by Glenn Cooper
When it was finished, Trotter said, “Didn’t I tell you that monitoring the newspapers might be productive?”
“You did, sir.”
“And didn’t I further say that if Farmer did try to contact one of them it would most likely be The Guardian?”
“Right again, sir.”
“Thank you. That will be all.”
When she had left, Trotter called one of his people in the operations directorate. “Mark, Anthony Trotter here. I’d like you to come see me right away. There’s a special thing I need for tomorrow night. In London. That’s right. Completely off-the-books.”
Giles was stationary in a sea of pedestrian traffic on the Gloucester Road in South Kensington. He waited outside the English language school where his mate, Lenny Moore, worked as the bursar. Giles knew Lenny well enough. He wouldn’t linger at the office. When five o’clock came around he’d be out the door and he was.
Lenny was away from the college so quickly Giles had to jog after him and call his name.
Lenny turned and looked more than a little surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“Ever heard of an invention called a telephone?”
“I couldn’t risk it. They probably know we’re friends from our call logs. They’ll be monitoring your calls.”
“Who’s monitoring my calls? What are you going on about?”
“It’s about my work. A lot’s happened since I saw you. Can we talk somewhere? I’ll buy the beer.”
“You’ll buy?”
“Well, I am a little tight actually.”
The pub was crowded but they found a small table. Seated together they almost looked like brothers, both very slender, both with big, unruly hair. Giles gave a full accounting of what had happened and when he talked about fleeing his flat after finding a camera in a light fixture, Lenny began looking over Giles’s shoulder at the people in the bar. He was not a skeptic. He generally believed Giles on the conspiracy front.
“Are you sure no one’s following you?” Lenny asked.
“We’re good. I’m completely off the grid.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to keep lying low. I’m staying with a school friend—you don’t know him. He thinks I’m off my rocker but he’s not making any moves to evict me. The only thing that’s going to make it safe for me is to get my story out someplace credible.”
“What about your blog?”
“I said credible.”
“Good point.”
“The thing is, I’ve got an appointment to meet the science editor for The Guardian tomorrow night at Covent Garden.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Yeah, it’s good. But I’m a bit worried he might tell someone who tells someone, if you know what I mean. That’s why I’d like you to meet him.”
“Me? What would I have to say to him?”
“Nothing. You’d just give him this.” He handed over a sealed envelope.
“Is that your story?”
“No, it says where I’m really going to meet him. Not far, on the Strand. He’ll go walking there and I’ll follow to see if anyone is tailing him. That’s all you’ve got to do. Give him the envelope.”
“How will I know him?”
Giles gave him The Guardian folded to the science pages. Derek Hannaford’s photo was circled.
“When?” Lenny asked.
“Tomorrow at seven. Outside the Marks and Spencer.”
Lenny groaned. “But Giles, the footie’s on the tele tomorrow night.”
“It’ll be quick. You’ll be home in time. Please.”
Lenny put the envelope and the paper into his messenger bag and passed Giles some money to buy them another round.
It was a warm evening and the streets around Covent Garden were packed. Giles arrived on foot at six-fifty and found a good vantage spot at the Sunglass Hut across the street that was open till eight. No one bothered him while he tried on glasses and peered at the entrance to the Marks and Spencer.
“Good man,” he mumbled, when he saw Lenny arrive at the Marks just before seven and start to nervously study the faces of passing men.
The reporter was late but only by five minutes. He stood there checking his mobile but Lenny, only ten feet away didn’t seem to notice him.
“Come on, Lenny, come on,” Giles whispered. “What do I have to do, lead you by the nose?”
Finally, it clicked. Giles saw Lenny spot the reporter then check the newspaper photo.
Lenny approached him and started to talk.
A woman on the street screamed.
Giles dropped a pair of sunglasses on the floor.
Lenny and the reporter were down, bleeding from head wounds.
There had been no shots. No sounds at all other than those of a busy London street.
Giles couldn’t move.
A store clerk asked what had happened and ran to the window to see.
Giles saw two men in suits run up to the fallen bodies and kneel beside them. One of the men shouted for someone to call 999 then both men were gone.
The clerk said, “Oh my God! There’s blood. I think they’re dead.”
Giles willed his legs to work. His first step crushed the sunglasses. His next step took him to the door. Before he knew it he was running. People, cars, everything was a blur, and he kept on running until his lungs felt like they were going to catch on fire.
31
The morning was like all mornings, oppressively gray and dull. Predatory hawks circled ominously over the Marksburg Castle and the great river.
Their steam car flew a white flag and they were allowed to come within yards of the outermost gate of the castle before being waved out.
Emily began to visibly shake as she walked through the gate. John put his arm around her waist and whispered an encouragement. He knew what she’d been through inside these thick, dank walls.
Brian and Trevor were just behind them, protectively flanking Arabel and staring down the grim-faced Russians and Germans who lined their route staring back.
In the main bailey where she had seen men impaled on Himmler’s frame, a severe man with close-set eyes approached wearing the coarse uniform of the Russian army. He stiffened at the sight of five live people.
“I am Colonel Yagoda.” His English was rudimentary and he used it sparingly. “You will follow me.”
