London
July 1940
It had been a long day, which if I need an excuse probably accounted for my carelessness that evening. Intelligence reports had been coming in for some days indicating that a major magical assault on London was imminent, but on the tenth it had finally hit. Lightning, explosions, firestorms, the works - all of them better aimed than was being achieved in the mundane equivalent of the Blitz on Shadow Earth, occurring at the same time, and enough to keep the hands of the Royal Engineers Mage Corps, Colonel Robert de Lacy commanding, very full indeed.
Perhaps I should explain for the benefit of those of you who have never seen a modern, magical war. Spells can be launched from a long distance away, certainly from France to England, and in some cases from as far away as Berlin, if the armies have mages who are good enough to scan - far see, if you prefer - that far, and with an accuracy that would be the envy of the high-tech fly by wire fighters on 1990s Shadow Earth. From a bunker in Paris, you can effectively see and perfectly target people, places, vehicles or virtually whatever you want, and vice versa, assuming the target isn't warded, and believe me, it is very difficult to ward an entire city.
Thankfully, mages good enough to scan so well are in limited supply. However, with the mysterious and powerful Kriegsturm high in the favour of the German High Command, and the depressingly competent Graf Matthias von Schmullenberg rising through the ranks, we had to be aware of the possibility of such attacks coming at any time. Unfortunately, not knowing the time and place made it very difficult to defend against such attacks, which is why my regiment - to whom the task of organising London's defences had fallen - as well as the intelligence corps, had been working flat out all day to look for the next attack, and as a result my group was beginning to show signs of strain at having been on constant alert for getting on for a week.
"You should get a break, sir," commented Walters, my aide, coming into the war room and handing me a mug of tea, "even you can over do it."
"You're probably right," I replied, taking a drink of the strong, sweet liquid, but only feeling slightly refreshed. It made me finally admit to myself that unless I had a break I wouldn't be any use for the night shift, "I'll get a breath of fresh air and be back in half an hour or so. James, would you take over here for me?"
"Yes sir," answered James Blake, heir to the Richmond earldom and my 2iC. He moved up to take over my station, and once he was in place I headed upstairs and out onto the parade ground on the river side of the Ministry of Defence. I walked out onto the pavement by the river, while being careful to stay within the bounds of the wards around the Ministry, and enjoyed a few minutes just looking out at the sunset over the Thames. At nine in the evening it was still only just beginning to get dark.
"Good evening Colonel," came a half familiar voice behind me. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of the insignia of a major in the King's Own.
"Major," I replied, turning towards the speaker, "can I help you?"
"No sir," came the answer, "just enjoying the evening, same as you I expect."
I looked at him, trying to place the face. Something was nagging at the back of my mind, but I could not pin it down it. He seemed half familiar, and yet I was sure that I had not seen him around the ministry before.
"Which unit are you attached to?" I asked, curious and trying to work out what was wrong.
"Logistics and supply..." he began, however as he started to answer, I thought I heard a movement behind me. I started to turn, but it was too late. I felt a stabbing pain to the right of my lower back, but I couldn't see anything behind me when I tried to see who was there. Blindly I tried to grab for whatever had hit me, but I couldn't reach it. Instead, I felt my head being pulled back, and a blade being drawn across my throat. I tried to cry for help, wondering why the sentries hadn't seen or heard anything and come running, but the words didn't come, and all too quickly I felt myself falling into blackness. My last memories as I passed out were of another man appearing beside me, and the sound of a shot ringing out, although in my confused state it seemed to have come from over the river.
* * * * * *
Voices in the darkness, almost too fast for me to hear: high, piping, like a film that was running too fast.
"Get a healer here now!" came a voice which seemed to remind me of my 2iC.
"I think it's too late. He's lost too much blood already, and his pulse is practically non-existent." Walters? I wasn't sure.
"Do it anyway," came an order, and I heard the sound of footsteps heading away along the pavement. I tried to open my eyes, to work out where I was and what had happened, but I found that I could not. In fact, my entire body seemed strangely numb, and even breathing was an effort. It was like breathing warm honey.
"Goddamn it, James, get him slowed down otherwise he'll be gone before the doctor can get here. He's somehow managing to resist you." Gray, maybe? No, he should have been worlds away.
"Colonel...Robert...stop fighting me damn you, otherwise you're going to bleed to death," came Blake's voice, and I thought I heard trace of panic in it, although the tone sounded wrong at that speed. I tried to mentally process what he was saying, but before I could try and answer, to tell them that I was alright, everything stopped.
* * * * * *
Warmth and light.
Slowly I came back to my senses, and realised that I was lying in a hard, narrow bed. Both my back and my throat were hurting, and I felt as weak as a kitten. Cautiously, I opened my eyes, but the light was bright enough to make me close them again almost immediately. I waited a few moments before trying again, and had more luck the second time around. I realised that I was lying in a hospital room, and off to one side I could see the familiar faces of Walters, Blake and Graham. The third surprised me, and it took a couple of seconds to remember that of all the people I had met since I had been shown the secret of Shadow, Colonel Sir John Graham, Army Intelligence, was the only person I knew two facets of: one on Terra Magica and one on Shadow Earth.
"What hit me?" I said, finally, trying to sit up and only getting about half way.
