Ian Tregillis - Bitter Seeds

Marsh dashed down the corridor, toward where the intruder had been heading. Over his shoulder he yelled, “Raise the alarm, Will!”

Klaus pressed deeper into the Admiralty. If he still had his bearings correct, he was working toward the rear of the building. The place was a goddamned maze. Perhaps that's why the British made excellent sailors. They had to be navigational geniuses just to get around on land.

... They will keep me locked in a storage room. I will be granted a cot, however, and so will be cheerful and well-rested upon your arrival... .

The soft scrape of enamel on enamel vibrated through Klaus's jaw as his teeth ground together. Why do you do this to me, Gretel? he wondered. Your comfort won't matter at all if I can't find you.

Fewer people walked these corridors. Some of the rooms were empty, looking like they had recently been vacated. Thick black folds of opaque fabric covered the windows. One room turned out to be a landing where a wooden balustrade spiraled up from the floor below. Finally.

Three men came up the stairs as Klaus reached the top. Two wore naval uniforms, the third a tweed suit. Klaus squeezed past them as they gained the landing. Relieved at having found the cellar, he forgot himself and momentarily disregarded the bars on the oldest man's shoulders.

“I say!” said the younger of the two officers.

The older—a commander, and therefore superior to Klaus's counterfeit rank—cleared his throat. He grabbed Klaus's shoulder and spun him around.

“Stop him!”

The brawler came barreling around the corner. The three men on the staircase turned at the commotion.

“Stop that man! He's a Jerry spy!”

Klaus dropped through the stairwell.

A hue and cry spread through the building. News of the intruder spread faster than Will could race through the corridors raising the alarm himself. It was like touching a match to dry tinder: after that initial spark, it assumed a life of its own. Most of the occupants of the Old Admiralty didn't know about Milkweed, or its purpose, but that was immaterial. There was a spy on the premises.

But none of the outsiders knew what to expect.

Will banged on the door to Lorimer's makeshift darkroom. “Lorimer! Open up!”

It opened a few moments later, after much cursing, banging, and sloshing came from inside. Lorimer poked his head out, blinking widely as his eyes adjusted to the bright light of the hallway. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I need to borrow you for a bit.”

“I'm busy.”

“Change of plans.” Will grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him outside. “It's an emergency,” he added.

Lorimer slammed the door. “Don't bleed on me.”

Will leaned close. “We have an intruder. One of them.” He answered the question in Lorimer's eyes with a whisper: “I think he's here for the girl.”

Lorimer exhaled. “Christ on a bloody camel.”

“Marsh has gone after the fellow—tall chap, about my height, darkish skin like the girl, dressed like an officer. So have a number of others, but they won't be expecting any, ah, tricks. Go help Marsh. He was headed for the cellar.”

“Wonderful.” The Scot muttered to himself as he ran off. “We'll all burn to death like Hindu widows... .”

A trio of matelots stampeded down the hall after Lorimer. Will pressed himself against the wall so as not to get flattened. He still bumped shoulders with one of the men as they charged past, evoking a renewed agony from his finger. Rather than join the commotion and chaos, Will opted for a different tactic.

The mob of pursuers expected to trap and catch the fellow indoors. But if he truly was one of von Westarp's kiddies, there was every chance he might disappear from sight, or burn through the walls, or cause them to fly apart, or Lord knew what. And if he joined forces with that strange woman and the store of knowledge in her head? They'd have little trouble getting away.

Will headed for a side door. Imagining how Marsh might have tackled the problem prompted him to approach Horse Guards' Road, along the park. If it were me on the run, I'd come out this way, rather than risk drawing more attention to myself right there on Whitehall.

Dusk had fallen. If there hadn't been a blackout in effect, the gas lamps in the park would have shone in little halos of mist left over from the day's long drizzle. Instead the only illumination came from the moon as it peeked through receding clouds overhead and a misty fog on the ground. The result was a pale diffuse light that bleached the color from the world. Quiet, too, but for the traffic humming around Trafalgar.

Will crossed the road and entered the park. It smelled humid with new spring growth; the soil squelched underfoot. Looking back at the Admiralty, he could just pick out the row of windows apportioned to Milkweed. Blackout curtains rendered every window opaque. Nighttime in the city had been a romantic yet ofttimes lonely affair since September.

Rather than stand out in the open like a proper fool, he pushed into the park, where the shadows were even deeper. In better times, it would have been possible to glimpse Buckingham Palace at the far end of the Mall. He stepped carefully, lest he take a tumble in one of the trenches dug for the sake of filling sandbags. Many of the parks had been turned over to gardening and home defense.

He crouched behind a mulberry tree, peering across to the Admiralty. A mallard called, down by the lake. Tires screeched and a horn blared somewhere nearby. Even in war time, daily life in the wider world went on.

Mist seeped through the fine-spun cotton of Will's shirt. The damp Savile Row fabric cooled his skin where it had been warm with the perspiration of fear and excitement. At first it felt refreshing, then bracing. But it turned into clamminess as the minutes dragged on with nary a sign of activity across the street.

Did I expect to find somebody out here, or did I just run away from danger?

Though he was loath to sacrifice his hard-earned night vision, shivering and boredom prompted him to abandon his hiding spot. It wasn't until he had crossed the road again that he noticed the silhouette of somebody crouched alongside the building. The lurker darted around the corner of the Admiralty building.

Aha! You may be the smartest fellow in the room, Pip, but I'm no slouch either.

“Stop! You there, stop!” Will gave chase, following the shabby-looking fellow around the corner.

The man spun. He reared back, regarding Will with the wide unblinking eyes of a madman. Late middle-aged, Will guessed, with a slight paunch. Perhaps dismissing the fellow as a madman was uncharitable; he might have been a shell-shocked Tommy from the previous war. The chap's scar supported that notion. A long pink wrinkle stretched from the corner of his left eye down around his jaw and across his neck through an otherwise full beard.

“Will?”

Will stopped. He didn't recognize this fellow, nor did he recognize the gravel-and-whiskey voice. His voice, his footsteps, his breaths, even the rasp of his beard across the collar of his shirt echoed as if coming from the bottom of a deep well. It was hollow and hyperreal at once.

“Do I know you?” asked Will.

The man's eyes glimmered, as if with tears. “I wish—”

And then, between one beat of Will's heart and the next, the man disappeared. He didn't scamper away, didn't hide in the shadows, but disappeared.

“Shit.” Will's knees gave out. He slumped against rough bricks of Admiralty House. “Shit.” Part of him wished, at that particular moment, that he carried a flask.

Phantom visions, indeed.

Ooomf.

Klaus rematerialized a split second before landing in the cellar. He tucked in and exhaled, exactly as he'd been trained. His knees and shoulder absorbed most of the momentum as he rolled on a hard concrete floor. He leapt to his feet at the intersection of two long brick corridors lined with vaulted arches, like catacombs. Rows of identical steel doorways receded in both directions.