Lammas Night (40 page)

“Nein
.…
Verboten.… Ich muβ nicht
.…”

“Du muβt. Berichte, bitte. Was hast du gesehen?”

Haltingly, Wells began to answer in flawless German, recounting a precise account of the night's meeting from part way through Graham's question-and-answer session. When he had finished, Graham asked him again about his membership in any secret organization. This time he was not refused.

Michael returned as Wells was beginning a detailed description of his recruitment and initiation several years before as a member of the
Thule Gesellschaft
. He had already named several other highly placed British initiates and confessed that he and they had been relaying information back to Germany for over a year, often through psychic means. He had been trying to reach his chiefs when the brigadier caught the shift of his aura, though even
he
had not thought he had a prayer of succeeding under the circumstances. He did not know whether he had made contact.

After a few more questions, Graham turned the interrogation over to Michael, whose German was better than his own, and drew William aside. The prince was tight-jawed with outrage.

“I take it you followed most of that,” Graham murmured, keeping his eyes on Michael and the prisoner. “I wasn't sure how rusty your German might have become.”

“Not rusty enough, it seems,” William replied. “I still can't believe some of the things I just heard. How did he get involved in something like that? More to the point right now, who vetted him before he came on my staff? I didn't even know he spoke German.”

“I have some ideas I'll follow through on that,” Graham said. “Considering who else he named, it shouldn't be too difficult to track down. Fascinating little exposé on the Thule Group, though. Charming folk, aren't they?”

William shivered and glanced at the floor. “It was sickening. How could anyone do that to another human being? I can't even imagine doing it to an animal! Could he possibly be making it up?”

Graham shook his head, remembering the Dieter photographs. “Definitely not. Between the drug and our utilization of his own conditioning, he isn't capable of lying. At very least, he believes that's what happened, even if a lot of it were faked to look that way for the initiation, so they could blackmail him later on. That isn't likely, however. The Thulists are noted for their sadistic rituals. Ask Grubaugh about it someday if you want the really gory details.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“I assure you, he has absolutely nothing to do with this. The question now is, what do you want to do with our friend?”

William snorted. “Have we really got a choice? Oh, I could cover his absence for a few days if you thought you could get anything more out of him, but it all comes 'round to the same decision in the end. He has to go—and the sooner it's done, the less chance of arousing outside suspicion.”

“I'm forced to agree. Let's see if Michael and the brigadier concur.”

Wells was still muttering in a broken mixture of German and English as they came back, but his words no longer made any sense. His head wove back and forth aimlessly between the brigadier's hands, his eyes focused with dread on something only he could see. Michael looked troubled as he glanced up at Graham.

“All I'm getting now is Nazi dogma and party slogans, sir—and something about eyes staring at him. Could someone be trying to link in with him?”

“If they are, they can't be getting anything coherent,” Graham murmured. “Did you get anything else out of him?”

Michael drew a deep breath and seemed to pull himself together. “He did spill one other interesting bit. It seems he placed a trunk call to Scotland sometime in the past week—after you and Prince William set up tonight's guest list, since that's what he rang to report. Until this evening, he was convinced that the prince was the mastermind behind whatever is being planned—though he suspected all along that you were involved, Gray. Apparently, something about the Plymouth trip didn't set quite right, and he knew you'd made the arrangements. In any case, both your names were mentioned when he talked to Scotland. Sorry, sir,” he concluded, glancing apologetically at William.

William's jaw tightened, but he only looked to Graham. Graham allowed himself a weary, resigned sigh.

“I don't suppose you got any names for ‘them'?” he asked.

“No names, but I do have a number,” Michael replied, looking a little more confident as he handed across a slip of paper. “He either doesn't know or won't say who it actually was. His contact used a code name which changed according to the date. Wells ordinarily receives his instructions by letter drop or post, but there wasn't time in this case. I got the location of the drop, and there's a code book in his room back at Buck House. Shall I try to trace the number when we get back?”

With a distracted nod, Graham memorized the number and gave back the paper. He was willing to bet a year's salary that it would connect with one of the high-born names Wells had already mentioned. That was not sufficient to save the unfortunate Wells, however.

“Good work, Michael. Please do. William, we'll need that code book as soon as possible. I'll ask you to collect it, if you will.”

“Of course.”

Graham folded his arms across his chest and sighed, then glanced down once more at the nearly oblivious Wells. He did not much like this part of his work.

“Is there anything else I should know, Captain Jordan?” he said formally, finally looking up at Michael. “Any reason to continue this questioning?”

Michael stiffened, immediately aware what Graham was asking.

“No, sir. Not in my opinion.”

“Thank you. I know that was not an easy answer to give. Wesley, do you agree?”

“Regretfully, yes. If we let him come out of this, he'll spill his guts to his chiefs on the Second Road as soon as he's able.” He sighed and dropped his hands to the condemned man's shoulders. “Poor lad, maybe he'll get things right in the next go-through,” he murmured softly.

“Right. That's it, then,” Graham said after a minute pause. With brisk efficiency and before anyone had time to think too much about it, he shouldered Denton aside and emptied the rest of the syringe into Wells's vein. Wells subsided almost instantly into unconsciousness.

“Denny, I'll need a lethal dose to finish this,” Graham said quietly, beginning to remove the strips of tape that held the syringe in place. “Michael, I take it you found the Rolls?”

Only as Denton withdrew to prepare what was ordered did Michael rouse himself with a start, exchanging a slightly queasy look with the tight-lipped William.

“He hadn't hidden it very well, sir,” Michael said, beginning to regain his composure. “He'd left it in a lay-by, less than a mile from here. I brought it around to the back entrance via the rear gate. None of the guests saw it.”