"As far as we can tell without a forensics report, you were hit twice, probably by a long bladed knife," Graham replied, "you took a stab wound just around the area of the kidneys and had been slashed across the throat. Quick, efficient, and it should have been fatal. As far as I can tell, the only things that saved you were one, you are a damn sight tougher than the majority of us when it comes to taking punishment, and two, whoever attacked you failed to actually slice your jugular in two."
I looked at him, puzzled, but before I could say anything he continued, anger in his voice. "You bloody fool, Robert. What possessed you to go out without an escort, last night of all nights? Did you honestly believe you wouldn't be a highly tempting target to them?"
"I was still on ministry grounds, and well within the wards," I answered, defensively, "I should have been fine." One of the benefits of warding - or curses, depending on whether you're inside or outside them - is that it makes it hard to scan inside the barrier, and therefore anyone watching should have been blocked by the grey mist that is the visual clue to a warded building if you are looking magically.
"But you weren't, and it is pure, bloody luck that Major Blake found you before every drop of your life's blood had drained away." The anger was still present, but there was a strange expression on his face.
"Consider me severely reprimanded, Colonel," I said, trying to make light of it.
"If you weren't running the majority of London's magical defences, I'd do far worse than that," he snapped, fury slowly giving way to concern, "what in the world happened, Robert? You were by the river bank, and there was a second body nearby. There were also two dead sentries by one of the exits to the ministry."
"Believe me, the sentries were alive when I left the building," I said, half wondering if they were accusing me of something, "I went out for a breath of fresh air. A major in the King's Own joined me a short while later, and while my attention was distracted, the second man must have taken me in the back. I barely saw him, though. I think he must have been invisible when he walked up behind me."
"The corpse beside you had been shot in the forehead. Died instantly," James supplied.
"And the sentries?"
"Had also had their throats cut. Unfortunately their attacker got it right."
I thought over what he had said for a few seconds, before answering. "And all of this literally in the MoD's back yard," I said, finally, "my God. Any idea who the man who was shot was?"
"Only a name," replied Gray, "Corporal Patrick Ryan. He joined the staff at the ministry about three weeks ago, although he passed all the vetting procedures without any problems."
"Either we're getting lax, or the opposition are getting better," I commented, ruefully.
"Out of purely professional pride, I rather hope it's the latter," came his reply, a half smile finally on his face, "although that would cause new problems in itself. Can you describe this major you were talking to?"
I closed my eyes, and tried to recall the man who had spoken to me using the techniques my uncle Brand had begun to teach me for painting from memory. "My height, or maybe a little taller," I said, finally, "medium build, blond I think, but I couldn't say for sure. His eyes were dark, but again, I can't tell you any specific colour."
"The only person around here who fits even that vague a description is you, sir," commented Walters.
"That's ridiculous. I didn't try to slash my own throat."
"No, but of the senior staff here, you are the only one who wouldn't look out of place on a Nazi recruiting poster," Blake added.
"Thanks a lot, James," I answered, through gritted teeth, "you're a big help."
"Unfortunately, he's right," said Graham, quietly, "the description doesn't fit anyone based at the ministry, certainly at the rank of captain or above. I think our friends in the German High Command are trying to send us a message, and I don't like it. If they can take out someone as senior as you, actually on ministry territory, then we have a lot more to worry about from them than we had first thought."
"You're the intelligence expert, Gray. Who in the High Command could have done it?"
"They have sorcerers, and bloody good ones, we know that. Leaving aside Kriegsturm and von Schmullenberg for a minute, there are still half a dozen others who could have guided an agent to your location."
"Even through the wards?" asked James.
"Unfortunately, our errant Colonel here doesn't spend all his time behind the wards, and anyway, it sounds as if they placed their agents over here some time ago, and they were just looking for an opportunity," Graham answered, "Robert, I think they're worried about you."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I muttered and lay back.
"The patient needs some rest, gentlemen," said a doctor, coming across to join us, and I noticed that he had Mage Corps insignia on his shoulder and his name badge said Evans.
"Can't you just heal me up and have done with it?" I asked, impatient, "I have too much to do to be stuck in here."
"You will remain here for at least the next two to three days," he replied, firmly, "I have healed you, but no-one has yet come up with a spell to replace blood loss, and you had practically bled white when you were brought in. If Major Blake had not been on hand to put you into stasis, you would not have got here alive."
"So why on Earth did you come up to find me, James?" I asked, looking at Blake, "not that I'm complaining under the circumstances, but I did leave you in charge in the war room."
"A communiqué came in from Dover, that needed your immediate attention...they'd pinpointed one of the Breton bases of operations of the Nazi mages and were requesting a strike."
"Did you get it?"
"We think so, although it is possible that a couple of them got away. Certainly the rest of the night was more peaceful - your own adventure aside."
"Gentlemen, please," protested Evans, "that is enough for now."
"You are right of course, doctor," replied Gray, turning on the charm, "forgive us."
"One last thing," I began, despite a hard stare from the doctor, "can you get a forensics mage to look at the place where I was attacked?"
"There aren't that many of them around, Robert," James reminded me, "in fact of the list of people I know, the only one in London is you."
"Great. Then seal off the area until I can get a look at it."
"We'll try."
With that, the three of them trooped out, although I thought I saw Walters pause to speak to one of the nurses outside, and I also caught sight of a couple of MPs, stationed outside.
