what I really dread the most.”

“Your cover is safe so far,” Alix replied. “The ones I've talked to think it's David and I who are initiating the effort—and even if they knew otherwise, they'd never betray us.”

“I'm glad you have such faith. And what happens if we
do
get them all under the same roof?” Graham breathed. “Then all we have to do is persuade them to work together. Fat chance!”

“We can only do the best we can,” Alix said stubbornly. “One may still hope for the triumph of reason over paranoia. We've still got two months until Lammas. A lot can happen in two months. If it comes down to the wire, we really only need a week or ten days' lead time. I'll help you all I can, Gray.”

“I know you will. It isn't that.”

With a grimace of resignation, he glanced at the door, then back at her.

“We've gone over all of this before. I really do have to go. Your very weary son should be at Dover in a few hours, and if Denny and I aren't there to meet him right off the ship, God knows how we'll find him.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to keep you.” She paused, her face still a little strained. “He
is
all right, isn't he? You weren't just saying he was, to reassure us worried womenfolk?”

He permitted himself a sigh. He had not wanted to tell Alix everything he saw, but he realized it was best if she heard it all now.

“He's definitely alive; I believe he may be wounded.”

“Wounded? How badly?”

He shook his head. “I don't know. I'll ring you as soon as I find out. I don't think it's life threatening, but there was definitely an edge of pain. It could have been just fatigue. In any case, he should be at Dover by dawn—and so must I.”

He took both her hands in his and kissed them, an intimate yet formal gesture to balance their uneasiness. Then he stood back a pace while she stooped to pick up a letter opener with a dark staghorn hilt. She touched its point to the edge of the rug, then drew it upward and to the left in a long arc above her head as she stood, sweeping parallel down the other side, perhaps a yard from the first tracing. The enclosed space appeared to grow darker as the blade touched the edge of the rug again, the door beyond no longer hazy.

She left the letter opener on the rug at her ending point, then straightened to lay her hands lightly on his upper arms.

“Bright blessing attend you,” she whispered, stretching on tiptoes to brush his lips with a kiss.

He held her for a moment. Then he moved through the opening she had cut and headed for the door, casting her a final glance before he closed the heavy panel behind him.

But she was out of mind as soon as out of sight. He was already preoccupied as he walked down the dim-lit hallway and through the long portrait gallery, searching for Michael even now in the Dover of his mind's eye. He could feel the night's tension closing in, as it had not while he walked the Second Road of mind and soul, and his eyes ached despite the dim light dictated by blackout regulations.

He glanced automatically at a favorite painting of an earlier Lord Selwyn doing homage to a fifteenth-century Henry. The earl's joined hands were clasped protectively between the king's, but for once, the almost mystical significance of the feudal relationship failed to move Graham, for he barely saw it. Apprehension had begun to worry at the edges of his mind as soon as he stepped outside the confines of the circle. Had something else gone awry with Michael?

The door at the end of the gallery opened into another hallway, then into a high-ceilinged entryway, also dimly lit. Denton, his driver and batman of nearly fifteen years, came to his feet immediately—a small, wiry man about Graham's age, wearing the chevrons and crown of a staff sergeant on his sleeve, scarlet staff aiguillette looped around one shoulder of his brown service uniform. Strapped around his waist was an automatic pistol in a gleaming leather holster; a second was tucked under one arm, the webbed belt wrapped neatly around.

“Is he safe, sir?” Denton asked.

“I think so, Denny. At least he's on a ship. Where's—”

Before he could finish the question, Jennings, the Selwyn butler, emerged from another hallway with Graham's jacket—a standard khaki battle-dress blouse such as any soldier might wear, were it not for the colonel's crown and pips on the shoulder straps.

“Thank you, Jennings,” Graham murmured, shrugging into the jacket. “I take it I had no calls?”

“None, sir. Would you like a flask of tea to take along?”

Graham pulled a black beret with field insignia out of one pocket and jammed it on his head, taking his sidearm from Denton as they moved toward the door.

“Not tonight, I think—but I appreciate the offer. Just now I need sleep more than tea.”

“Very good, sir. Safe journey, then. Remember about the blackout, and you'll want to mind the roadblocks at Ashford.”

As the light went out and the door opened, Graham clapped the butler on the shoulder in a gesture of long-standing acquaintance and affection.

“Jennings, you're a mother hen!”

Then he and Denton dashed into the rain, Denton opening the rear door of the Bentley saloon so Graham could duck inside. Settling back in the red leather seat, Graham put aside his weapon and closed his eyes as Denton came around to the driver's side. What was it, nagging at the fringes of consciousness?

“Back to Dover Ops, sir?”

His eyes popped open with a start. He
was
jumpy.

“That's right, Denny. And if you can help it, don't wake me until we get there. We've got a busy day ahead of us. I hope you got a nap.”

He sensed rather than saw Denton's grin in the rear-view mirror; and the driver's “Right, sir” was mostly drowned out by the purr of the motor being eased into gear. By the time the black Bentley emerged from the long, oak-lined drive of the manor, Col. Sir John Graham had already settled into uneasy sleep.

C
HAPTER
2

Aboard the
H.M.S.
Grafton, 0200 hours, 29 May 1940

Dull pain and a change in the rhythm of the engines woke Michael. The ship wallowed a little as she slowed, and in that twilight moment between wakefulness and pain-drugged sleep, he wondered whether they were already nearing Dover. He dismissed the notion immediately as the klaxons sounded and the ship's speaker system bawled for battle stations.

Sitting up, he saw lights in the distant darkness: bright white beams stabbing through the drizzle, illuminating deep Channel swells. Members of the ship's crew and an increasing number of evacuees from the upper decks already lined the rails, some of them preparing to lower lines, nets, and lifeboats. As Michael lurched unsteadily to his feet and made his way nearer the side, he could make out several minesweepers and torpedo boats standing to and playing their lights over the water, picking out bobbing heads and bodies, an occasional life raft, and all too much debris and oil slick. The
Grafton
slowed again, keeping just enough headway to maintain steerage.