“Fine. Where's your mother?”

“Seeing Dame Emma off. Everyone else has gone. She sent the servants off to bed, and the house is secure. Flynn stayed. He's patrolling the grounds with your other two men.”

“Very good. Wesley, would you get his coat, please?”

As the brigadier complied, Graham left the last strip of tape in place and began untying Wells's slack arms.

“Now, Michael, here's what I want you to do when we're finished here,” he continued. “There's a bad stretch of road with a diversion a few miles toward London. Do you know the place?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. With the blackout, it would be very easy for someone in a hurry to miss a turn and go into the ditch. Make sure the car burns. Denny will go with you.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Graham pulled loose the last loops of cord and the remaining strip of tape, Denton returned with a full syringe; a stethoscope hung around his neck. Blood welled briefly from the needle still in Wells's arm as Graham switched syringes, and he wiped it off in a wad of cotton. Before his thumb could shift to the plunger, William laid a restraining hand on his arm.

“I'll take over from here, Gray,” the prince whispered. “It's my job, not yours. He worked for me.”

A little stiffly, Graham exchanged places with the prince and stood aside. William's face was unreadable as he bent over the syringe and its sure but merciful death. When it was done, William handed the empty syringe to Denton and pressed a cotton wad over the tiny puncture wound while his other hand sought the pulse point in the flaccid wrist. He closed his eyes when Denton moved in to slip the bell of the stethoscope inside Wells's shirt.

After a few minutes, Denton withdrew, and the brigadier bent to brush his lips lightly against Wells's hair, gently letting the head loll forward on the still chest.

“Go in peace, son,” Ellis whispered.

William's eyes opened at the words. As he straightened and let himself be eased aside, Graham's arm around his shoulders, his hands fell awkwardly to his sides. He watched numbly as Denton and Michael hoisted Wells's limp form between them and carried him out of the room. The brigadier followed with the dead man's coat, closing the door softly behind him.

William breathed out slowly, then pulled out a cigarette and sat in the wing-back chair the brigadier had lately occupied. His hands were shaking as he tried to light up, and Graham finally took the lighter away from him and gave him flame.

“You didn't have to do that, you know,” Graham said, pulling his chair closer and dropping the warm lighter into William's hand before straddling the chair again. “I told you that before. I was prepared to do it.”

Smoke wreathed around William as he shook his head and slouched in his chair. “No, it was my responsibility. I'd just forgotten how much I hated this part of the business. I thought I'd left the killing behind when they made me quit the service.”

“I'm not sure we ever leave it behind,” Graham replied, leaning his chin on his folded arms atop the chair back. “Hating it, I mean. I'm not sure we ever should. It's a weighty thing to take a life—and no one should enjoy being an executioner, even when the cause is just. You didn't do it out of vengeance.”

“No.”

The talk of killing reminded Graham of other lives taken, and he wondered again why it was only recently that more detailed memories of his own deeds should begin to surface. He shook the mood with a blink and a slight shake of his head—it had been a grim enough night already without bringing
that
in—and found William staring at him. He must have been away for longer than he thought.

“Where were you?” William asked, breathing out smoke. “You looked like you were seeing ghosts.”

Graham smiled grimly, though he did not lift his head from his arms. “Perhaps I was. Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. I was thinking about other deaths for which I've been responsible. Does that make you feel any better?”

“Not really.”

The ash on William's cigarette was getting long, and he rose with a cupped hand under it, looking for an ash tray. The only one was on the desk, next to the black bag and Denton's empty syringes. William stared at them for a moment, the cigarette dripping ash into his hand, then stubbed it out and came back to Graham, dusting off his hands, eyes downcast.

“So what happens next?” he asked.

“I have some loose ends to wrap up. You should get some sleep while you can.” Graham glanced at his watch. “It's after one now. You may have four or five hours, at most, before someone finds your car and the authorities come inquiring. At least they'll know to ask here first, since it's known you were staying with Wesley for a few days. Until that happens, you ought to get some sleep.”

“Sleep?” William snorted. “You don't really expect me to sleep after all of this, do you? Even if I hadn't just killed a man in cold blood, there was all that other.”

He dropped heavily into the wing-back chair again, then cocked his head at Graham, eyes narrowing.

“You started to tell me something just before we found Denny and Wells. I asked if I'd said anything wrong, and you said that I might have unwittingly—what? You never got to finish.”

Graham sighed, wondering now whether he should even mention it and give William one more thing to brood on. There had been no time to think about it while they resolved the Wells crisis, but now the imagery of those kneeling with their hands between William's snapped into clear focus. Even more chilling were the words they had spoken at the end: “God save the King!” If only he could be certain they were not referring to William.

“Gray, what is it?” William persisted.

Studying the carpet through the rungs on the back of his chair, Graham grimaced and resigned himself to the uncomfortable task of trying to articulate his worry without also putting ideas in William's head.

“Very well, it was the oath taking,” he said softly. “I'm not sure you're aware how some people may have seen it. I think it might be construed as something more than a simple homage.”

“Why? Was there some esoteric factor of which I wasn't aware?” William sat forward cautiously. “You know, of course, that I exchanged Masonic countersigns with Sir Robert when I took his oath. There was nothing unusual about that.”

“No, of course not. What I was going to point out was that you might unwittingly have cast yourself in the role of another Edward III. It's probably remote—at least I hope so—but the parallel is an odd coincidence, in any case.”

“Edward III? I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Think back to that night in London when we discussed the founding of the Order of the Garter,” Graham said. “Do you remember how you told me that a lady lost her garter and Edward picked it up and spoke his immortal words?”

“Yes, of course, but—”