Lammas Night (6 page)

By the time William's family became aware of the true scope of his activities,
Commander
Victor had been working closely with Graham for over two years on a project that came to have profound implications for national security. It earned Graham his knighthood almost immediately, but the prince's part remained deeply buried—though eventually, he, too, was admitted to a second order of knighthood. It came as a part of his brother's coronation honors, and in conjunction with his creation as Duke of Clarence on the eve of his planned marriage; but the well-deserved recognition paled when a fatal car crash claimed the new duke's bride-to-be before they could be wed.

This new disaster, following within six months of his eldest brother's abdication—in itself a staggering blow to the adoring William—shook the youngest royal duke almost beyond enduring, canceling out much of the progress he had made in the recent years. Following a near breakdown that left him desolate and uncommunicative, he plunged into the mindless solace of hard work, spending the next year in a whirl of royal appearances, patronages, and unfortunately, a return to the irresponsible ways of his youth, ever on the brink of scandal.

Gradually, he emerged from his depression and modified his behavior. But when he had recovered, His Royal Highness
Captain
The Duke of Clarence found himself no longer permitted to participate in the all too dangerous and sensitive area of intelligence operations—the very work that might have given him purpose and the stability he so desperately needed. The prohibition, from higher than either he or Graham could appeal, had been liked by neither of them, but it had been obeyed. It did not curtail the friendship that had begun under such improbable circumstances so long before and had grown so in the intervening years.

Now Prince William, lost in thought, sat in the brightening Kentish gloom idly smoking a cigarette, almost ordinary looking in the service dress uniform of a Royal Navy captain. He wore only the ribbons of his decorations, as was customary in wartime; only those and the four cuff rings of his earned rank set him apart from any other naval officer. The white shirt under the uniform coat was immaculate, as usual, but the knot of his tie was loosened and slightly askew, and the fair hair needed a comb. Graham wondered whether the prince had slept at all the previous night.

“I needed this,” Graham said quietly, savoring another mouthful of the strong, sweet tea and sighing gratefully. “If you never learned anything else while you worked for me, you certainly learned how to appreciate a proper cup of tea. When did you get back?”

William flashed a quick, distracted smile and exhaled smoke as he flicked his cigarette over a silver ash tray.

“Is that all you think I learned?”

“A bit more than that,” Graham conceded with an answering smile.

The prince chuckled mirthlessly and inspected the end of the cigarette in his hand.

“I got back last night,” he said. “Bertie continues to be amazed that we're still getting men out of Dunkirk, so he asked that I continue my blow-by-blow report from the harbor.” He shrugged. “I had nothing better to do.”

As the prince turned his head to gaze out the window again, taking another slow, deliberate drag on his cigarette, Graham had to fight down a dual pull of pity and admiration, as he had so often in the past three years. While he sipped his tea, he let the taste take him back to the days before disaster: strong, acidic tea at the harried morning briefings in the old office in Whitehall; the more tranquil tastes of coffee and cognac before the fireplace in William's apartments at the Palace; champagne the night the prince told Graham of his engagement to the shy, demure Caroline-Marie; and, a few months later, neat whiskey—far too much of it—and holding the prince while he wept like a child at the news of her death, grieving with him.

Other memories, less fraught with tragedy: minor explosions of temper in their early days, when William had rebelled against the discipline of Graham's training; apologies, gradually less grudging, when Graham's patience did not snap and William discovered that Graham would not permit him any effort that was not his best, no matter how simple the task; the growing sense of mutual respect and camaraderie, and then friendship.

Long arguments, talks, discussions, both light and serious, sometimes from horseback at Windsor or at one of the other royal estates. And the first time, though not the last, that William's life had truly been in danger and Graham had been responsible.

It had begun as a routine mission. They almost always did. William, who had only been on a few very tame field assignments, was one of four operatives chosen to go with Graham by fast torpedo boat to pick up an agent-off the French coast. When the agent did not show, Graham and two of the other men had gone ashore.

