The Wolf's Hour Page 5

  “Do you know you’ve got wolves on your land?” Shackleton asked him.

  “Yes,” Michael said, and folded the letter up when he’d finished. It had been a long time since he’d had a communication from Colonel Vivian. This must be important.

  “I wouldn’t go out walkin’ if I were you,” Shackleton went on. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat, brought out a cigar, and cut its end with a small clipper. Then he struck a match on the white stones of the hearth. “Those big bastards like meat.”

  “They’re bitches.” Michael slipped the letter into his pocket.

  “Whatever.” Shackleton lit the cigar, drew deeply on it, and plumed out blue smoke. “You want to have a little action, you ought to get yourself a rifle and go wolf huntin’. You do know how to use a rifle, don’t—”

  He stopped speaking, because suddenly Michael Gallatin was right there in his face, and the man’s pale green eyes froze him to the bone.

  Michael’s hand came up, grasped the cigar, and pulled it from between the other man’s teeth. He broke it in half and tossed it into the fire. “Major Shackleton,” he said, with the trace of a Russian accent softened by cool British gentility, “this is my home. You’ll ask my permission to smoke here. And when you ask, I’ll say no. Do we understand each other?”

  Shackleton sputtered, his face reddening. “That was… that was a fifty-cent cigar!”

  “It puts out half-cent fumes,” Michael told him, stared into the man’s eyes for a few seconds longer to make certain his message was clear, and then turned his attention to the young captain. “I’m retired. That’s my answer.”

  “But… sir… you haven’t heard what we came to say yet!”

  “I can guess.” Michael walked to the bay windows and looked out at the dark line of the woods. He had smelled his reserve stock of old whiskey wafting from Shackleton’s skin, and smiled slightly, knowing how the American—used to bland liquor—must have reacted. Good for Maureen at the Mutton Chop. “There’s a cooperative venture under way between the alliances. If this wasn’t important to the Americans, the major wouldn’t be here. I’ve been listening to the cross-Channel radio traffic on my shortwave. All those codes, things about flowers for Rudy and violins needing to be tuned. I can’t understand all the messages, but I understand the sounds of the voices: great excitement, and a lot of fear. I say that adds up to an imminent invasion of the Atlantic Wall.” He looked at Humes-Talbot, who hadn’t moved or taken off his wet overcoat. “Within three to four months, I’d guess. When summer smooths the Channel. I’m sure neither Mr. Churchill nor Mr. Roosevelt cares to land an army of seasick soldiers on Hitler’s beaches. So sometime in June or July would be correct. August would be too late; the Americans would have to fight eastward during the worst of the winter. If they take their landing zones in June, they’ll be able to construct their supply lines and dig into their defensive positions on the border of Germany by the first snowfall.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Am I close?”

  Shackleton let the breath hiss from between his teeth. “You sure this guy’s on our side?” he asked Humes-Talbot.

  “Let me conjecture a bit further,” Michael said, his gaze ticking toward the young captain and then back to Shackle-ton. “To be successful, a cross-Channel invasion would have to be preceded by a disruption of German communications, detonation of ammunition and fuel dumps, and a general atmosphere of hell on earth. But a quiet hell, with cool flames. I expect the networks of partisans will have a busy night blowing up railroad tracks, and maybe there’s a place in the scheme for the Americans, too. A paratroop assault would sow the kind of discord behind the lines that might keep the Germans running in a dozen directions at the same time.” Michael walked to the fireplace, beside the major, and offered his palms to the heat. “I expect that what you want me to do has a bearing on the invasion. Of course I don’t know where it’ll be, or exactly when, and I don’t want that information. Another thing you must realize is that the Nazi high command certainly suspects an invasion attempt within the next five months. With the Soviets fighting in from the east, the Germans know the time is ripe—at least from the alliance point of view—for an attack from the west.” He rubbed his hands together. “I hope my conclusions aren’t too much off the mark?”

