The Coldest War

by Ian Tregillis

  One of the sentries approached. “Look. This is right embarrassing, I’m sure, but if you’ve come here with the intent of defecting, or seeking asylum, this is a bloody great mistake. We’re the Admiralty. We don’t handle that sort of thing.”

  Gretel said, “We’ll wait, thank you.”

  The rapid clack of footsteps on the parquet floor announced a new arrival. The sentries relaxed when a tall fellow in a charcoal gray suit joined them. Klaus, who understood the mind-set of a military man, recognized the subtle shift of responsibility.

  The newcomer’s brown eyes widened when he saw Klaus and Gretel. Almost as if he recognized them. He turned to one of the sentries. “Fetch a roll of tape, won’t you?”

  “Sir?”

  “Adhesive tape. Any sort will do.”

  Then the newcomer took aside another of the men guarding the intruders. They exchanged a few sentences before the guard and one of his companions dashed outside on some other errand.

  The new fellow approached the bench. He looked them over, paying particular attention to their heads, necks, and the wires in Gretel’s braids. Whoever this man was, he understood the mechanics of the old Reichsbehörde technology, because he said: “I’ll need you both to disconnect your batteries.” To Gretel, he continued, “I notice they’re tucked under your clothing. Do you need a privacy screen?”

  Her eyes twinkled with amusement. She shook her head, then gave Klaus a little nod. He unbuttoned his shirt and reached inside. At the same time, Gretel felt through the fabric of her dress for the latch on her battery harness. The latch on Klaus’s harness clicked open, as did Gretel’s a moment later.

  “And now if you would be so kind as to pull the loose ends outside your clothing. Let them hang where I can see them.”

  Klaus and Gretel complied. She, again, with an air of amusement. The sentries watched with various degrees of alarm and disgust dawning on their faces as they realized the wires were surgical implants.

  The first sentry returned with a roll of shimmering black tape. The man in the charcoal gray suit tore off two long strips, handed one to Klaus and the other to Gretel.

  “Wrap these around the connectors. Tightly, please.”

  They did. When Klaus finished, the connector at the end of his wires was a solid bundle of black tape. The tape left his fingers gummy.

  “Excellent. Thank you for indulging me,” said the man. His smile revealed a dark discoloration on his front teeth. “That should hold until we get you somewhere you can properly remove your harnesses without stripping in public.” He turned to address the ring of sentries, who were milling about looking very uncertain about what to do. “I’ll handle this from here. You,” he said, pointing to one guard, “stay with me. The rest of you may return to your duties.”

  They escorted Klaus and Gretel down a corridor, up a flight of stairs, along another corridor, and finally into what appeared to be a private office. Antique maps hung from oak-paneled walls. Behind a wide desk, a mullioned window showed the sun dipping under the cloud cover, setting over the park where Klaus had enjoyed warm peanuts. Klaus inhaled the strong, sweet scent of pipe smoke.

  The sentry stayed in the corridor; the gray-suited man closed the door behind them. He motioned for Klaus and Gretel to seat themselves in the pair of chairs that fronted the desk. They did.

  To Klaus’s surprise, their host didn’t take the seat behind the desk. Still standing, he said, “My name is Samuel Pethick. But the fellow you truly want to talk to, my superior, isn’t here at the moment. I’ve dispatched a driver to collect Mr. Pembroke. He’ll be here shortly.

  “In the meantime, perhaps you can start by telling me why you’ve come here.”

  Why have we come here, Gretel?

  But she only said, “We’ll wait, thank you.”

  Klaus felt frustrated and weary again. Gretel’s evasion had him ready to take the stranger’s side.

  Pethick chewed his lip. He said, “You’re siblings, correct? The ghost and the oracle. If I’m not mistaken, you’ve both been here before. And now you’re back, in the flesh, after all these years. I wonder why.”

  Ah. Pethick had recognized them downstairs. Klaus wondered how.

  After that, they waited in silence. The setting sun sank below the curtain of clouds, filling the office with a few minutes of sunlight before it dipped below the cityscape. Streetlamps flickered to life in the park. Pethick turned on a desk lamp.