"You should rest now," commented the doctor, once they had gone, and he got out a syringe and injected the contents into my arm. Almost immediately I felt the sedative enter my system, and I was soon asleep.
I discharged myself two days later, very much over the protests of the doctor, and was met by Walters who drove me back to my town house near Hyde Park, where I set about making myself feel human again. As I washed and shaved, I noticed the thin red line left by the injury to my neck, and the realisation hit me of just how lucky I had been. I had been a long time since I had come that close to dying. Feeling somewhat sobered, I took several deep breaths to try and control the fact that I was shaking, then finished dressing and went downstairs to where Walters was waiting for me.
"Are you intending to go into the ministry today?" he asked.
"I had better," I answered, although I was beginning to think that the doctor had been right in his protests, "I doubt that the opposition will have backed off until I get back on duty."
"I'll get the carriage ready."
With that, he left the house and a short while later I heard him draw up outside. Slowly and carefully I made my way down to the road, and climbed up into the passenger compartment. Once I was settled, he flipped the reins and we headed off.
The streets were quiet, but thankfully I couldn't see any more signs of obvious damage as we drove towards Whitehall. We finally drew up beside the ministry about twenty minutes later, and I disembarked so that Walters could take the carriage round to the stables. Cautiously I went inside, noting that they had upped security on the main entrance.
"Glad to see you back on your feet, Colonel," commented Corporal Michaels, as he checked my ID.
"From what I've been told it was a close run thing," I replied, "how are things around here."
"They've been quieter over the last day or so," he answered, "but I expect it won't last - it never seems to."
"No."
I took my ID back from him, and then headed downstairs. The war room looked much as it had when I had left it, although the duty mages had changed, with the exception of Blake.
"How are you feeling, sir?" he asked as I entered and crossed to the head of the table.
"Better than I did, but not as well as I could. Anything to report?"
He gave me a rundown of operations over the last couple of days. The Breton cell had definitely been eliminated, and apparently Gray's group in intelligence had a good lead on one near Dunkirk. Other than that, our opponents had launched four major attacks over the preceding two days, of which three had been successfully beaten off. They had managed to get a little close to home by hitting the Victoria area, though.
"Are you intending on returning to duty tonight?" he asked, once he had completed his report.
"Much as I would like to, I don't think I'll be up to actually participating, although I may well observe."
"Fair enough. I'll tell Walters to get you a seat up there," he answered, indicating the raised observation area off to the right of the main map grid.
"Thank you. Tell me, did you have a chance to seal off the river path?"
"Yes, although a lot of the locals aren't too happy about it. If you are up to it, I would suggest you have a look at the place this afternoon," he commented, "oh, and Colonel Graham expressed an interest in being present when you made the investigation."
"I'll go and see him. Keep up the good work."
He saluted, and I turned and left. I made my way slowly upstairs to Gray's office, in the wing reserved for the intelligence personnel, and was knocking on his door about ten minutes later. His aide answered, and informed me that Graham was out of the office for a few minutes. I decided to wait, partly because I didn't want to miss him, and partly because I was badly wanting to sit down, and the aide got me a mug of tea. I had just finished it when Gray walked in.
"Ah, you're up and about again," he commented as he saw me.
"More or less," I replied.
He took one look at me and smiled. "Less I suspect, looking at how pale you still are."
"Thanks a lot, my friend," I answered, and part of me knew he was right, "James told me you wanted to be there when I did the magical check outside."
"Yes. Do you feel up to it?"
"That's what Blake asked. I suppose I'll find out when I try. Shall we?"
With that we headed downstairs, and out of the door I had exited by three nights before. Once again, I noticed that the guard had been upped since my last visit, and they came to attention and saluted with creditable speed when they saw us. Gray led the way out, and across the path to the river side. I noticed that either side of us, at a distance of about fifty feet, was a cordon marker, with a couple of MPs manning either side. They moved to challenge us, then stopped as they realised who it was and stepped back into position.
"James found you down there," Graham said, indicating an area of cobbles to the right of one of the plane trees near the riverside. I crossed to the place, feeling surprisingly uncomfortable, and almost dreading what I would find. They had attempted to clean the area, of course, but I could almost fancy that I could see the stain left by what had to have been a fairly significant pool of blood.
"Are you alright?" asked my companion, "you look a little nervous."
"Being here has shaken me more than I expected. I'm not used to doing a scene of crime investigation which so strongly concerns myself."
"If you want to wait a couple of days, we probably can."
"No, I suspect that this is one bugbear it would be best to confront now."
With that, I took a deep breath and started to magically scan the area. The first thing that struck me was the echoes of the attack on me. Helplessness. Surprise. Pain. Outrage. Trying to look at them objectively was one of the hardest things I have ever done. Then I felt other emotions spilling in. Triumph. The feeling of a job well done, and then, suddenly, surprise and pain once more. I homed in on those first, and started trying to build images from them.
"Anything?" asked Graham, from off to one side.
"Yes, but it's taking some sifting. I never thought I'd ever feel my own reaction to something like this, and it is...disturbing."