Emily knew the room where they were taken, the great room where she had first met Barbarossa. It was different now, appearing less cavernous with the addition of more furniture and the removal of the German king’s long banqueting table. The new owner had redecorated.
Chairs were set around a threadbare woven rug off to the side of the large hearth. Thick candles on tall iron poles supplemented the light from the fire. Yagoda directed them to sit.
Brian nudged Trevor. “I don’t like the look of this.”
Soldiers entered, enough of them to line the walls of the room. It was a theatrical display of power and unity. Green uniforms of the Russians, alternated with blue uniforms of the Germans.
“We’re in the lion’s den,” Trevor said.
Arabel had been working hard to keep herself together but her defenses began to crumble. When the tears came she covered her eyes with her hand. Emily reached over and took her other hand.
John didn’t wait for the last soldier to fall into place. He told Yagoda their agreement was for the children to be seen first.
“You have books?” Yagoda asked.
They had been searched. Yagoda would have been told but he played along. “We have them.”
“Children will come.”
Arabel began to hyperventilate and Emily got up and knelt beside her, rubbing her shoulders and trying to soothe her with whispered words.
The wait seemed interminable and then, they were there.
Arabel slowly stood.
Sam began running across the expanse of the room, his
hands in the air, shouting, “Mummy!”
Delia told Belle that it was okay to follow. The little girl refused to drop Delia’s hand so they walked at a measured pace.
Arabel dropped to her knees on the rug to be Sam’s height and to Emily, the boy’s collision into her arms evoked the collision of protons that had precipitated all of this.
Belle pointed and said, “Look, Auntie Delia, Auntie Emily is here too.”
Emily left Arabel’s side and went over to Belle, sweeping her off her feet and kissing her soft face.
“You must be Delia,” Emily said.
“And you must be Emily.”
“Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
“They’re dear little children,” Delia said. “Thank God they’re back with their mother.”
John joined them and Yagoda seemed annoyed that everyone was moving about as they pleased.
“Come, let’s go see mummy,” Emily said to Belle.
Delia gave John a hug. “And you must be John Camp.”
“You’re hugging the right guy. Brian and Trev, come over here.”
Delia kissed each of them. “All of you are my knights in shining armor,” she said dabbing at her tears.
“Have you been treated well?” John asked.
“As well as expected in a place like this,” she answered. “They’re all gaga over the children and that means kid gloves. Especially Stalin. They seem to turn him into a regular Uncle Joe. I’m so pleased you managed to find Arabel. I was desperately worried. Was she in Spain?”
“Yeah,” Trevor answered. “We had quite the time.”
“You’re the one I know nothing about,” Delia told Brian. “Are you with the government?”
“Only if you count working for the BBC,” he said with a laugh. “Your license fees in action.”
“Wait a minute. I recognize you,” she said. “You’re Brian Kilmeade, the ancient weapons man on the tele.”
“The weapons are ancient, my dear, not me.”
“Well thank you all,” she said. “You’ve put yourself in grave danger to rescue us. In my heart I knew you’d try but during the long dark nights my head wasn’t so sure. Can you get us out of here?”
“We’re going to try,” John said.
“How?” she asked.
“We’re going to make a trade.”
“Us for what?”
“Books.”
She gave a smile of instant comprehension. “Will they go for it?” she asked.
“Our negotiators met with them and they think so.”
“And if they don’t? They’re not nice people, you know.”
“We’re backed up by an army of Italians, French, and Spanish a few clicks from here.”
“Clicks,” she happily repeated. “I do love a military man.”
Arabel was clutching both children to her breast, asking them the wonderfully mundane questions she’d been thinking about non-stop. Had they been ill? Were they eating? Did they miss their mummy?
Yagoda halted all the conversations by clapping his hands together.
“Stop now,” he commanded. “Children have been seen. Now they must go.”
“No!” Arabel shouted, making Sam jump and Belle cry.
Yagoda spoke in Russian and some of the soldiers responded by approaching Arabel.
Trevor made a move to intervene but John warned him off. “Let’s play this out. We can’t take on all of them.”
A soldier put his hand on Sam and Arabel responded by slapping and punching at the man.
“Emily, you’ve got to control her,” John said.
She agreed and told her sister that once they did the deal, everyone could leave together. “You knew this would be hard. We talked about it.”
“I can’t let them go,” Arabel sobbed.
“I’ll take care of them,” Delia said. “Don’t worry, dear, they’ll be fine and hopefully you’ll be reunited in no time.”
Arabel ripped herself away from her sister and said to Yagoda, “I want to go with them.”
Trevor began trying to talk her down.
“No, Trevor,” she said. “I’m sorry but I’ve got to stay with them.”
Yagoda immediately agreed. “You can go with.”
Arabel told her people, “I don’t want to leave you but I can’t leave them. Just get all of us out of here. Please.” She held out her hands for Sam and Belle to grab. “Come on children, show me where you’ve been sleeping.”
Arabel followed Delia to the door and just as she was about to disappear she turned and gave them all a brave smile.
“You sit now,” Yagoda instructed. “Pasha comes to look at books.”
