Lammas Night (9 page)

“Oh, I do, I suppose, but—”

With a weary shrug, William sighed and glanced at the sleeping Michael. After a moment, he returned his gaze to Graham, suddenly very pensive.

“How I do miss working with you, Gray,” he said quietly. “Quite apart from the rare pleasure of having someone I could really talk to, without the barriers of rank, I felt like I was doing something useful.”

He smiled halfheartedly and began chasing his cigarette butt around the ash tray with one finger, no longer meeting Graham's eyes.

“Do you know what it's like being a fifth prince?” he asked in an even lower voice. “I sometimes think it's rather like being a fifth wheel—utterly useless.”

Stunned, Graham let his chair drop on all four legs and reached across to grip the prince's forearm. He had not heard William so despondent in many months—not that the war allowed them to see one another that often, but this was a bad sign.

Not for the first time, he bitterly resented the orders that had removed William from the Intelligence Service, which he loved, and at a time when William was already foundering in the wake of personal tragedy. It had nearly destroyed him then and Graham was not certain the danger was yet past, though William generally made a good outward show of being able to carry on.

“William, I don't ever want to hear you say that again,” he said softly. “Put it out of your mind. I don't agree with the decision any more than you do, but it's done. There are many other useful things you can do to help the war effort. You're here, aren't you?”

William snorted. “My brother was being kind. He didn't really need a royal observer here. Anyone could have done what I've been doing.”

“
Anyone
couldn't have done what you did this morning,” Graham retorted, sitting back in his chair. “I wouldn't have taken
anyone
along to the harbor or allowed
anyone
to be here while I debriefed Michael. Why do you think I sent Wells off for food? It wasn't just because I was hungry, I assure you. Orders or not, I still consider you a part of my team, William.”

The prince ducked his head, a faint smile quirking at the corners of his mouth. “Apart from my family, do you know you're the only one who calls me by my Christian name, even in private? I doubt you can even begin to imagine what that means to me.”

The tone did not demand an answer, but Graham suddenly felt very awkward. For a few seconds, he feared that the conversation was about to take an even more maudlin turn, but then William drew a deep breath and seemed to pull himself together. When he looked up, the royal mask was back in place, the expression only a little wistful.

“So, since Wells is still gone, what can you tell me about Michael's real mission?” the prince asked, lighting up another cigarette. “I gather that he's brought back important film of—what?”

Graham let himself relax a little, schooling his expression to careful nonchalance. Other than the Dieter photographs, which he would have to screen alone, most of Michael's overt mission was well known to the rest of the team back in London and could certainly be discussed with the prince. What he must conceal from William would be concealed from the rest of the team as well.

“Well, a great deal of it is part of some fairly straightforward propaganda,” Graham said easily. “Are you by any chance familiar with the work of Nostradamus, the sixteenth-century French seer?”

“Nostradamus? No. I think I've heard the name, but tell me about him.”

“Well, he claimed to be able to predict the future—and apparently did rather well at it. He set his predictions in four-line stanzas called quatrains—all in sixteenth-century French, of course, and filled with double meanings and obscure references. The interesting bit is that many of them do seem to have come true over the years, even in this century. Several even predict the rise of Hitler, by name, and the general progress of the war so far. The Germans love that, of course.”

“He could really predict the future?” William asked, amazed.

Graham shrugged noncommittally. “I couldn't say. A lot of people think he could, though. And we recently learned that some of Hitler's minions are working on reinterpretations of later quatrains to make it look like Germany will be the undisputed victor. They plan to print up leaflets and airdrop them over the occupied countries of Western Europe. You can imagine the effect that might have on France in particular, since Nostradamus was one of their own. Why continue to resist, if defeat is a foregone conclusion?”

William nodded, intrigued despite his obvious skepticism about the very notion of predicting the future.

“I see. Then you're trying to stop them from rewriting these predictions?”

“Not at all. Even if we eliminated the man who's doing most of the work—a Swiss astrologer, name of Krafft—they'd just find someone else. At least we know Krafft's work. No, we're trying to find out what
he's
doing so that
our
Nostradamus expert can write counterinterpretations. Then we can drop leaflets of our own.”

“Wait just a moment.
Our
Nostradamus expert?”

Graham shrugged apologetically. “Sorry to blast you out of the theoretical, but we have a chap in London working on the same thing as Krafft. He's doing a marvelous job. All a part of psychological warfare, my friend.”

“I—see.”

William was silent for several seconds, studying Graham through a veil of cigarette smoke. After a moment, his eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward, stabbing toward Graham with his cigarette in an old, familiar gesture.

“You said that this Swiss who's working for the Germans is an astrologer. Do I infer correctly that our man is, too?”

Graham cocked his head, wondering what William was getting at.

“He is.”

“Then does astrology figure in all of this?”

“Well, yes—”

“Yes,
but
. Why do you always have to qualify your answers? Tell me this, then. Apart from the psychological-warfare aspect, how real a tool
is
astrology?”

“Well, the Germans think—”

“That isn't what I asked,” William interjected. “I know what the Germans think—or at least what our chaps at Whitehall
believe
the Germans think. Everyone knows that Hitler is fascinated with the occult, that he's rumored to have a stable of pet astrologers—and obviously we have some, too, yourself among them. From this I can surmise that both sides are probably trying to figure out what the other side will do next by what the stars tell them—I know all that. I also know that you pass off your own knowledge of astrology and all the rest as part of parlor magic, in the same league as rabbits out of hats and such. The Germans don't, though. They take it very seriously. And somehow, especially after your little hypnosis demonstration, I suddenly have the feeling that you do, too. Am I right, Gray? Do you actually believe in that stuff?”