  “No sir,” Humes-Talbot admitted. “They hit the bull’s-eye.”

  Michael nodded, and Shackleton said, “Do you have somebody spyin’ for you in London?”

  “I have my eyes, my ears, and my brain. That’s all I need.”

  “Sir?” Humes-Talbot had been standing almost at attention, and now he let his back loosen and took a step forward. “Can we… at least brief you on what the mission involves?”

  “You’d be wasting your time and the major’s. As I said, I’m retired.”

  “Retired? After one lousy field assignment in North Africa?” Shackleton made an unpleasant noise with his lips. “So you were a hero during the battle for El Alamein, right?” He’d read Gallatin’s service record during his trip from Washington. “You got into a Nazi commander’s HQ and stole deployment maps? Big damned squat! Unless you’ve missed the point, Major, the war’s still going on. And if we don’t get a foothold in Europe in the summer of forty-four, we might find our asses washed out to sea for a long time before we can make another try.”

  “Major Shackleton?” Michael turned toward him, and the intensity of his glare made the major think he was peering into the green-tinted windows of a blast furnace. “You won’t mention North Africa again,” he said quietly, but with dangerous meaning. “I… failed a friend.” He blinked; the blast-furnace glare dimmed for a second, then came back full force. “North Africa is a closed subject.”

  Damn the man! Shackleton thought. If he could, he’d stomp Gallatin into the floor. “I just meant—”

  “I don’t care what you meant.” Michael looked at Humes-Talbot, the captain eager to get on with the briefing, and then Michael sighed and said, “All right. Let’s hear it.”

  “Yes, sir. May I?” He paused, about to shrug off his overcoat. Michael motioned for him to go ahead, and as the two officers took off their coats Michael walked to a high-backed black leather chair and sat down facing the flames.

  “It’s a security problem, really,” Humes-Talbot said, coming around so he could gauge Major Gallatin’s expression. It was one of profound disinterest. “Of course you’re correct; it does involve the invasion plans. We and the Americans are trying to clean up all the loose ends before the first of June. Getting agents out of France and Holland, for instance, whose security might be compromised. There’s an American agent in Paris—”

  “Adam’s his code name,” Shackleton interrupted.

  “Paris is no longer a garden of Eden,” Michael said, lacing his fingers together. “Not with all those Nazi serpents crawling around in it.”

  “Right,” the major went on, taking the reins. “Anyway, your intelligence boys got a coded message from Adam a little more than two weeks ago. He said there’s something big in the works, something he didn’t have all the details on yet. But he said that whatever it is, it’s under multilayered security. He got wind of it from an artist in Berlin, a guy named Theo von Frankewitz.”

  “Wait.” Michael leaned forward, and Humes-Talbot saw the glint of concentration in his eyes, like the shine of sword metal. “An artist? Why an artist?”

  “I don’t know. We can’t dig up any information on Von Frankewitz. So anyway, Adam sent another message eight days ago. It was only a couple of lines long. He said he was bein’ watched, and he had information that had to be brought out of France by personal courier. He had to end the transmission before he could go into detail.”

  “The Gestapo?” Michael glanced at Humes-Talbot.

  “Our informants don’t indicate that the Gestapo has Adam,” the younger man said. “We think they know he’s one of ours, and have him under constant surveillance. They’re probably hoping he’ll lead them to other agents.”


  “So no one else can find out what this information is and bring it out?”

  “No sir. Someone from the outside has to go in.”

  “And they’re monitoring his radio set, of course. Or maybe they found it and smashed it.” Michael frowned, watching the oakwood burn. “Why an artist?” he asked again. “What would an artist know about military secrets?”

  “We have no idea,” Humes-Talbot said. “You see our predicament.”

  “We’ve got to find out what the hell’s going on,” Shackleton spoke up. “The first wave of the invasion will be almost two hundred thousand soldiers. By ninety days after D day, we’re plannin’ on having more than one million boys over there to kick Hitler’s ass. We’re riskin’ the whole shootin’ match on one day—one turn of a card—and we’d sure better know what’s in the Nazis’ hand.”