I turned back to the task at hand and started concentrating again. I could feel a magical signature, and saw Corporal Ryan appear from nowhere, a victorious look on his face. And then suddenly he was reeling back, a hole in his forehead. I looked across in the direction from where the bullet had come, and realised that I was looking at County Hall, on the far bank of the river.
"Hmm."
"Anything interesting?" asked Gray, from his position a few feet back.
"I reckon that the sniper who killed Ryan was across the river," I replied, "interesting, seeing as the bullet shouldn't have got through the wards if that is the case. Is the body still available for examination?"
"I believe it is over that the Army Medical Corps hospital."
"I'd like to have a look at it."
"I'm sure it can be arranged."
"Thanks."
Once more, I returned my attention to the problem at hand and started concentrating on bringing up the images of the assassination attempt on myself. Slowly the images began to form in my mind, and I could see myself being joined by the mysterious major. I could see us talking, and as we did a magical presence moved in from the direction of the exit I had used that evening. Either Ryan himself, or his employer, had made him invisible for the initial part of the attack.
My first impulse on feeling the incoming magics was to want to try and warn myself. To tell myself to turn around before it was too late. Then I felt a steadying hand on my shoulder.
"It's all right, Robert. It is just an image," came Gray's voice, quiet and steady from just beside me.
"You can see it?" I asked, a little surprised.
"Yes. Remember, I am not without sensitivity to such things, even if my version of the Talent is somewhat different to yours," he replied, "although I've never heard of a forensics mage projecting images before. Nice trick."
"It isn't intentional," I answered, still startled.
"Perhaps the images are more real because they are more personal than is customary," he suggested, "hmm, perhaps something to experiment with later. However, for now you'd best carry on, I think. You are looking paler with every passing minute."
I nodded, and returned my concentration to feeling for the images, although I felt myself getting more tense as the scene unfolded. I saw myself lurch forward as the blade entered my lower back and blood started to stain my uniform. I saw myself turn, and then the major grabbed me by the hair, while drawing a long, dark bladed knife, and attempted to cut my throat. He was moving in to administer the coup de grace when the images of the corporal's death came back to prominence, and as his companion fell, I saw the major look alarmed, and sprint off down the path towards Westminster bridge.
"You really should wear your hair shorter," Gray commented light heartedly as I let the images slip, "look at what kind of trouble it gets you into."
"Force of habit," I replied, trying to smile, but not managing it all that well, "how much else did you see?"
"Enough to worry me. Can you tighten up the image of the major's face? I have a very bad feeling that I recognised him."
"I can try, although I can't promise anything. As I said, it's not something I've seen happen before." Once again, I started concentrating, and homed in on him as he actually struck. Using all the force of will I could muster, I attempted to focus the image and consciously project it so that Graham could study it. I saw his expression turn stony, and then he gestured to indicate that it was enough.
"Well?"
"Oh boy," came the reply, and he actually looked worried.
"You did recognise him, didn't you?" I asked, concerned. However, instead of replying he asked me a question in return.
"Do you have any relatives in Germany?"
"Not to my knowledge. France, yes. Germany, no. Why?"
"It's just that there was something about your attacker that reminded me a little of you. However, I suppose it isn't important. Not compared to the real problem."
"Which is?"
"I have a distinct suspicion that your attacker was none other than our friend Graf Matthias von Schmullenberg."
"What?"
"I have seen intelligence photos of the man. Shall we say that if it wasn't him, then it was someone closely related to him."
"But why the Hell would the German High Command send him over here? Surely they wouldn't have risked one of their best men in an assassination attempt on me?"
"Assuming his action was sanctioned by High Command. I'm not saying it wasn't, but out of interest can you think of any reason why he might have a personal grievance against you?"
"No."
"And you've never seen him before?"
"Not to my knowledge. The picture I saw reminds me of someone, but it was a very long time ago."
"How long is long?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me," came the answer, and he sounded sincere.
"The late nineteenth century."
His expression didn't change, but he nodded slightly, as if the pieces of a puzzle had just clicked into place. "I wondered," he said, finally, "and it would explain a lot."
I looked at him surprised. "Explain what, exactly?" I asked, finally.
"You always were too damned good a mage for someone in their early thirties," he replied, smiling, "despite what you wrote on your application form when you joined the service, " and then he changed the subject. "Do you want to look at Ryan's body now or later?"
"Later, I think," I replied after a moment, "I don't really feel up to it now."
"I understand. Come on, you look like you need a drink."
* * * * * *
"Where to this morning, sir?" asked Walters as he came into the dining room where I was eating breakfast. At least I was feeling more human than I had the previous afternoon, although I still felt weaker than I should have.
"The Army Medical Corps hospital," I replied, taking a mouthful of coffee, "I want to have a look at Ryan's body."
"Should I contact Colonel Graham to tell him?"
"We discussed it last night. He'll be there at nine."
"Yes sir."
I quickly finished breakfast, grabbed my uniform jacket, and we headed out to the carriage. A short while later we were on our way to the hospital, to arrive in plenty of time for my nine o'clock meeting with Gray. Punctual as ever, he turned up exactly on the hour.
"You're looking better, Robert," he commented, "although if I were you I probably wouldn't try a long training march for a while."
"Thanks. The dreams I was having last night proved disturbing though. I think my mind was still sorting itself out after the investigation I was doing by the river."
"Care to elaborate?"