They stood to for nearly an hour, they and the crews of other ships picking up the pitifully few survivors and watching nervously for signs of new danger. More ships converged on the disaster scene, for it was squarely in the middle of the evacuation route.

No one knew precisely what had happened. As Michael helped spot, he heard one of the rescued victims babbling about a German E-boat that suddenly appeared out of the mist and began firing. Another, who identified the doomed destroyer as the H.M.S.
Wakeful
, said she had sunk in less than a minute. She had left Dunkirk carrying nearly seven hundred men. Michael recalled how he had wished himself aboard an earlier, unknown destroyer as he waited to board the
Grafton
and shuddered as he realized it might have been the
Wakeful
.

All at once, a tremendous explosion split the darkness, and he was hurtled through the air, hitting the water hard, choking, trying to claw his way to the surface—trying to decide which way the surface
was
. The water was bitter cold, and his whole body shrieked with outrage. He wanted to breathe, needed to breathe, but he knew he must not until the last possible instant. He got his bearings and struck out for the surface, ignoring the protest of his wounded arm, and surfaced to the din of screaming and more explosions.

Sputtering and gasping, he twisted around and tried to see what had become of his ship. He found her, but she was in flames and already down by the stern, her whole aftersection gone. Men streamed onto the decks from below and leaped overboard, not even waiting for boats or rafts or life vests. There were swimmers and bodies in the water all around. He could only watch and tread water dazedly, one part of him numbly seeing to survival while another tried to puzzle out what had happened. Had they hit a mine—or was another German E-boat in their midst?

Suddenly, one of the rescuing minesweepers opened fire—and then the
Grafton
's big guns spoke, though who was firing them, Michael had no idea. Nor could he decide on their target, though it seemed to be not far from where he struggled in the water. As more explosions shattered the air, the minesweeper turned her bows toward him and, all her guns blazing, began racing toward another, smaller vessel that had emerged from the smoke and flames behind him.

Another German E-boat?

He glanced around wildly, helplessly, for if an E-boat were loose in the middle of the flotilla, it could wreak immeasurable havoc on the heavily laden rescue ships—and had, judging by the condition of the
Grafton
. Of even more immediate personal concern was the minesweeper bearing down on him and half a dozen other men flailing in the water between her and her intended target—but no skipper would weigh those lives more heavily than the stopping of the enemy ship.

He managed to elude the churning propellers as the mine-sweeper passed close by, as did most of the men in his immediate vicinity, but too late he glimpsed the blue with the red and white on the flag the supposed E-boat flew—a British naval ensign, not the flag of the Third Reich. It was too late for the captain of the minesweeper as well, for she did not turn aside even when Michael began screaming impotently for her to veer off.

Horrified, his lips still moving in futile warning, he watched the men on the target vessel scatter like ants as the minesweeper bore down on them directly amidships, many of them leaping overboard as the two vessels met with a sickening crash and rending of metal and then a series of devastating explosions.

Then he was fighting for his own life as another swimmer latched onto his wounded shoulder and began babbling hysterically, threatening to drag them both down.

Dover, 0300 hours, 29 May 1940

Graham came to with a start as traffic slowed to a snail's pace just below Dover Castle, but it was not that which had awakened him. He had been dreaming about Michael—dark, vivid dreams, akin to what he had seen before on the Second Road, though he could not recall any details. Only a vague uneasiness persisted of something being not quite right, an echo of his earlier forebodings.

He considered trying to retrieve the dream, knowing he could have, under the right circumstances, but he was too far awake now and in too public a place for proper concentration. Denton was totally loyal and discreet, long aware of his superior's less than conventional methods of gaining information, but they were nearing the first of the sentry posts guarding the approach to Dover HQ.

Graham lowered his window as the car came to a stop, squinting as the guards flashed their shielded torches inside and caught the crown and pips on his shoulders. He tried to be patient while they compared his face with the photo and description on his identity card.

Though Graham was considered something of a renegade in the army, he thought he might well reach general rank by the end of the war—if this thing with Alix did not blow up in his face. Intelligence officers were expected to be a little odd. A man awarded a Victoria Cross (V.C.) at twenty-two could be forgiven a few minor eccentricities, such as an aversion to proper uniforms and a preference for working alone. Twelve years after receiving the V.C., Graham had justified his superiors' sometimes dubious indulgence by earning a knighthood. The reasons were still too classified for the direct knowledge of any but a few very senior generals and a now-dead king—though stories did surface from time to time, most of them wild conjectures.

The Intelligence Service had proven an ideal refuge for a renegade, however. Military discipline and inflexibility, on the one hand, balanced with a large measure both of anonymity and very minimal close supervision. All of this was essential to the other type of work Graham did, generally quite surreptitiously and of the sort that never wound up in official reports. And since he always produced results, his methods were rarely questioned.

Still, Graham had to wonder how his superiors would react this time, were they to learn of the methods he used for the mission now coming to an end on the
Grafton
. Not that they were ever likely to learn the truth. Graham's most recent assignment provided ideal protective coloration for his unique talents. With the outbreak of war the previous year and at the recommendation of a high-ranking naval officer whose predelictions ran in similar directions, Graham had been named to head a special section of MI.6 investigating the use of the occult sciences in warfare—a function barely even tolerated, much less understood, by most of his superiors since they did not believe such things existed but pursued because they knew that Hitler believed. Besides, the Germans had their own department of dirty occult tricks, whether or not it was producing verifiable results. The point was that Hitler
thought
it was—and so Whitehall must have a similar section.