An ambush had been waiting. Killing one man and slightly wounding Graham, snipers had pinned down Graham and the remaining agent with automatic weapons fire. Strictly against orders, William slipped ashore to cover Graham and the other survivor as they struggled back to the boat. Once they were all safe, a trembling Graham had sworn both his remaining men to silence and given William a private tongue-lashing that neither of them soon forgot. William had not disobeyed orders again.

The boat and the thought of wounded agents brought Graham back to Michael and the events of the past few hours. He did not think he had changed expression, but something must have shown because William suddenly glanced at him sidelong and raised a speculative eyebrow.

“So, is this purely a social visit, at this hour of the morning, or can I help
you
for a change?” he asked, breathing smoke ceilingward as he stubbed out his cigarette. “You don't have to tell me about it if you don't want to—I'll give you the same option you've always given me—but you've got a ready ear if you want one.”

Graham sighed and set aside his tea. He had come here for company while he awaited word on Michael. That need had not changed. But he also needed to understand the new nightmare—wishing that were all it were. Perhaps it was only the figment of an overtaxed, overtired imagination, though he feared not. If only his eyes did not ache so.

Lack of sleep
, he told himself, though a part of him knew otherwise.

“You know Leo, that agent I've been tracking for the past week?” he said, massaging the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger as he sat back in his chair. “Well, his ship was torpedoed a few hours ago. Ah—Leo is Michael Jordan.”

“Michael?” A grieved look flashed across the prince's face. “Oh, bloody hell! Are you sure?”

Graham nodded. “We're sure about the ship. We're reasonably sure that Michael was aboard. The hopeful news is that the ship was still afloat as of a few hours ago. That's about all I know. They'll have started intensive rescue operations with first light.”

Numbly, he watched William rise and begin pacing in front of the seaward window, restless fingers twisting a gold signet ring on his left hand. After several passes, the prince paused and gazed out to sea. For several seconds, both of them watched the silent parade of ghost ships gliding out of the mist toward safe harbor between the arms of the breakwater. In the stillness, they could faintly hear the thud of shelling thirty miles away and the occasional closer whoop of a destroyer overtaking slower ships.

“You never told me what the Leo mission was all about,” William said after a long silence. “Do you think he'd succeeded before all of this happened?”

Graham tried to make his shrug convincingly noncommittal, for while most of the mission itself could be discussed freely with the prince, some of the methods could not. He also dared not indicate that he knew for certain Michael was still alive—or had been half an hour ago.

“We have good indications that he had.”

“And if he doesn't come back?”

Graham sighed. “If he doesn't come back, we'll have to find another suitable agent and start all over again. Some of the information is—very sensitive,” he added, wondering where he
would
find another suitable agent to handle some of the material he hoped Michael was carrying.

“Bloody war,” the prince said, shaking his head dejectedly as he leaned both hands against the back of his chair. “Didn't you already lose a plane and a crew?”

“And a wireless operator and a courier,” Graham added. “They'll all be very difficult to replace.”

“To replace? How does one really
replace
human lives? And now Michael.…”

The prince sighed as he turned to lean an elbow against the side of a window casement, absently brushing a strand of fair hair off his forehead as he continued to stare out at the ships.

“I'm sorry, Gray. I know you didn't come here to listen to me echoing all your own worry. Maybe he's all right. I'm no good at waiting, though. Waiting isn't standard in a prince's training—unless, of course, he's the Prince of Wales.” He glanced at the toes of immaculately polished shoes. “I suppose my brother would have known how to do that, at least.”

Graham had no words to answer that, for he knew, perhaps better than anyone else, how the abdication more than three years ago had wounded this youngest royal brother, who would never wear the crown. That crown had its burdens, as the new King was discovering and the former King had realized all too well. What Edward VIII had never grasped was the fulfillment that could also come from exercising a sacred trust and duty whose beginnings stretched back beyond recorded English history. Modern Britain no longer gave more than lip service to the “divine right” of kings, but remnants of that mystical concept remained, nonetheless, in the peculiar reverence and affection in which Britain had almost always held its Royal Family. William, a descendant of that royal line and a student of history, could not but feel the tragedy of his brother's dilemma acutely, as had all of England.