"Just jumbles of images...Ryan, my other attacker, me...and all of them seen through various different points of view and pairs of eyes. I think the worst was watching the attempt through the eyes of the man who cut my throat...whether it was Graf von Schmullenberg or someone else."
"Ah, we've come up with a working theory for that one. I'll tell you once we're back at my office."
"Fair enough," I replied, and with that he led me towards the mortuary, where the mortal remains of Patrick Ryan were still in storage awaiting collection by agents of his family - assuming any trace of them could be found. We were met by a doctor, who did not seem overly impressed at a pair of Colonels walking in to disturb his morning. However, he was finally persuaded to co-operate, especially after I presented my peace-time credentials as a forensic mage, and took us to an examination room and had the body brought in.
Cause of death was obvious, of course. A single bullet wound in the forehead, which would have caused Ryan's death instantaneously. Thankfully, from the lack of an exit wound, it seemed likely that the bullet was still lodged in the skull. That suited me fine, as I would need to examine it to work out how it got through the wards. I started concentrating, and began a magical probe into the wound to see what I could find. I felt around magically - which while sounding unpleasant is a Hell of a lot more civilised than doing so physically - and quickly located the offending article.
Attempting to visualise it in my mind, I then started probing it to find out what I could learn from it, and after concentrating hard for several seconds, I finally began to get some feeling off it. While it was impossible to get any clear detail of who had fired it - just a shadowy image, that's all, as the sniper had really been nothing in the bullet's existence - I was startled to realise that the bullet had been conjured.
"Anything?" asked Gray, from where he was standing over by the shuttered window.
"The damnedest thing," I replied, "give me a couple more minutes."
I bent my concentration back onto the bullet, and tried to feel for any kind of identifiable magical trace, and was eventually rewarded...if that is the right way of putting it...by one that was frighteningly familiar. That of my Aunt Sand. How and why she had known how to arrange a shell that would be used at just that moment to kill someone inside a warded area? It was as if she had known about the proposed assassination attempt, even down to where and when, and that worried me greatly.
"Something wrong?" asked Graham, coming over, "you look concerned."
I shook my head, and looked across at him. "I think someone's walking over my grave again," I replied, "for the record, the bullet was conjured, and had a magical means of getting through the wards. The trouble is I am not sure whether to be pleased it succeeded, or disturbed that the MoD's protection isn't as good as it should be."
"Conjured?"
"Literally. Out of thin air as far as I can tell. I suppose there may have been a mundane shell which the enchantment was based on, but what killed Ryan was definitely more than that."
"You are talking as if such a thing is actually possible," commented Gray, "which as far as I know it isn't."
"There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio..." I said, smiling, "and you have taught me a fair number of them. Trust me, I don't want to go into details here and now, but it is possible. You should discuss the matter with Andrew some time, or an old friend of mine in France."
"That 'air of mystery' persona you occasionally wear is back, I see," came the reply, a half smile on Graham's lips, "you must be feeling better."
"I wasn't aware of any different persona, but I will admit that there are certain people I feel more comfortable discussing the unusual with, and I count you as one of those. After all, you aren't exactly run of the mill yourself."
"Perhaps. Anyway, have you got what you came here for?"
"And more. We'd better be heading back."
We left the examination room, informing the doctor as we departed, and went outside to find Walters. We tied up with him, and he drove us back to the MoD. Once there, Gray and I climbed down, headed into the Ministry, and started walking in the direction of my friend's office. I was interested to discuss this working theory he had come up with. Walters, however, did not look impressed.
"Colonel, there is a stack of paperwork in your office that needs your attention," he commented.
"I know, and I will get to it."
"Today, sir," he continued, "some of it is urgent."
"Alright, this afternoon...you have my word."
He nodded, and then stalked off up the corridor towards my office. Gray watched him go, then turned back to me.
"He seems unusually snappy at the moment."
"Perhaps a little. I think the stress is getting to all of us just now. One or two of the men have ended up getting into arguments over the stupidest things this last week or so. Tempers are fraying."
"Hmm. Come on."
We headed up to his office, and Graham sat down behind his desk and turned to the safe. While he was opening it, his aide brought in two cups of tea and placed them on the desk in front of us.
"Right, here we are," he said finally, pulling a large envelope out of the safe and placing it on the desk between us, "to start on testing this theory, I've got a set of pictures I'd like you to have a look at. Members of Hitler's current inner circle and some other significant members of the Nazi High Command. I'd be interested in seeing if you can ID your assailant from them."
"I can try, although as I said yesterday, I would be surprised if any of the top brass were personally involved."
"Indulge me, Robert," he said, quietly.
With that he opened the envelope and started laying out the black and white images on the desktop. Even though I wasn't quite sure how useful this little exercise was going to be, I started looking at the pictures, and was surprised when my attention was drawn to two in particular. They both depicted men in SS uniform - one with the insignia of the Mage Corps on his shoulder, and the other displaying high ranking insignia for the Security Department - and both looked strangely familiar. However the thing that really struck me was how similar they looked. Almost like brothers. And either one of them could have been the man who had damned near killed me four nights before. I separated them out from the others.
"These two," I said, after staring at them for a couple of minutes, "who are they?"
"I was wondering if you would pick up on them, and for the record, it does prove my theory - or at least narrows it down. The mage, you will be interested to hear, is Graf von Schmullenberg. I assume you haven't seen a picture of him before."