  “Death,” Michael said, and neither of the other two men spoke.

  The flames crackled and spat sparks. Michael Gallatin waited for the rest of it.

  “You’d be flown over France and go in by parachute, near the village of Bazancourt about sixty miles northwest of Paris,” Humes-Talbot said. “One of our people will be at the drop point to meet you. From there, you’ll be taken to Paris and given all the help you need to reach Adam. This is a high-priority assignment, Major Gallatin, and if the invasion’s going to have any chance at all, we’ve got to know what we’re up against.”

  Michael watched the fire burn. He said, “I’m sorry. Find someone else.”

  “But, sir… please don’t make a hasty—”

  “I said I’ve retired. That ends it.”

  “Well, that’s just peachy!” Shackleton burst out. “We broke our butts gettin’ here, because we were told by some jackass that you were the best in your business, and you say you’re ‘retired.’ ” He slurred the word. “Where I come from that’s just another way of sayin’ a man’s lost his nerve.”

  Michael smiled thinly, which served to infuriate Shackle-ton even more, but didn’t respond.

  “Major, sir?” Humes-Talbot tried again. “Please don’t give us your final word now. Won’t you at least think about the assignment? Perhaps we might stay overnight, and we can discuss it again in the morning?”

  Michael listened to the noise of sleet against the windows. Shackleton thought of the long road home, and his tailbone throbbed. “You can stay the night,” Michael agreed, “but I won’t go to Paris.”

  Humes-Talbot started to speak again, but he decided to let it rest. Shackleton muttered, “Hellfire and damnation!” but Michael only pondered the fires of his own making.

  “We brought along a driver,” Humes-Talbot said. “Is there a possibility you might find some room for him?”

  “I’ll put a cot in front of the fire.” He got up and went to get the cot from his storage room, and Humes-Talbot left the house to call Mallory in.

  While the two men were gone, Shackleton nosed around the den. He found an antique rosewood Victrola, a record on the turntable. Its title was The Rite of Spring, by somebody named Stravinsky. Well, count on a Russian to like Russian music. Probably a bunch of Slavic jabberwocky. He could use a bright Bing Crosby tune on a night like this. Gallatin liked books, that was for sure. Volumes like Man from Beast, Carnivores, A History of Gregorian Chants, Shakespeare’s World, and other books with Russian, German, and French titles filled the bookcases.

  “Do you like my house?”

  Shackleton jumped. Michael had come up behind him, silent as mist. He was carrying a folding cot, which he unfolded and placed before the hearth. “The house was a Lutheran church in the eighteen-forties. Survivors of a shipwreck built it; the sea cliffs are only a hundred yards from here. They built a village on this site, too, but bubonic plague wiped them out eight years later.”

  “Oh,” Shackleton said, and wiped his hands on his trouser legs.

  “The ruins were still sturdy. I decided to try to put it back together again. It took me all of four years, and I still have a lot to do. In case you’re wondering, I’ve got a generator that runs on petrol out back.”

  “I figured you didn’t have power lines way out here.”

  “No. Not way out here. You’ll be sleeping in the tower room where the pastor died. It’s not a very large room, but the bed’s big enough for two.” The door opened and closed, and Michael glanced back at Humes-Talbot and the chauffeur. Michael stared for a few seconds, unblinking, as the old man took off his hat and topcoat. “You can sleep here,” Michael said, with a gesture toward the cot. “The kitchen’s through that door, if you want coffee or anything to eat,” he told all three of them. “I keep hours you might find odd. If you hear me up in the middle of the night… stay in your room,” he said, with a glance that made the back of Shackleton’s neck crawl.

  “I’m going up to rest.” Michael started up the stairs. He paused and selected a book. “Oh… the bathroom and shower are behind the house. I hope you don’t mind cold water. Good night, gentlemen.” He ascended the steps, and in another moment they heard a door softly close.

