Lammas night

  "I'll be all right," Michael finally said in a still-shaky voice. "I took some shrapnel in the arm—yesterday—I think it was— but it mostly just aches now. God, I'm cold!"

  "How about your leg? You were limping rather badly."

  "I don't think it's broken. Some wrenched muscles and bruising, maybe. I got it wedged in some debris trying to pull somebody out. He drowned, anyway."

  "Has a medic seen you?" William asked.

  Michael shook his head and gulped another swallow of tea. "Someone looked at me on the Lydd, but I think he was only a corpsman, sir. That's ail a little hazy. There were so many others worse off. ..." He lowered his eyes and stared into the cup dazedly, then whispered, "I think the worst part was the Comfort y "The comfort?" Graham asked.

  "A ship. She was one of ours." Michael drew a deep breath, his face mirroring the horror of the memory. "The Lydd sank her. They thought she was an E-boat, I suppose—the one that hit the Grafton —and they—they—"

  He managed to swallow, his throat working painfully, and William rescued the precariously clutched cup and handed it back up to Denton.

  "Gray, it was awful," Michael went on in a strained whisper.

  "You could hear the men screaming from below decks as she went down. They didn't have a chance "

  "Easy, son." Graham exchanged a glance with William over the bowed head. "There's nothing you could have done. It was their time. You'll feel better when you've rested. In the meantime, do you have something for me?"

  With an obvious effort to pull himself together, Michael took a deep breath and nodded, fumbling in the pouch at his belt until he could withdraw three small metal canisters the size of spools of thread. He held them balanced in one palm and stared at them for a moment before tipping them into Graham's waiting hand.

  "These cost a lot of lives," he whispered. "I hope they're worth it."

  As Graham—all too aware of the cost—closed them in his fist, Michael swallowed noisily and ducked his head, burying his face in his good hand as his shoulders began to heave. Graham slipped an arm around his shoulders in compassion, wondering whether he dared use any of his more unusual techniques to ease him, but he was leery with William sitting on Michael's other side and Wells in the driver's seat.

  "Why don't you try to get some sleep?" he suggested, hoping Michael was sufficiently in control to catch a double meaning.

  But Michael only shook his head and murmured, "Can't," blindly weaving his head from side to side with eyes unfocused, reliving his own private nightmares of the past week.

  As Wells worked their way back up Castle Hill, Graham considered pressing the issue of sleep, knowing he could even force it if he chose. The discipline developed between himself and the others of the Oakwood group could bypass Michael's conscious resistance and send him into pain-free slumber with a touch and a few well-chosen words.

  But the effect could be dramatic, especially with Michael as subject. And this was hardly the place or the audience for involved explanations. Though Denton would never bat an eye, Graham would rather not raise possibly awkward questions on William's part; and Wells, less than a year in the prince's employ, was a wholly unknown factor and kept glancing all too unpredictably at their rescued passenger in his rear-view mirror. There remained also the matter of at least beginning a debriefing before Michael was whisked off for obviously much-needed medical attention.

  By the time they pulled into the tower car park again, however, a plan had jelled for dealing with all Graham's immediate concerns. Almost as soon as the car had stopped, he had his door open and was drawing Denton aside as Wells and the prince began helping Michael out.

  "Denny, I hadn't counted on Michael being quite so bad off," he said in a low voice, pressing the three film canisters into the other's hand. "While I take care of him, I need you to have this film processed and see what we've got. There's a photography section somewhere in the Ops complex, isn't there?"

  With a nod, Denton stashed the film in an inside tunic pocket. "Yes, sir, they've set up several temporary darkrooms. Shall I bother with prints for now or not?"

  "Not yet. Just process the film and get back to me as soon as you can—and don't let it out of your sight."

  "Right, sir."

  "And ring London and tell Gnimbaugh we may be looking at an all-nighter," Graham added. "If it's what I hope, we're going to be very busy for the next few days."

  Denton raised a hand in acknowledgment as he jogged off toward the headquarters complex. Graham, with a sigh, joined Wells and the prince and helped get Michael upstairs. The young agent groaned, half fainting, as Graham and Wells eased him down on a couch. William headed directly for the telephone.

  "I'll get a surgeon up here right away," the prince said, ah-eady dialing as Wells drew a blanket around their patient. "We probably should have let them see him down at the harbor. Do you think he's in shock?"