Graham was saved from having to answer by the appearance of Wells in the doorway of the next room, one hand over a telephone receiver.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said as William turned. “I have a call for Colonel Graham, patched through from Operations. It's a Brigadier Ellis.”

Instantly, Graham was on his feet and moving to take it, not pausing to ask the prince's permission, even in front of Wells. He could feel his pulse racing as he nearly snatched the phone from the aide and clapped it to his ear. William had been right on his heels, waiting eagerly as Graham spoke.

“Graham here.”

“Gray, this is Wesley Ellis,” came the familiar voice, couched in an odd combination of formality and casual friendship—doubtless for the benefit of anyone listening in. “I believe. I have some information on that landing you wanted.”

“I understand, brigadier. Go ahead.” Had Audrey picked up some further hint of Michael's whereabouts?

“There's been a change of plan,” the brigadier continued in a maddeningly offhand tone. “I think you'll want to meet a minesweeper called the
Lydd
. That's
L-Y-double-D
. Have you got that?”

“
Lydd
. Yes, sir!” Graham grinned and turned toward William, raising one thumb in the classic cockney sign of cheer.

“Jolly good,” came the glib reply. “I'm afraid there's been a bit of damage, but nothing that can't be mended. I think you'll find that it meets all your needs—picture perfect, as it were. Was there anything else I can do for you?”

Damage but mendable—and picture perfect. It meant that Michael was not seriously injured and that he had the film. Bless Audrey! She'd done a better job than he had—though he wondered whether she had picked up any of the frightening imagery he'd experienced. To find out, however, he was going to have to own up to having been on the Second Road alone and take hell from Alix. He could hardly do that now, with William waiting at his elbow, but he could at least give Ellis the opening to indicate whether anything else
had
gone amiss.

“I can't think of a thing, brigadier,” he replied, still smiling, though not quite so broadly. “I'll get back to you if I do. Everything else is all right, then?”

“Yes, quite,” came the slightly puzzled reply.

“That's welcome news—and thank you very much,” Graham said, breathing a faint sigh of relief.

“Not at all. Glad to be of service. We old war horses like to keep our hands in, you know. Cheerio.”

“Good-bye, sir.”

He allowed himself a profound sigh as he cradled the receiver, suddenly very weary, then picked it up and began dialing the operations number.

“The pickup ship is the
Lydd
?” William asked.

“So it would seem.”

“How did Ellis find out?”

Graham raised an eyebrow and evaded with the absolute truth.

“I don't ask. Sometimes it's better not to—hello? This is Colonel Graham. Put me through to Commander Collingwood right away, would you?”

Covering the mouthpiece with his hand while he waited, he glanced at the prince again and smiled. “I was about to say that I don't question Wesley's sources of infor—hello, Coll? Graham here. I've just been informed that my chap may be aboard a minesweeper called the
Lydd
. Would you find out when she's due to dock?”

As he spelled the name for Collingwood, he was relieved to see that William seemed to have accepted his explanation.

C
HAPTER
4

Neither Graham nor William proved very good at waiting after the first hour, though they made halting stabs at conversation over fresh cups of tea while listening for the telephone. After another half hour, Graham gave up the pretense of sociability and occupied himself for a time with scanning the harbor and its approaches with a pair of field glasses.

It was not only the waiting that made Graham ill at ease. Compounding his uneasiness was the fact that even though no particular physical symptoms remained to remind him of the episode beneath the bridge, the experience had shaken him more than he realized. He still did not know what had happened—except that the terror he had felt was still vivid in his mind. Only questioning Michael would enable him to distinguish fact from fearful fantasy.