  “Damn weird,” Shackleton muttered, and he trudged into the kitchen for something to chew on.

  4

  Michael sat up in bed and lit an oil lamp. He hadn’t been sleeping, only waiting. He picked up his wristwatch from the small table beside his bed, though his sense of time told him it was after three. It was three-oh-seven.

  He sniffed the air, and his eyes narrowed. A smell of tobacco smoke. Burley and latakia, a potent blend. He knew that aroma, and it called him.

  He was still dressed, in his khakis and black sweater. He slipped on his loafers, picked up the lamp, and followed its yellow glow down the circular staircase.

  A couple of fresh logs had been added to the hearth, and a polite fire burned. Michael saw a haze of pipe smoke drifting above the high-backed leather chair that faced the flames. The cot was empty.

  “Let’s talk, Michael,” the man who called himself Mallory said.

  “Yes sir.” He drew up a chair and sat down with the lamp on a table between them.

  Mallory—not his real name, but one of many—laughed quietly, the pipe’s bit clenched between his teeth. Firelight glinted in his eyes, and now he didn’t appear nearly as old and unsteady as he’d been when he first entered the house. “ ‘Stay in your room,’ ” he said, and laughed again. His real voice, unmasked, had a gravelly edge. “That was good, Michael. You scared the balls off that poor Yank.”

  “Does he have any?”

  “Oh, he’s quite a capable officer. Don’t let the bluff and bluster fool you; Major Shackleton knows his job.” Mallory’s penetrating gaze slid toward the other man. “And you do, too.” Michael didn’t answer. Mallory smoked his pipe in silence for a moment, then said, “What happened to Margritta Phillipe in Egypt wasn’t your fault, Michael. She knew the risks, and she did her job bravely and well. You killed her assassin and exposed Harry Sandler as an agent for the Nazis. You also did your job bravely and well.”

  “Not well enough.” This still made the sick sensation of grief gnaw at his insides. “If I’d been alert that night, I might have saved Margritta’s life.”

  “It was her time,” Mallory said flatly, a statement from a professional in the arena of life and death. “And your time of brooding over Margritta should end now.”

  “When I find Sandler.” Michael’s face was tight, and heat rose in his cheeks. “I knew he was a German agent as soon as Margritta showed me the wolf he said he’d sent her from Canada. To me it was perfectly clear it was a Balkan wolf, not Canadian. And the only way Sandler could’ve killed a Balkan wolf was to go on a hunting trip with his Nazi friends.” Harry Sandler, the big-game hunter from America who’d been written about in Life magazine, had vanished after Margritta’s murder, and left no tracks. “I should have made Margritta leave the house that night. Immediately. Instead I…” He clenched his hands on the chair’s armrests. “She trusted me,” he said, in a hushed voice.

  “Michae
l,” Mallory said, “I want you to go to Paris.”

  “Is it that vital that you be involved with this?”

  “Yes. That vital.” He puffed smoke and removed the pipe from his mouth. “We’ll have one chance, and one chance only, for the invasion to be successful. The time frame, as of now, is the first week of June. That’s subject to change, according to the weather and the tides. We have to make sure ail potential disasters are dealt with, and I can tell you that watching these commanders hash things out leaves a lot of room for the damnedest mistakes you could imagine.” He grunted, and smiled thinly. “We have to do our part to give them a clean house when they move in. If the Gestapo’s watching Adam so closely, you can be certain he has information they don’t want getting out. We have to learn what it is. With your… uh… special talents, there’s a possibility you can get in and out under the nose of the Gestapo.”

  Michael watched the fire. The man sitting in the chair next to him was one of three people in the world who knew he was a lycanthrope.

  “There’s another facet to this you should consider,” Mallory said. “Four days ago we received a coded message from our agent Echo, in Berlin. She’s seen Harry Sandler.”