  "Quite probably," Graham replied, sitting beside Michael and feeling for a pulse. "I've got to at least begin his debriefing while you hunt for somebody, though. It may be a while before I get another chance."

  As Michael moaned and opened his eyes, tensing with the pain, Graham noticed for the first time that the pupils were pinpoint, though of the same size, and the gaze a little unfocused. Not a concussion, then, but a drug—probably morphine. That could certainly account for some colorful nightmares.

  though he doubted it was sufficient to explain what he had experienced on the Second Road.

  "Just try to relax, Michael. We'll have a doctor for you soon. Mr. Wells, perhaps you'd be so good as to find us something to eat," he said over his shoulder as he turned Michael's face for a closer look at the eyes. "Tea and sandwiches would be fine, and maybe some hot soup. Michael, did they give you morphine on the ship?"

  As Wells withdrew without a word and disappeared, hopefully for some time, Michael winced and turned his face away from the light.

  "Sorry. I'm not remembering too clearly. I think they didy now that you mention it."

  As Michael shifted position and bit back another groan, Graham glanced surreptitiously at the prince. William had withdrawn into the doorway of the next room with the telephone and was safely engaged, at least for the moment, fumbling in his pocket for a cigarette while he talked emphatically to someone. If Graham was going to ask Michael about the vision, it would have to be now.

  "About what time do you think that was?" he asked softly. "Do you remember dreaming?"

  Michael's eyes met his in dazed question, some of his pain put aside as he tried to read the reason for the query.

  "Dreaming?"

  "About a roomful of people in black robes," Graham prompted.

  Michael's jaw gaped. "But that wasn't—the film! Dieter's film!"

  His eyes went wild as his good hand scrabbled in the pouch at his waist and found nothing, and he started to speak. Alarmed lest the commotion draw William, Graham clamped one hand over Michael's mouth and grabbed his wrist with his other.

  "It's all right," he murmured. "You already gave me the film. Don't you remember? And what's this about Dieter? I didn't know you'd seen him on this trip."

  As he released Michael, the younger man sagged back into the cushions of the couch in relief.

  "Dieter helped me get out of Germany after the pickup plane went down," Michael whispered, barely mouthing the words. "I didn't know who else to turn to. One of those rolls of film is from him. It's a negative—already processed. He's infiltrated a black lodge. Gray. He showed me other pictures. I've been having nightmares about them ever since."

  "And that's what the morphine triggered?" Graham asked.

  Michael nodded, shuddering as he squeezed his eyes shut. "I'll never forget that face as long as I live."

  "A heavy-set man wearing black robes and a mask?" Graham ventured, painfully pulling the image from his own memory. "Perhaps with a saber scar on one cheek?"

  Michael stared at him aghast. "That's him! How did you know? Did you link up with m
y nightmare?"

  "A bit more than that, I'm afraid," Graham replied uneasily. "Is it possible that this lodge was working last night and that Dieter was with them?"

  "Oh, God!" Michael breathed. "Yes. Yes it is." His eyes misted a little, and he blinked back unbidden tears. "He—he's had to do some terrible things to establish his credibility. Gray. Xhey—took pictures. He said he'd put copies of some of them on the film. There's supposed to be a full report, too."

  "Well, we'll see about that when Denny gets back with the film," Graham murmured.

  He glanced over at William again. The prince was still on the telephone, but he seemed to be winding up his call. There was no time to go into further details with Michael just now— and perhaps the film would clarify the rest. Now Graham knew he had not imagined what he had seen and that the danger was very real. Provided he stayed away from unguarded forays onto the Second Road until he found out what he was up against, however, he should be safe enough. As for Dieter "You'd better try to get some sleep now," he said soberly, looking down at Michael again. "We'll talk more about this later."

  Michael shook his head and struggled to sit, his eyes going wild with fear and pain as he grabbed both of Graham's wrists.

  "No! If I sleep, I'll dream about it. Don't make me— please!"

  Twisting one hand free, Graham clapped it to Michael's forehead, pressing him back onto the couch with hand and body. He had hoped to put Michael quietly to sleep, but the boy's fear was too wrapped up with exhaustion now, edging on hysteria, near to blurting out things best unsaid with William only yards away.

  "Go to sleep, Michael," he commanded softly but with all the power he could summon. "Close your eyes and take a nice, deep breath—and let it out. Don't fight me. Let go of the pain and sleep—now!"