  Klaus craned an arm over the back of his chair when a man wearing a tuxedo entered the office. He was slightly shorter than Pethick, with a long, narrow face and high eyebrows. It made him appear frozen in a state of permanent surprise. A thatch of wavy auburn hair topped his forehead.

  The tuxedo man addressed Pethick. “Well?”

  Based on the way Pethick deferred to him, Klaus concluded the newcomer was Pembroke. “They came through the screen, on the Whitehall side. Approximately an hour ago.”

  “There must be more to it than that, Sam, if you sent an armed matelot to collect me. Which caused quite a bit of consternation, not incidentally.”

  “Sir, you don’t understand.” Pethick licked his lips. His gaze darted to the siblings, just for a moment. He looked back at Pembroke, and when he spoke, he precisely enunciated every word. “They came … through … the screen. And the wall. And a handful of sentries.”

  Pembroke looked again at Klaus and his sister, more carefully than the cursory glance he’d tossed in their direction as he entered. She twirled a finger through her hair, black onyx braided with silver, pretending not to notice how he stared at them. A furrow formed between Pembroke’s eyes. It deepened when he came around the desk and saw the disabled wires hanging over their shoulders. A flash of alarm or surprise might have appeared on his face, too, but it was hard to tell.

  “Are they—?”

  “I believe so, sir.”

  Pembroke took the seat behind the desk. He laced his fingers, rested his hands before him, and said, “I’m Leslie Pembroke. I believe you’ve been waiting for me. I would like to know why you’ve come here, and why you want so very badly to speak with us.”

  Klaus looked at Gretel. He wanted to know, too.

  Gretel looked back and forth between Pembroke at the desk and Pethick, who had moved closer to the window. From her blouse she produced a page torn from the newspaper. She slid it across the desk to Pembroke. Klaus saw she had circled a small article, two short paragraphs under the headline, LANTERN BLAMED FOR GLOUS. FIRE.

  “You gentlemen have a problem,” she said.

  Pembroke glanced at the newspaper, then back at her. “What sort of problem?”

  She shook her head. “The warning is free. An explanation of your troubles is not. We’ll give you everything we know—” She fixed her stare on Pembroke, saying with emphasis, “I’ll tell you what I know—after you bring in Raybould Marsh.”

  Pethick interjected. “What?”

  “Raybould Marsh. He worked here, long ago.”

  Pembroke frowned. “We know who Marsh is.”

  “Then you should have no trouble finding him, yes?”

  13 May 1963

  Knightsbridge, London, England

  As always, Gwendolyn was up and well into her day, or at the very least finishing breakfast, before Will made it downstairs. Even if there hadn’t been a biblical deluge raging outside, she still would have risen before him.

  “Good morning, love.” A peppery scent wafted up from the empty shell of her soft-boiled egg when he kissed the top of her head. The spiciness mingled not unpleasantly with the lavender smell of her shampoo.

  He took his seat beside her at the round inlaid table that served as their dining room. A proper dining room would have had a long table, suitable for entertaining a dozen guests. Will preferred to talk with his wife without resorting to flag semaphore. Their tastes ran more modestly than their peers’. The modest and immodest tables traded places in storage as necessary.

  “You were up rather early yes
terday.” He paused, waiting for a crack of thunder to subside. “I saw neither hide nor hair of you the entire day.”

  “You were up rather late yesterday,” said Gwendolyn. She folded the paper she’d been reading and set it aside. Then she handed him the toast rack.

  While he spooned lemon curd on lukewarm toast, Will said, “The ambassador’s little soiree lasted entirely longer than I’d have preferred.”

  She laughed, but ruefully. “I’m the one who found herself cornered by your brother’s dreadful wife all evening.” Another blast of thunder swallowed the tink of her saucer as she set down her teacup. She pointed outside, where squalls of rain gusted past the bay window. “Do you know what we discussed? Window sashes. All evening.”

  Will lifted the teapot. “I have every confidence you were up to the task.”

  She nudged him with her elbow, but softly, not enough to make him spill. “You were rather scarce. Why did Fedotov need to speak with you so urgently?”

