The Magicians of Night - By Barbara Hambly Page 0,14
He picked up his pipe again, and appeared to be surprised—as pipe smokers invariably were—to find that it had gone out. For a moment he sat cradling it, his dark eyes gazing out past Tom, into some middle distance of thought, and Tom saw weariness descend upon him like a double load of grain bags carried too far—the weariness of waiting and wondering, less urgent perhaps than the ground-in ache in his own flesh, but ultimately just as exhausting. At least for the past ten days his own thoughts had been absolutely concentrated on the moment: cover, spare ammo, a place in the retreating trucks. He hadn’t had time, as this old man had, to consider the larger implications of that tidal wave of gray-clad men sweeping across the flat green Belgian landscape—he hadn’t spent the past ten days wondering What the hell will we do when the Germans land at Dover? knowing that every gun, every truck, every grenade and clip of ammo the British Army possessed had been left on Dunkirk beach.
Then Mayfair sighed and straightened his shoulders again, as if reminding himself, First things first. “Are you interested? You’ll be put ashore by submarine, probably near Hamburg; we’ll give you the names of contacts in Hamburg and in Danzig as well—if you have to flee in that direction—for you to radio for instructions about when and where you’ll be taken off again. You’ll have a couple of German identities, with uniforms, passbooks, ration cards, maps... photographs of the men involved, if we can get them in time. Colonel Hillyard tells me you’re a man to be trusted to do the job and not to panic if things come unstuck. At present, Sligo’s group is headquartered somewhere in the wilds of Prussia near the Polish border, and you may have to make a judgment about which direction to run. But that can all be worked out later. The question is, are you willing?”
“To kill Sligo?”
Mayfair nodded, unfazed at the bald statement that the mission was, in fact, being undertaken for the purpose of murder. “If you can ascertain what they’re up to, of course we’d like to know that, too. But I understand you’re not a scientist. The main object is to kill Professor Sligo, at whatever cost.”
Tom glanced over at Hillyard. His brain was still ringing with the alarm bells of unanswered questions, where it wasn’t thick with sleepiness and exhaustion, but he guessed if he were to ask now, he wouldn’t get answers anyway.
But two years of fighting in Spain, of ambushes in dry ravines and blowing up bridges and trains, of firefights in the streets of Madrid, and of the thornbush morasses of guerrilla politics had taught him that Hillyard was a man to be trusted. Hillyard met his eyes and nodded.
“I’m your man,” Tom said laconically. Then he added, “God willing and the creek don’t rise.”
Mayfair’s mouth tightened. “As you say,” he agreed, and his tone was dry. Elsewhere in the building, the radio announcer’s voice chittered frighteningly on.
“So what’s the story?” Tom fished in the pocket of his uniform tunic for makings as he and Hillyard emerged onto the high porch and paused to let their eyes adjust. With every window in the city swathed tight in blackout curtains, the darkness was startling, darker even than open country would be, for the shadows of the buildings blocked the dim ambient glow from the dusting of stars overhead. The night was fine and warm, the moist, thick smell of new-cut grass drifting to them from the little park in the center of the square, the colder, damper breath of moss-greened pavement and last year’s dead leaves rising from the sunken areaway that dropped like a dry moat below the porch to either side of them. The freshness of the air and the sweet, calm silence of the night cleared his head and drove back the exhaustion that seemed to weight his bones.
Tom’s match made a startling glare in the blackness. “You know as well as I do they’ve got guys in regular Intelligence who know German.”
“So they do. I’ve booked us rooms over in Torrington Place.” Starlight gleamed on the bald curve of Hillyard’s head as he led the way down the narrow porch stairs, his gas mask swinging awkwardly at his belt. “My guess is that Alec—Mayfair—” He corrected himself, “—couldn’t get approval from Intelligence to send one of their men. It’s not his department, you know.”