Lammas Night (15 page)

“I could tell you in general, I suppose, but I'm not sure you're ready for that much at once,” Graham murmured, suddenly getting cold feet. “Besides, I'm not even sure it's fair of me to ask you to share the burden. You shouldn't be involved at all. It could be dangerous.”

“Because of who
I
am or who
you
are?”

“Perhaps a bit of both. I haven't given you a great deal of choice about whether you even want to be involved, either. I fear I've presumed a great deal on our friendship.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” William replied. “I don't suppose it's even occurred to you that I might welcome someone presuming on a friendship for a change. And you've certainly given me the means to retaliate, if I were truly offended.”

Graham averted his eyes. “A measure of my desperation, I suppose. I still shouldn't have gambled with our friendship. I apologize for that.”

“No need. I'm honored that you would trust me with something like this.”

“I don't know that it's an honor,” Graham answered with a shrug. “More of a burden, I should think. In any case, I'd rather you didn't make any final decisions until you've had a chance to digest some of what we've been discussing. Take a few days or a week to think about it. Then, if you're still willing to take on the job of father confessor, we'll talk again.”

“You promise?”

Graham sighed wistfully. “Do I have a choice? I mean, if you want to talk about it again, I suspect we're bloody well going to talk about it again. I've hardly put myself in a position to say no, now have I?”

At Graham's tentative smile, William snorted and got to his feet, dusting leaves and bits of tree bark from the seat of his breeches.

“Why do I have this feeling that your argument wouldn't hold up right now regardless of whether or not I wanted to continue?” he said, watching as Graham also stood. “Don't answer that. Allow me
some
illusions about the might of my rank.”

“You know me better than you think,” Graham replied. “However, I think it's better if you do take the time to let it all gel. I've given you a great deal to swallow.”

“I shan't argue with that,” William agreed. His face brightened as he glanced at his watch. “Speaking of swallowing, shall we head back and see what's on for tea? We're late, but with any luck, my nieces will have left a biscuit or two. I'll bet you didn't realize that even royals are on rationing these days.”

“And here I thought I'd escape all that by hobnobbing with a prince,” Graham quipped as they caught their horses and mounted up. “Do you mean to tell me you're eating Spam and dried eggs at the Palace, too?”

“Come dine with me next week and you'll see,” William grinned. “I have no idea what cook will manage in the way of food, but at least the cognac is still supurb.”

They continued to discuss the annoyance of rationing as they started back at an easy pace. Perhaps a third of the way back, they spied an open Daimler heading toward them at speed from the direction of Royal Lodge. Wells stood on the passenger side, waving urgently with one hand as the driver blared on the horn to attract their attention. The horses laid back their ears and fidgeted as the car kicked up gravel coming to a stop.

“Sir, we've been looking everywhere for you,” Wells said, jumping down to take the horses' bridles. “There's terrible news. Italy has declared war. Colonel Graham, you're wanted at Whitehall right away for a meeting.”

The meeting, which lasted well into the evening, proved to be only the first in a series of events that made the following week even more difficult than Graham had anticipated. Italy's entry into the war sparked a new flurry of intelligence activity that extended through arms of all three services. Directives given at the Whitehall meeting—and others that followed in the days thereafter—kept Graham and his staff busy well into the following weekend.

Much of Graham's work involved routine coordination with other intelligence sections, expanding all of their operations into the Italian sector, but high on their list of priorities was a stepped-up attempt to positively identify
Rote Adler
. Graham's superiors were aware of the political influence of the Thulists and the Vril; if
Rote Adler
could be connected with either or both of them, they would gain greater insight into the thinking of the German high command. But Graham's section made no major breakthroughs that week, though at least they lost no more agents.

Nor did more wide-sweeping efforts on the part of His Majesty's Government have much effect on the Outcome of the battle still winding toward its inevitable conclusion in France. Despite repeated trips back and forth across the Channel by Churchill and others, the faltering French leadership proclaimed Paris a free city two days after the Italian declaration and abandoned her to her fate. Two days later, on the fourteenth of June, the victorious army of the Third Reich entered Paris in a display of force calculated to demonstrate the utter folly of continued resistance to the invincible German war machine.

The French government had already fled, first to Tours and then to Bordeaux. Now, on the sixteenth, an embittered Paul Reynaud resigned as French premier, unable to persuade the frightened French cabinet to let him carry on the war from North Africa or some other French possession and unwilling to be the one to surrender. The new premier, Marshal Petain, sued for an armistice with Germany on the following day.

That evening, Winston Churchill addressed the British people and told them the fate of their former ally. The following night, he reiterated his report to the House of Commons in a speech also broadcast by the BBC. Graham and William heard the speech from William's sitting room in his suite at Buckingham Palace. Their after-dinner brandy was all but forgotten as the famous voice reverberated from the wireless.

“What General Weygand called the Battle of France is over,” Churchill told them gravely. “I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilization. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this Island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink in the abyss of a new Dark Age, made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say: ‘This was their finest hour.'”

As the broadcast concluded, the measured phrases of the prime minister giving way to applause and then the voice of a BBC commentator, Graham rose to turn off the wireless as the prince lit a cigarette from an inlaid box at his elbow. The luxury of the royal sitting room seemed quite isolated from the bleak predictions the prime minister had just outlined. Furthermore, the two men had dressed formally for dinner that evening, even though mess dress was almost never worn in wartime. William enjoyed wearing the stars and ribands of his orders and was always amused when the opportunity arose to bully Graham into wearing his, for he knew how Graham disliked formality.