"No. I just know of him by name and reputation," I replied, feeling strangely subdued, "and the other one?"
"SS-Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich. Definitely one willing to get his hands dirty on something like this outside of his usual duties," came Gray's answer, "I assume these are your prime suspects. Can you tell which one of them it was?"
I sat back in the chair and closed my eyes, once again trying to recall the image of the major I had spoken to outside of the Ministry. Finally, I was pretty convinced that I had an answer. "Heydrich."
"It would make sense. I don't know if you'll appreciate the sentiment, but he probably thought he was doing you great honour by coming here to murder you personally."
"Excuse me?"
"Look at yourself, Robert. Blake was right the other morning when he made that crack about Nazi recruiting posters, even if his timing was off. Hitler's prized Aryan blood runs in your veins just as thickly as it does in those of his confidantes and favourites. For God's sake, you could be brother to these two if you went by looks alone."
"Which makes me feel remarkably thankful that I'm an only child," I replied, a little disturbed. What was worrying me, was that Graham had a point, even though the idea of being even vaguely related to either of the men whose pictures I was looking at offended me. "Are von Schmullenberg and Heydrich related, out of interest? They look as if they should be."
"We're still checking. I'll let you know if we come up with anything. In the meantime, do I take it that you have made a positive identification?"
"Yes. The question is, having identified him, when do I get the chance to go after him?"
Gray looked up at me, surprise on his face. "That isn't like you."
"Actually, you might be surprised," I replied, half to myself, my thoughts drifting over various of my late enemies across the passage of time. Father Laurent had been right, so many years ago. Blood did seem to have followed my path down the years.
When I looked back at Gray his expression was curious, as if he was mentally weighing me up. "Hmm. You are assuming you will be allowed to," he said, finally, "however tempting a revenge attack on the man might be to you, I suspect your superiors might have other ideas about you doing it."
"I am entitled to strike back," I replied, quietly. After all, members of this family have always worked on the theory of solving their own problems personally, "and have always done so. That is why most of my enemies are long dead."
"Entitled by what?" asked Gray, his tone firm but curious, "you are a British Army officer, we are at war, and you have duties and responsibilities."
I looked at him, a little annoyed at his attitude even though part of me knew that he was completely justified. I had not figured him as squeamish, and he had never been a great stickler for the rules. The problem was, I did not feel that I could explain my reasons to him. The only person outside of the family that I had ever felt comfortable discussing them with, was Francesco.
"Entitled by what?" he asked again.
"Dammit, Gray, it's difficult to explain," I said, finally, "and I suppose to you it would not seem like justification at all."
"I assume it is to do with who and what you really are," came his somewhat unexpected reply. Damn but the man was always too astute, and even now I still wonder who he really is, too. Then, however, I just looked at him, trying to keep my face unreadable.
"Would you care to explain that comment?" I asked, finally.
"Robert, both yesterday and this morning at the hospital you as much as admitted to me that you are more than you appear."
"I was tired, I still don't feel all that well, and I wasn't..."
"You weren't as guarded as usual," he commented, his tone matter of fact, "am I right? Is your justification to do with who you actually are?"
I shrugged, well aware that I was being manoeuvred into a corner. "My extended family have always had an overdeveloped sense of vengeance. I suppose I have inherited it in full measure."
"I can understand why you want to strike back. I am just warning you that you will probably not be allowed to. You are needed here, now, doing what you actually do best. I don't think the mask of the avenging angel fits you very well."
"It has done, Gray," I answered, and then cast my eyes down at the pictures once more.
"Perhaps. I shall make a report on your attacker to my superiors. If they are willing to condone hitting back, then I shall see what I can do about getting you onto the team. Beyond that, there is little I can do to help."
"I understand, and I appreciate it."
"All this is on two conditions," he added, after a short pause.
"Which are?" I asked, suspicious.
"Firstly, swear to me that you won't try to take matters into your own hands."
"That is harder than it sounds."
"However, it is what I am asking."
I paused for a moment, trying to work out what gave him the right to demand that of me. However, common sense won through, and eventually I nodded.
"Thank you," he said, quietly.
"And two?"
"One day I would very much like to know the truth about you."
I looked at him and smiled. "Maybe. However, I am not sure you will appreciate the answer." After all, how does one tell a follower of the Old Religion, and a senior adept in its mysteries, that you are an immortal, spawned from a family of minor deities.
"I should be going, otherwise Walters will be along here to drag me off."
"Probably. I'll let you know what the top brass thinks about hitting back at Heydrich."
"It would be appreciated."
With that I left his office, a lot on my mind. Walters seemed pleased to see me when I finally walked into my own office, and almost gleefully showed me the pile of paperwork that had accumulated over the past four days: intelligence reports, activity reports and a fair amount of personnel stuff that needed sorting out. I dismissed him, and settled down to deal with it, but I found that my attention was elsewhere. When I actually thought it through, I realised that what was really occupying my mind was the bullet that had killed Ryan.
After half an hour or so I realised that I wasn't going to get anywhere until I had checked. I reached into my pocket and drew out the Trump cards my uncle had given me a few years before, when he had finally told me who and what I was. I shuffled the card of my Aunt Sand to the top, sat back in my chair, and started concentrating on it.