  Their cook, Mrs. Toomre—the eldest daughter of one of his grandfather’s servants, one of those who’d raised young Will—came in with a plate of egg, bean, and tomato. She set it before Will; he nodded his appreciation to her.

  “I cocked up the schedule for Minister Kalugin’s visit. We had to get it squared away.” Will took a bite of his toast and washed down the sweet curd with a sip of strong tea. It had steeped just long enough: astringent, but not unpleasantly so.

  Gwendolyn frowned. “That was it, then?”

  Her doubt elicited new pangs of guilt. “Yes. Why? Is something wrong?”

  “I don’t like you spending time alone with Cherkashin. I find him thoroughly unpleasant.”

  Will laughed. “First poor Viola, now Cherkashin. My dear, if you’re not careful, I’ll begin to think you don’t approve of anybody.” He meant it as a joke, but she was having none of it.

  “He’s KGB, you know.”

  A bead of sweat tickled Will’s widow’s peak. He tucked into his tomato, hoping to hide his anxiety. Soon, he promised himself. I’ll tell you soon, love. Gwendolyn would understand after he explained things carefully. Wouldn’t she?

  “Cherkashin? I think you’re being a bit oversensitive. Not every cultural attaché is a KGB agent.”

  “It virtually guarantees he’s one of them. Did you see how quickly he scurried across the room when he saw the ambassador talking privately with us? I think he nearly elbowed Lady Spencer in his haste.” She shook her head. “He’s a dreadful fellow. Be careful around him.”

  “I give you my word,” said Will. But he couldn’t bring himself to lie so baldly to his love and savior. Not after all she’d done for him. So he said, truthfully, “I shall avoid him as much as humanly possible.”

  The caveat wasn’t lost on her. Her lips twisted in a moue of disapproval.

  Rain thrummed against the windowpanes. Will took up the paper. “Anything interesting today?” he asked.

  Gwendolyn pulled the jar of lemon curd closer to her plate. Sounding bored, she said, “The president has declared martial law in the American South. Again.” She spooned curd on the last piece of toast. “Von Braun’s cosmonauts have fallen silent; no transmissions since they returned to the Space Wheel. Cheltenham FC beat Hereford United three–one.” Lightning flashed outside, like a strobe. Over the booming reverberation of thunder, she added, “And today’s forecast calls for rain.”

  “I’ll be certain to warn Aubrey, then.”

  “Yes. Do.”

  After breakfast, Will took up his briefcase, kissed his wife on the nose, and instructed his driver to take him to work. Within thirty minutes, he was stepping out of the Bentley and dashing up a flight of stairs to the lobby of a Georgian office building. Will paused in the lobby to remove his bowler hat and shake out the umbrella.

  The North Atlantic Cross-Cultural Foundation occupied the fourth floor. The lift opened on a reception area with burgundy carpeting, walnut panels, brushed aluminum accents, and thoroughly sterile fluorescent lighting. From behind the reception desk his secretary, Angela, a brunette with a beehive hairstyle said, “Good morning, Lord William.”

  She insisted on using his courtesy title. In return, he strove for scandalous informality.

  “Morning, Angie.” Will hung his bowler and overcoat on a rack in the corner. “Messages?”

  “Several. A busy start to the day, sir.” Will’s young secretary flipped through her message pad. “His Grace called, via his assistant, requesting the final schedule for the Minister Kalugin’s visit.” Flip. “A member of Ambassador Fedotov’s staff called. They found a pair of lady’s gloves after the gathering two nights ago; might they belong to your wife?” Flip …

  Will glanced out the window while Angela spoke. He studied the arrangement of curtains on the windows across the street, and blinked. He missed the rest of the messages, contemplating the weather. It was, he supposed, the best time for a covert meeting. But he would have preferred not to go out in that. It was raining stair-rods. Perhaps that was a fitting punishment for flouting Gwendolyn’s warning.

  “Sir?”

  He shook his head, clearing it. “Apologies. You were saying?”

  “Shall I phone the embassy regarding the gloves?”

  “Ah … Yes, please. Thank them for me, but let them know my wife hasn’t misplaced anything. And then type up the new schedule, and have it couriered to my brother’s staff after I sign off, won’t you?”