Now Graham unhooked the collar of his tunic and eased his neck with an audible sigh of relief as he returned to his chair, ignoring William's bemused smile. The prince raised his glass in informal salute as Graham sat back down. All evening, the company had been as mellow as the vintage cognac.

“So, I'll wager that Winston's speech will soon be quoted by every bloke in Britain,” William said. “‘Their finest hour.' He does know how to turn a phrase, doesn't he?”

Watching the light flash fire from the facets of the glass in his hand, Graham nodded absent-mindedly. “That's so. He sounds the pulse beat of the British people like a well-tuned drum. Sometimes a bit difficult to work for, I grant you,” he added, gesturing with his glass, “but geniuses were always thus. He certainly knows his business. I don't envy him a bit.”

“Nor I.”

Both men sat quietly for several minutes, each absorbed in his own thoughts, until William glanced at Graham again, breathing smoke lethargically upward through his nostrils.

“Did you mention drums deliberately to remind me of Drake?” he asked softly. “We can't be overheard in here,” he added, following Graham's glance toward the closed doors, “and no one would dream of entering without knocking.”

“Suppose we turn on the Victrola, just for added insurance?” Graham countered with a faint smile, rising to do it. “Ah, ‘Egmont.' Beethoven makes marvelous background for a discussion of the esoteric.”

As he adjusted the volume and resumed his seat, William watched with an air of vague puzzlement, gesturing with his cigarette as Graham took up his glass again.

“Esoteric? I thought that had to do with philosophy—intellectual matters.”

“In general, I suppose it does,” Graham agreed. “But in the literal sense, it means hidden, secret, something taught only to a select few. You're a Freemason, aren't you?”

“You know I am.”

“Well, Freemasons follow an esoteric tradition of sorts, though most of its real power has been somewhat diluted over the centuries so that it's largely a philosophy today. A more practical consideration, however—and one of the reasons Hitler is suppressing your brethren in Germany—is that they're more or less secret and their members are usually known to one another. The perfect nucleus for forming a resistance movement.” He paused a beat. “There are many, many esoteric traditions, including Christianity. I work in several of them.”

“I see.” William thought a moment, frowning. “But haven't you implied that magic is a part of most—ah—esoteric traditions?”

“In a general sense, yes.”

“Even Christianity?”

“Yes.”

William looked dubious and a little shocked but not overly alarmed. Still Graham realized he was going to have to handle the next few minutes very delicately. William was not avidly religious, but his very blood and breeding dictated a certain outward conformity with custom and observance. His brother was head of the Church of England, Defender of the Faith. Members of the Royal Family were expected to attend services on Sundays as a family and to set a pious example. William had always followed that aspect of his role without question.

“Let me put it to you this way,” Graham said slowly, thinking each point through. “What single aim would you say that all religions, all ethical philosophies, have in common?”

“Well, I suppose it would be perfection of the human spirit, salvation of the—”

“No, something more fundamental than that,” Graham broke in, shaking his head. “I'll save you the guessing. It's a closer understanding and interaction with the creative force—call it what you will: God, Buddha, Allah, Great Zeus, Mithras. All the great religions and philosophies have headed toward it in their different ways—trying to know the godhead and to somehow emulate it, control it, make it work for them. And how do we do that? Some people would call it prayer: an attempt to communicate with God and persuade Him to do what we ask. Isn't that exactly what was happening when we had that national day of prayer a few weeks ago, during Dunkirk?”

“Well, I think prayer is more than—”

“No, I know that isn't
all
prayer is, but let me finish. When the King declared a national day of prayer during Dunkirk, what were we trying to do? We were asking God to stop the Germans and save our soldiers. And since we managed to get something like ten times the number of men out of Dunkirk than we dreamed possible, some folk are calling it a miracle. Nothing so dramatic as changing water into wine or multiplying loaves and fishes, I suppose—or was it? ‘With God's help,' we managed to save a quarter of a million men we thought were lost. I'd call that a miracle, by the classical definition. I could also call it the result of magic—and I'd be right about that, too.”

“But we're talking about two different things,” William protested.

“Are we? You'd call it a miracle when you pour your heart and your fondest wishes into a petition to God and your prayer is answered. We'd do much the same thing and achieve approximately the same result, but we'd call it by another name.”

“Magic?”

“Magic.”

William had several drags on his cigarette while he thought about that, not looking at Graham but not avoiding him, either. He sipped at his cognac again.

“You've spent a great deal of time, both tonight and last time, trying to convince me that magic is real and that it somehow ties in with something mysterious that you're doing,” he said slowly. “I've done a bit of reading since we last talked, too.” He looked directly at Graham. “Are you trying to duplicate what Drake did?”

Graham fingered the glass in his hands and drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. They were into it now.

“You do believe in getting right to the heart of a matter, don't you?” he murmured.

“That isn't an answer. Besides, I learned it from you.
Are
you trying to work some kind of magic to stop Hitler? I mean you, personally.”

Without speaking, Graham gave a slight nod. William stared at him, glass poised midway to his mouth, then took a slow, deliberate sip and rested the glass carefully on the chair arm as he took his time swallowing.

“I didn't really expect such a direct answer,” he said after a moment. “And you said before that we have people who are—no, it can't be anything official. MI.6 does odd things, but—it
isn't
official, is it?”