"Robert my dear," she said as the contact formed. She was sitting in the conservatory of her home, the sunlight behind her making her hair look lighter than usual, "I heard about the attack. How are you feeling?"
"Better," I replied, "but it was definitely too close."
"If it had succeeded, your attackers would have had me to deal with."
Attackers. Plural. The publicised story had only mentioned Ryan. I smiled a little, albeit nervously, and looked at her.
"How can I help you?" she asked, finally, "or is this just a social call? After all, I haven't seen you for several months."
"My hands have been rather full."
"I quite understand," she said, a friendly smile on her face, "so what do you want?"
"The man who was killed. I need to ask you about him."
"As my nephew, or as the investigating officer?"
"A little of both, I suppose. The bullet that killed him. When I probed it, the main signature I got from it was yours."
"But I was here. I am too old to go around shooting people. I am not sure how I can help you."
"Aunt, please. I would like to know the truth...it's important to me. How and why did you know that that shell would be needed there and then?"
"Ah, Robert. You were always too good at this sort of thing. I blame that friend of yours: the one with the deerstalker."
"Look at this from my point of view. You knew about the attack...you had to have done...and you didn't tell me."
"A dangerous accusation."
"Sand, I just want to know how you knew and why you let it happen? I very nearly died, and it was blind chance that I did not."
"I had no choice, Robert," she said, quietly, "I learned about it from a friend, but if I had told you, they would have known their security had been compromised. All I could do was make sure the attempt was unsuccessful."
"If Blake hadn't come to find me with that communiqué I would have bled to death, there and then. No questions asked."
"However, I decided it was improbable that that would happen," she replied, "and even had that failed, my agent would have alerted someone before it was too late. As it was he did not need to reveal himself beyond the obvious." She paused and looked directly at me. "Did you truly believe that I would let them kill you? You have been like a son to me for many, many years."
Her tone sounded completely sincere, but something still felt wrong. "Why did he shoot Ryan, and not the other attacker - the one who did the real damage?"
"He had his orders," she replied, her face implacable. I looked at her, disbelief mingled with shock and surprise on my own features."
"You ordered him to shoot the one who was less dangerous to me?"
"I do not have to explain myself to you, Robert. Please, just believe that it had to be that way. I did what I could, and maybe one day you will understand why."
"Don't I have the right to know what's going on?"
"I do not have the right to tell you," she replied, her voice adamant, and a trace of sadness visible on her features, "please, let us discuss this at another time. Is there anything else, child?"
"Just one thing. How did my attackers know that I would be just there just then?"
"Because it was arranged that someone inside would make sure you were there," she answered, quietly, "they set you up to execute you. I did what I could to prevent that." For a few seconds she regarded me in silence, before continuing, "I am sorry. I have to go now. I expect you have no idea how relieved I am that you are alright. I would not have wanted you dead. Now, please be careful and don't do anything rash. I would be devastated if anything happened to you."
Then, before I could answer, she broke the link, leaving me staring at a rather cold tarot card. I sat there for a while, a single phrase going round and round inside my head. "Someone inside." But who? And was it voluntary? I sat back in the chair, closed my eyes, and tried to remember who had been in the map room and what had been said. Of the mages, present had been Blake, Caldwell, McGregor, Caroline Brennan - the only woman in the Mage Corps, Murray and Chantal. There had also been a number of aides and observers, and a couple of representatives from Graham's department. It was a pity I had been so damned tired, though, as I was having difficulty remembering details.
Think, de Lacy. It's important.
We had successfully defended against the attack on Marylebone. One of Gray's men then brought word of a possible strike on Chelsea barracks. We had started to home in on that area and scan out for some trace of the incoming attack. I was feeling exhausted as I had been the main spotter all afternoon, with Blake spelling me on occasion. Walters had come into the room and brought me a cup of tea, and I then had gone upstairs leaving Blake in charge.
No, Walters had come in and brought me a cup of tea, and suggested I get a break. Then I had gone upstairs. Could that have been it?
I stood up, crossed to the window and looked out at the river. Walters? He had been assigned as my aide when I had been given command of the defences six months before, and had seemed both loyal and efficient in that time. Yet Gray had pointed out that he had been short tempered lately. Worry? Tiredness? Thoughts of betrayal? Or had someone just plain and simple played with his head and changed more than they had intended to - messing around in people's minds is a very delicate procedure, and is easy to get it wrong. The question was how to prove which - if any of the options - it was. The hunch of a superior officer is not quite enough to get a man arrested, or at least officially interrogated, on a charge as major as treason...and that was effectively what Walters was guilty of, if he was the culprit.
Still puzzling, I headed out of my office and along towards the Intelligence Corps's wing. I knocked at Graham's door, and was admitted almost immediately. Idly, I noticed that the pictures were gone from my friend's desk.
"You still look distracted, Robert," Gray commented when he turned to me, "still playing with thoughts of revenge?"
"Perhaps. However, that isn't my short-term concern."
"Oh? What's changed?"
"I have been speaking to a friend, and that person has implied that Heydrich has an agent, or perhaps a victim, inside my department."
Graham nodded slowly. "It would explain a lot. Any idea who?"
"I am beginning to wonder if it's Walters."
