Read Online The Wolf's Hour by Robert McCammon - Free Book Online

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