  At Graham's very touch, Michael's whole body went rigid. But as Graham spoke, Michael closed trembling eyelids and went completely limp, all in a single, rasping sigh. Another breath and Graham could take his hand away.

  But as Graham sat back and allowed himself a cautious sigh, he became aware of William standing directly behind him. It took a great deal of effort not to tense. If William had heard the part about the men in the black robes—

  But, no—he could not have heard that and would not have understood it if he had. The most he could have seen and heard was Graham's induction—and that was simply hypnosis, though he must be careful to steer William away from thinking too much abput how he and Michael happened to have that kind of bond. Such inquiries could touch all too close to the truth— and the truth, while undoubtedly fascinating to a man like William, was far too controversial for the involvement of royal dukes.

  Feigning a lethargy he did not feel at all, Graham rose and stretched, only half covering an elaborate yawn as he turned and apparently noticed William's presence for the first time. The prince wore a puzzled expression, but he did not look apprehensive or hostile. With care, Graham was confident he could turn the inevitable questions in harmless directions.

  "Oh, pardon me for yawning," he murmured, shaking his head behind his hand as he yawned again. "It's been a long past few days. Did you find us a surgeon?"

  "Yes, I pulled rank and rousted the admiral's man. He should be here in fifteen or twenty minutes." The blue eyes were still faintly puzzled as he took a drag on his cigarette. "I don't suppose you'd care to tell me how you just did that?"

  "Did what?"

  "With Michael—you know. It looked like you—made him go to sleep."

  "Oh, I did." Graham gestured casually toward the table by the window. "Let's sit, shall we? We won't wake him just by talking."

  Set a little off balance by Graham*s nonchalance, William let himself be ushered back to their seats of earlier in the morning. Grey light glinted from the signet on his little finger as he flicked ash into the silver ash tray. He drew smoke deeply into his lungs and exhaled before glancing across at Graham again.

  "Well?"

  Graham gave him a wry smile and settled back in his chair, making a show of casually stretching his long legs out to the side and crossing them at the ankles. He intended to tell William the truth—there was something about the man that made it almost impossible to lie to him—but one could avoid the lie without necessarily volunteering all the truth. He wished he had a cigarette or a drink or something to occupy his hands.

  "Well, there's nothing really mysterious about it, though I'm sure it looked that way," Graham said easily. "I gave Michael a form of posthypnotic suggestion. Quite useful, especially in situations like this. I use hypnosis with several of my agents."

  "You never used it with me."

  "No, but you've seen me use it on myself often enough," Graham countered glibly. "Don't you remember how I used to snatch those quick naps in the field and you could never figure out how I managed to go to sleep so fast and wake up precisely on time?"

  "I remember."

  "Well." He shrugged and smiled again. 'This is just an extension of that sort of thing—quite new and unofficial so far as the Service is concerned. I don't usually need to be so forceful, but Michael was on the verge of hysteria. He also happens to be a very responsive subject. I'm sorry if it startled you."

  William snorted, then broke into a slow, lazy smile. "I'll say it did. I must say, I'm relieved. For a moment there, I almost fancied you were going to tell me it was magic."

  "Magic?"

  Damn! Was William's use of the term only a figure of speech, or was he testing a more serious suspicion? Or was Graham overreacting because he knew that his use of hypnosis was primarily tied in with his occult activities?

  "Well, you must admit, it certainly could look like magic to the layman," William explained. "I've seen stage magicians hypnotize people before, you know—though I'll confess, I didn't know your interests lay in those directions, too. But isn't that what you chaps deal with every day—you and your occuU section—magic?"

  Relaxing a little, Graham tried to keep his nod carefully noncommittal. "I suppose one could look at it that way, yes."

  "Well, I thought perhaps you'd decided to take it up for real," William went on, gesturing with his cigarette. "After all, if you're going to counter the Jerries' so-called magic..."

  The tone was playful, the blue eyes twinkling merrily as William stubbed out the last of his cigarette. Abruptly, Graham realized that the prince was only jesting and thought he was, too. He did not suspect, after all.

  "Magic, eh?" With a chuckle, Graham leaned his chair on its back legs, balancing against the table edge with both his hands as he shook his head and grinned. "I see. Next you'll be telling me that you believe in such things. It's just my job, William. You should know that."

  "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 Wilham 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 t
o 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 comers 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."