Pasha.
Caravaggio and Simon had told them about this enigmatic Englishman who had asked questions about them—who were they, were they from Dartford, what were their names? They hadn’t understood many of his questions and couldn’t remember them in any detail. But something about this Pasha had stuck in Emily’s mind and she’d conflated him with the image of the man she had briefly glimpsed that day in the German camp when Stalin had come to meet Barbarossa. Were they one and the same? She’d almost asked Caravaggio to make her a sketch of Pasha but he was pressed into service to make copies of the diagrams in the books. Throughout a largely sleepless night she wouldn’t allow herself to go that one step further.
Pasha entered through the same door that Arabel had departed.
He walked straight toward her, ignoring everyone else.
“Emily.” It passed from his lips like a combination of a name and a sob.
“Paul,” she said. “It is you.”
“You know him?” John said.
“He’s my old boss, John. This is Paul Loomis.”
She went to him and they embraced. He cried so mightily it was as if he had held the tears in for these past seven years and now the damn had burst.
“Who is he?” Trevor whispered to John.
“He was in charge of MAAC before Henry Quint.”
“The one who offed himself after he shotgunned his wife and another bloke?”
“That’s the one.”
“Fuck me.”
Yagoda was once again impatient. He shouted at Pasha that the tsar was waiting.
Pasha pulled away but with their hands still touching she said, “It was you at Barbarossa’s camp.”
He looked confused. “You were there?”
“Yes.”
“I thought your friends said you’d just come two weeks ago?”
“Seventeen days. But I was here before. I came back.”
“Why in heavens did you do that?”
“For the children and my sister. Didn’t you know I was related to them? Didn’t Delia tell you?”
“I wasn’t allowed to see them. Stalin restricted access. I only found out about you yesterday from your friends. I didn’t sleep a wink last night.”
Yagoda shouted again but they ignored him.
“How did you get to be with Stalin?” she asked.
“It’s a blur, really. I died in Sidcup. Some sweepers, as they call them, picked me up and delivered me to a man named Solomon …”
“Wisdom,” she said. “That awful man.”
“Ah, you’ve met. He sold me to the highest bidder who happened to be the Russian ambassador, and after a harrowing journey, I was deposited in Stalin’s imperial palace in Moscow. He calls me Pasha, so I suppose Paul is gone but Pasha soldiers on.”
Yagoda was physically pulling them apart now and Pasha was manhandled into a chair.
“Show him books,” Yagoda demanded.
They all sat down and John removed the two books from his pack. When he gave them to Pasha he introduced himself.
“Heard a lot about you. I came to the MAAC after you were gone. I’m the head of security. Trevor Jones is my deputy and this gent is Brian Kilmeade who you might remember from his TV show on medieval weaponry.”
“So nice to meet you all,” Pasha sa
id. “I’m afraid I didn’t watch much television.” He took the books and sat back down but before looking at them he said to Emily, “I really must know what happened. Did something go wrong with the Hercules project?”
“Very wrong. Your successor, Henry Quint …”
“He got the job?”
“Unfortunately yes. Quint exceeded the limits of Hercules I and went straight to Hercules II parameters.”
“Thirty TeV?”
“Yes, thirty.”
“And you produced strangelets,” Loomis said. It wasn’t a question; it was a statement.
“We did. And gravitons.”
“Christ! And the combination …”
“The books, please!” Yagoda shouted.
“We need to close the inter-dimensional hole,” Emily said. “We don’t know how to do it.”
“Now, Pasha!” Yagoda exploded.
“I’m sorry,” Loomis said. “I’d better look at them.”
Emily watched the man who now called himself Pasha, running his fingers over the books reverentially before opening the cover. His face softened. Perhaps he was remembering sitting in his cozy study in Sidcup on a Saturday night with a good book and a glass of whiskey. To read he held the book quite far from his face. He used to require reading glasses but here he seemed to have none. She remembered sitting in his office at MAAC doing what she was doing now—watching him read one of her reports and waiting for his comments the way a child waits for a parent’s approval. And when that approval came, gently laced with some sage comments and suggestions, she used to be truly happy, floating from his office on a cushion of air.
“Sorry about the loose pages,” John said.
Loomis began examining them.
John leaned in and whispered something light to cut the tension. He wondered whether the blast furnace book had made the bestseller list in 1917. Loomis smiled.
He got to the last page and turned his attention to the book on steam boilers. That one got the same methodical treatment.
Half an hour passed. Trevor was getting increasingly agitated. He kept looking over at the doorway where Arabel had disappeared.
Loomis closed the cover and rubbed his weary eyes.
Yagoda stopped his annoying pacing. “Well?” he demanded.
“Look,” Loomis said in English. “As is abundantly clear, I know little about these seminal technologies. However, I would say that these books provide practical details on large-scale industrial production techniques. I believe one could adhere to the texts and make large furnaces and steam boilers. That is not to say that a process of trial and error would be needed to reduce the engineering to practice, but the books are enabling. I haven’t been here very long, but I haven’t met a single nineteenth- or twentieth-century engineer. Unlike me, these people probably led virtuous lives.”