"Damn, not another one," he swore, quietly. I looked at him, curious, waiting to see if he would elaborate, which he did after a slight pause. "Another acquaintance of mine just had that problem. Two in this close proximity is disturbing...and, I might say, professionally galling. Do you have any proof?"
"No, only a feeling, so I'm looking for suggestions on how to prove or disprove it."
"While I wouldn't normally propose it, handling this privately sounds best. Walters drives you home of an evening, doesn't he?"
"Yes."
"I'll meet you there and we can see what we can do. In the meantime, I would recommend not mentioning this to anyone else."
"I have no intention of doing so, until I have to," I replied, "thanks. I imagine you are getting pretty fed up of sorting out this little problem of mine by now."
"I will admit that the timing could have been better - I have a lot of preparations to make for a couple of weeks hence. However, they are also less than official, as you can probably guess, whereas trying to find out who attempted to kill you comes under my professional responsibilities."
I looked at him and smiled. While he hadn't said it in so many words, a couple of weeks hence was a significant date for people of Gray's esoteric tradition. Less so mine, as the manifestation of the Talent that is taken and trained at university is part of everyday life, but I was at least vaguely aware of the importance of Lammas Night to the Old Religion.
"I appreciate whatever help you can give me," I said, finally, "I'll see you later."
I left the Ministry at six-thirty - still pleading the fact that I was recovering to Blake as my reason for leaving him holding the fort for one more night (which was actually pretty close to the mark anyway, as I still did not feel at my best) - and Walters drove me back to my house near Hyde Park. I noticed Gray's carriage nearby as we pulled up, but my aide didn't seem to remark it. I disembarked, and he went to stable the horses, before coming inside to see if I had any final orders for him. When he entered the drawing room, however, Gray shut the door behind him. He turned, startled to see Graham, then turned back to me.
"May I ask what's wrong, sir?" he said, making a laudable attempt to recover his composure.
"There is something we need to ask you, Walters," came Graham's reply.
"Have I done something wrong?" he asked, seeming genuinely surprised.
"That is what we want to ask you," I answered and gestured to Gray. He slowly opened the envelope he had shown me earlier, and pulled out the image of Heydrich. "Have you ever seen the man in the picture before?"
The reaction was not what I had expected. Walters suddenly reeled and grabbed for a chair, looking for all the world as if he was in the throes of a seizure. He gasped for breath, and as I leapt out of my chair to try and help him, he fell to the floor, writhing. My first instinct was to throw a stasis field around him, to try and slow time around him. He froze, his body contorted in agony, and I moved across to see what else could be done for him. I pulled a cushion off one of the chairs, gently slid it under his head, and then started examining him to see what was wrong, and what - if anything - could be done for him.
I realised almost instantly that he had suffered a massive stroke, and it was immediately apparent to me that it could not have been natural. He could not have been older than twenty-five at most, far less than the usual age for such a catastrophic attack, and the fact that it had happened immediately after he had seen Heydrich's picture pointed very strongly to foul play.
Very gently, I touched his forehead, trying to avoid being pulled into the stasis field, and extended both my mind and my magical senses into his brain. I could immediately see that the damage caused by the seizure was irreversible, even to the most gifted mage, and I felt both angry and responsible. I have always hated being manoeuvred into a situation where I was forced to take an innocent life, and that was how it felt. What few traces of his thoughts remained were dominated by surprise at our question and a staunch loyalty to his country in time of war.
Oh so carefully, I probed what little was left of Walters's mind, and after a couple of minutes I found traces of a magical suggestion, and some kind of trigger. I tried to look deeper, and eventually detected the same magical signature as I had felt around the area where I had been attacked outside the Ministry. Here, though, I could feel the darkness behind it that I had come to associate with the work of a black mage. Studying more closely, despite the fact that it was rapidly becoming exceedingly unpleasant to be working around the black mage's work, I realised that the trigger had been set to activate if Walters was interrogated about Heydrich. I could even see a ruined image of Heydrich's face in my aide's mind. But that was all. There was not enough of the suggestion left to work out what it was.
"What's wrong?" Graham finally asked, sounding both curious and concerned.
"Someone was playing with his head. I assume it was Heydrich, but I cannot be sure. Whoever it was effectively set a self-destruct mechanism into Walters's mind, I imagine to be triggered if we worked out that he was involved and asked him about it. My feeling is that he was innocent in this, but that really doesn't help him now." I paused for a moment, my expression grim. "He's dead, Gray. Even if he is still breathing I do not believe he can survive. It may be hours, days or weeks, but he is never going to come around. The trigger has pretty much wiped out all his neural functions."
"I'm sorry, Robert. I really had no idea," he said, quietly, surprise and anger on his face.
"No, neither did I," I answered, getting slowly to my feet. "I want that bastard, Gray," I continued, coldly and quietly, "and if you can't arrange something, so help me I will go after him myself."
Graham looked at me, as if to argue, but then obviously caught sight of the expression on my face. I imagine it was a cross between hatred and determination. He looked me in the eye for a couple of seconds, testing my shields, I think, but getting nowhere, and then finally broke the gaze.
"Believe me, Robert, I will do what I can," he replied, just as quietly, "now, however, I need to call an ambulance."
And with that he turned and left the room, leaving me with the comatose body of my unfortunate aide.