Too well trained to show any outward sign of his uneasiness, Graham inwardly squirmed. He had been throwing William off this particular scent for years, but he had never known him to be so persistent. Where
was
the prince getting his questions today? It was about time for the cavalry to come to the rescue—though Graham would gladly settle for Wells or the doctor. At least astrology was one of the more innocuous of the occult sciences. Graham could be fairly direct about that.

“I don't know that ‘believe' is exactly the right term,” he replied carefully. “Part of astrology is a science, with its own laws and procedures. Interpretation is the tricky bit. Some people do seem to have a knack for making meaningful connections.”

“Do you?”

“Well, I don't know that I'm the best judge of that,” he hedged. “I can cast a chart, but so can anyone who knows how to read an ephemeris and perform a few simple mathematical calculations. It's part of my job.”

“I know that. Have you ever cast
my
chart, though?” William persisted.

“What makes you think I have?”

He had tried to keep his tone neutral, but he knew William had seen right through that one. He could see speculation turning to certainty as William stubbed out his cigarette and sat forward eagerly.

“You
have
, haven't you? And I'll bet you can do more than cast a chart, too! Come on, Gray, what did it say?”

Graham had not seen the prince so enthusiastic about anything in so long that he was a little taken aback. He had never intended to broach this subject with William, but now that he was all but committed, he found himself reacting with a strange mixture of caution and pleased anticipation—as if the thought of sharing at least a small part of his other work with William were suddenly not so alien, after all.

Perhaps it came of Graham's new responsibilities—having to take over for Selwyn—and the more intricate and chilling dimensions that had come with Michael's mention of Dieter and black magical connections in Germany. The unexpected glimpse of evil Graham had caught while searching for Michael still haunted him. He dared not tell William about that, but perhaps there were some things they
could
talk about. Like the prince, who was never addressed by first name outside the bosom of his family except by Graham, Graham had never been able to discuss any aspect of his other life with anyone outside the “family” of Oakwood. The idea of taking William inside that circle of confidence, even in a very small way, felt oddly right. He would have to give that further thought.

“Very well, I can do more than cast a chart,” he conceded, “and yes, I have cast yours.”

“I knew it!”

“Unfortunately, I don't think this is either the time or the place to go into very much detail. Your Mr. Wells or the admiral's good doctor will be arriving any minute.”

“Well, tell me in general, then,” William begged. “This is fascinating. I'll bet none of my brothers ever had their horoscopes read.”

Smiling wanly, Graham sat back in his chair and rested his elbows on the arms, making a steeple of his fingers. If only William knew. The charts of all the Royal Family were nearly as well known to Graham as his own, and he was certain they were known to others as well, on both sides of the Channel.

But no need to alarm the prince about that, since he only half believed in “this stuff,” anyway. If William took it in his head to think beyond their immediate conversation and was meant to know, he would draw that conclusion on his own, soon enough.

“Let's see,” he said, trying to stall while he decided how much he wanted to tell the prince. “You and John were born on July 12, 1905, at around three in the morning, as I recall—Sandringham, wasn't it?”

“You know it was.” William paused a beat. “Did you do John's chart, too?”

Graham nodded. “I remember being intrigued the first time I compared them. I'd never had a chance to look at twins' charts before. It's fascinating how less than an hour's difference in birth times can change the aspects even for twins. Granted, you and John were not identical, but—well, it was fascinating nonetheless.”

“That's amazing. When did you first look at them?”

“When you were assigned to me,” Graham replied with a smile. “I wanted to see what I was getting. Nor was I disappointed. Both your sun and your ascendant are in the same degree of Cancer, and your moon is in Scorpio. In fact, both our moons are in Scorpio—within eight degrees of one another. More unusual than that, our ascendants are less than a minute apart.”

“Is that good?”

“I think so. Actually, I don't know that I'd go so far as to characterize it as good or bad, but it certainly tends to explain why we're alike in so many ways. A Scorpio moon is particularly appropriate to any kind of secret or undercover work—and you have your Mars in Scorpio as well. Such a placement usually indicates a keen desire for knowledge, information, finding out what makes things tick, ferreting out secrets—that sort of thing. I think it certainly applies in your case, but you need to—”

A knock at the door broke into his recitation, and he grinned wickedly and murmured, “Saved!” as William started. The prince scowled as he glanced at the door.

“We'll continue this conversation at a later time,” he said under his breath in a tone that left no doubt that they would do just that. “You don't get off that easily. Come in,” he called.

Graham rose as the door opened, shifting into the more formal demeanor that he and William had long ago agreed must be their public relationship—former military superior and prince. Wells, carrying a covered tray, ushered in an elderly navy surgeon wearing the triple cuff rings of a full commander.

“Sir, this is Commander Reynolds,” Wells said.

The surgeon's orderlies waited downstairs with a gurney, and within a quarter hour, Reynolds had whisked Michael off to surgery for treatment, assuring both Graham and the prince that their patient would be back on limited duty within a week. With Michael safe, Graham and the prince began eating the soup and sandwiches Wells had brought back. All further thought of food vanished, however, when Denton entered with a bulging manila envelope under his arm.

“Anything interesting, Denny?” Graham asked. Pulling out the first fat roll, he lifted a few frames to the light.

“
Very
interesting, sir. You did know that the third roll had already been processed, didn't you?”

Primed by Michael's warning about the Dieter film, Graham only nodded as he pulled a magnifying glass from his pocket and peered more closely at a few selected frames. Only the general forms of the astrological charts were visible to the naked eye, and a few larger words with the glass, but what he could read was sufficient to bring a smile to his lips.

“Yes, Michael mentioned that,” he said casually, putting the glass away. “These are excellent. Are the rest more or less like this?”