The Milkweed Triptych 01 - Bitter Seeds by Ian Tregillis Read Free Book Online

ongauging the strength of the Imperial German Navy. Politically savvy Stephenson therefore maintained close ties with the Admiralty, not least because C, the head of SIS, was a career naval officer.
    Marsh accepted one of the glasses. Stephenson held his up: “To safe travels, and safe returns.”
Clink
. This ritual had become their custom. Insofar as Stephenson had been a father to Marsh, tradecraft was the family business.
    “This one turned out to be more complicated than we realized,” said Stephenson, settling back into his own chair. Marsh grimaced. It was the nearest thing to an apology he’d ever heard out of the old man. And that made him uneasy.
    Stephenson gestured at the desk with his glass. “So. What should we do with this mess?”
    “It might be possible to copy the remaining frames and to splice together a rough approximation of the original film. That’s what I’d do.”
    Stephenson nodded. “I’ll put out a few feelers. We’ll need somebody good, somebody who can keep his mouth shut. It may take a while. And the photograph?”
    “Could be anywhere. Probably useless, at least until we know more.”
    Stephenson nodded. “And what of the documents?”
    Marsh shrugged. “Difficult to say. One gets the impression that they’re excerpts from medical reports.”
    “Your man did mention a doctor, I note,” said Stephenson, sifting through Marsh’s report again. “Von Westarp? Medical doctor, presumably.” He put the loupe back in his desk and produced a packet of cigarettes. An American brand, Lucky Strike.
    Over the
skritch
of Stephenson’s match, Marsh added, “He also said something about children. Got rather worked up about it. Peculiar.”
    Around the cigarette dangling from his lips, Stephenson asked, “And what, I wonder, does one thing have to do with the other?”
    “My thoughts exactly, sir.”
    The two men watched in quiet contemplation as shadows slowly inched along the street. The tip of Stephenson’s cigarette flared marigold orange in the growing darkness.
    He stamped it out in a marble ashtray and turned on another lamp. “Right, then. First things first. I’m opening a new file. Until we resolve this issue, or it resolves itself, refer to this matter under the rubric ‘Milkweed.’” At this last he nodded at the wall over Marsh’s head.
    Marsh craned his neck. Another of Corrie’s watercolors hung over the chair. “Understood.”
    “And as for Milkweed, there are a few people who ought to be apprised of this. If I can call them together on short notice, are you free this evening, Marsh?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Excellent. I’ll ring you.”
    Stephenson’s car, a gleaming cream-colored Rolls Royce Mulliner, rolled up at half seven. A gray cloud roiled out when Marsh entered. The interior smelled of leather and Lucky Strikes. Stephenson rapped the roof once Marsh was settled, signaling his driver to proceed.
    From Marsh’s home in Walworth they drove west. The Rolls thumped as they crossed onto the steel spans of Lambeth Bridge. Stephenson’s driver swung the car north on Millbank when they passed beneath a granite obelisk and its pineapple finial at the far side of the Thames.
    Soon Victoria Tower loomed out of the night, a square stone giant wrapped in fog and lamplight. They passed the Perpendicular Gothic filigrees of Westminster Palace: Tudor details on a classic body, as somebody once said. Marsh noted the gradations where the crumbling Yorkshire limestone was being replaced with honey-colored clipsham.
    They skirted Parliament Square, passed the Cenotaph, and continued north onto Whitehall.
    “Sir, where are we going?”
    Stephenson turned. “Do you know what I miss the most about the old days?”
    “Your arm?”
    “Ha. Cheeky lad,” said the older man. “No. Back then, we didn’t have so many damnable meetings. Now it’s all we ever do.” His eyes twinkled.“This one’s a bit above your regular pay grade, I’m afraid. I trust you won’t mind,