  “It’s on your desk, awaiting your approval, sir.”

  Will smiled as much as he could muster and inclined his head at her, acknowledging her efficiency. Only twenty-four years old, yet Angela was more collected than Will had been at thirty-four. When Gwendolyn had come along. When she had started to fix him.

  Inwardly, Will flinched. Their breakfast conversation jangled his nerves like a toothache. He’d meant what he said, yet here he was not two hours later planning to violate the spirit of the thing if not the wording.

  But on the other hand, the fact was that he had needed fixing. Because he’d been forced to do terrible things by despicable men. And, like the fairy-tale egg man, it had shattered him. Even now when he thought about the things they’d done, the atrocities they’d committed, he felt trapped and breathless. Sometimes the guilt lay so heavy upon him, it pressed the air from his lungs. And in the short term his decision to take the reins, to exorcise his demons, only made the guilt heavier. Because the only solution—arrived at after so many long years—meant betraying Gwendolyn. But if Will was to ever make proper reparation for the evil things he’d done, he’d have to shoulder the burden just a bit longer.

  Yes, he had an obligation to his wife. And he’d adhere to the very letter of it. I shall avoid him as much as humanly possible. But he also had an obligation to make amends for the deeds of his past. The siren song of atonement was impossible to ignore.

  Angela must have seen a hint of the anger playing across his face. “Sir?” She inched backwards; the casters on her chair squeaked. “Is something wrong?”

  Will realized he’d been staring at her, staring through her, at events from long ago. He shook his head again. Lightly as he could, he said, “Lost in thought.”

  This lessened the crease of worry between her eyes, but not the hint of frown at the corners of her mouth. If anything, Angela was perhaps too efficient and too perceptive. She was a good girl; Will regretted he wasn’t the upright fellow she thought he was. In his youth, he would have found her just the right sort of bird to talk into vigorous but private indiscretions.

  He approached the narrow double doors of his office. “Hold my calls, unless they’re from His Grace, please.”

  “Very good, sir,” she said.

  He paused with his hand on the handle. “Oh, and Angela? Tea, when you have a moment.”

  “On your desk, sir.”

  And it was. Strong, hot, with a fan of lemon slices on the side. He poured a cup, then stood behind his desk, watching rivulets of rainwater trace and retrace pat
terns on the windowpanes. Water turned the streets below into streams, transformed surrounding rooftops into cataracts.

  Two cups later, he hadn’t moved. Nor had the storm. Nor had the arrangement of curtains across the street.

  He gave the new schedule a cursory examination. It included his annotated changes from the other night. Will initialed it.

  Typically, an office of this size, for a person of Will’s standing, might have contained a well-stocked sideboard. But Will, who had no use for such things, had instead given the extra space to a two-drawer safe. A bright red potted nasturtium draped its leaves over the burnished steel. He opened the safe as quietly as he could manage, though it was difficult to hide the clack-clang of the thick steel door when he wrenched the handle. Will preferred that Angela not know he’d accessed his safe.

  The top drawer contained a copy of the foundation’s articles of investiture, and quarterly investment portfolios for its endowment. All duplicates of documents that Aubrey himself had in safekeeping.

  But the contents of the safe were personal as much as professional. The bottom drawer held copies of Will’s legal documents, including his last will and testament (everything to Gwen, thank you very much, except for a few cash disbursements to the help); his marriage license; and his own investment portfolios.

  Tucked behind all of that sat a yellowed, wire-bound manuscript. Gwendolyn would murder him, if she knew he’d kept it. But it was necessary. A reminder.

  An unmarked file folder lay hidden behind everything else. It was much thinner now than it had been when he’d first compiled the contents. All that remained in the folder were a single sheet of paper and a thirty-year-old photograph. The photo was a rare bonus; he’d had a devil of a time obtaining it. Most of the men he’d profiled had never been photographed, not once.

  And this was the last. Soon, thought Will. Soon it will be over, and I’ll be free of the past.

  Will closed the safe (clang-clack) and spun the combination dial. He tucked the documents in the breast pocket of his suit jacket and exited the office.