The Coldest War

by Ian Tregillis

  The smell had changed, too. Now it was the sweet odor of Pembroke’s pipe tobacco leaching out of the upholstery, rather than the sharp scent of Stephenson’s Lucky Strikes. The pipe seemed an obnoxious affectation on one so young.

  But then Marsh realized Pembroke’s youth was an illusion created by the perspective of his own age.

  Pembroke closed the door. He opened a sideboard, pulled out a bottle and two tumblers.

  That’s new, too, thought Marsh. The old man kept his brandy in his desk drawer. Until Will drank it all.

  “I think we could both use a drink,” said Pembroke. “You, especially.”

  “I’m not the one running around like Gretel’s lapdog. You must work up bloody great a thirst.”

  Pembroke poured a generous portion into both glasses. The earth-and-fire scent of scotch tickled Marsh’s nose. He set a glass on the desk for Marsh, then took the seat behind it. The casters squeaked.

  Marsh squelched into a chair. His sodden boilersuit itched all over.

  Pembroke said, “We’re on the same side here, Marsh. I am not your enemy.”

  “You are as long as you’re working for Gretel.”

  “I think you’re a bit confused.”

  Marsh took Gretel’s note in his fist, shook it in Pembroke’s face. “She’s pulling your strings. Jesus Christ, how long did that take? One day?”

  Pembroke sipped. He swallowed loudly. “Of course I let things unfold the way they did. It was a perfect opportunity to test her. That’s not letting her pull the strings. It’s basic tradecraft, and you should recognize that.” He sipped again. “Besides, unlike you, I’ve never seen her ability at work. Not directly. And, you must admit, your attempted assault did unfold precisely as she’d foretold. Chapter and verse. Remarkable.”

  “I presume you had the presence of mind to disconnect her battery the moment she arrived?”

  “Sam did.”

  Marsh said, “I’ve seen her do this before. She pulls these things off long after her battery has been removed. So rather than gaping in wonderment, you should be wondering how long she’s been planning this. And why.”

  Pembroke gestured at the letter, stilled balled in Marsh’s fist. “I watched her write that.”

  Marsh threw the paper across the room. He shook his head in disgust. “Jesus.” He massaged his temples. “She’s playing you.”

  “She’s not the enemy any longer. She’s a defector.”

  “She’s not here to help us.” Marsh shifted in his chair. The fabric of his drying boilersuit had constricted uncomfortably against his legs.

  “The Soviets would never let her off the leash. She’s far too valuable to squander as a double agent.”

  “I didn’t say she’s working for them. I said she’s not here to help us,” said Marsh. He drained his glass in two swallows; it was a nice single malt. “Let me spare you months of effort,” Marsh whispered. Coughing past the fire in his sinuses, he added, “They never turned her. Her brother, maybe, but never Gretel. Hell, in the end even von Westarp couldn’t control her. And he created her.”

  “It’s not a matter of controlling her,” said Pembroke. “It’s a question of securing her willing cooperation.”

  “Cooperation? Are you mad? Downstairs you have locked up a man who can walk through walls like a ghost. And his sister, who can read the future as easily as you and I read the goddamned newspaper. Now, you tell me something. Do you honestly believe it took them twenty-odd years to escape?”

  Pembroke sighed. “You’re probably right.” In response to the skepticism on Marsh’s face, he said, “Look, I’m not a fool. But I’ll happily play the part if it means access to the secrets in her head. If we could know a fraction of the things she knows, we could chart a new course for Britain.”

  “She’s seducing you, and you don’t even realize it.”

  “I’m willing to let her think that. We ought to work together on this, Marsh. Work the problem from both ends. Let Gretel believe I’m her willing pawn. Meanwhile, you unravel what she’s really after.”

  A thrill raced through Marsh. A chance to return to the only life he’d ever fit? But it was replaced just as quickly with irritation bordering on shame. What a sad carrot this was. Pembroke didn’t have a fraction of Stephenson’s mettle. Gretel would eat him alive.

  “You can’t outwit her,” he said. “You can’t outmaneuver her. And if you try, she will dance on your grave.”

  “I will never trust Gretel. Not after everything I’ve read about her history.”

  “You’ve been into the archives, then.”

  “Of course I have.”

  “The archives I retrieved from Germany.”

  Pembroke paused in mid-sip, pointing at Marsh across the lip of his glass. “That was an incredible piece of work, by the way. Something of a legend in these parts.”

  Marsh dipped his head slightly, acknowledging the compliment but not enough to dislodge the icy veneer he presented to Pembroke. He asked, “And where exactly are ‘these parts’ today?”

  It was Pembroke’s turn to nod, acknowledging the subtext of Marsh’s question. “We’re back in circulating section T. Have been since … forty-five?” He nodded to himself, then plied Marsh with a wry smile. “Stephenson’s old purview, if I know my history.”

  Back before the creation of Milkweed, in the late 1930s, Marsh had been a field agent reporting to Stephenson, who headed the “technological surprise” section of MI6, Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service. It was on a mission to Spain during the civil war there that Marsh had stumbled across the greatest technological surprise of the century: the Reichsbehörde. Not long after that, the old man had created Milkweed, handing T-section over to others and even giving up his opportunity at the top of SIS in exchange for free rein to run Milkweed as he pleased.

  In those early days, Marsh had thought he’d make a long career of serving the country. He’d never imagined the intelligence world would one day be overrun with twits like Pembroke.

  “Still special access, I hope.”

  “Naturally,” said Pembroke. “But there are few of us. Me; Sam, whom you’ve met; a handful of others. Field agents and technicians. And, of course, you.”

  Marsh said, “But Milkweed isn’t autonomous any longer.”

  “Well, nearly so.” Pembroke shrugged. It reminded Marsh of the old man’s peculiar one-armed shrugs. The loneliness hit harder this time. Marsh squirmed. Pembroke continued, “As autonomous as anything in the Service can be these days. This isn’t wartime. And there is such a thing as a budget, you know.”

  “I can’t imagine that’s been much of a problem for you. How much could you possibly cost the Crown, sitting there and twiddling your thumbs for years on end?”

  Pembroke ignored the jab. He shook his head. If anything, he looked almost amused. “So you believe her story, then?”

  “I don’t believe she’s being forthright with us,” said Marsh. “But yes, I expect that if you bother to check up on your warlocks, you’ll find most of them dead. Just as she claimed.” He shook his head. “Every struggle, every sacrifice. Rendered moot by your carelessness.”

  “Is that so.” A strange look came over Pembroke’s face. Again, that hint of amusement. It was maddening. Marsh wanted to straighten him out. “If she’s right, we have quite a mess on our hands.”

  Marsh slammed his empty glass on the desk. “Quite a mess? Don’t you see what they’re doing? They’re clearing the board, you imbecile. Your Soviet counterparts have tired of this so-called Cold War. So they’re resetting the game.”

  “That’s not the problem to which I refer,” said Pembroke. “Because to my mind, the real issue is how the Soviets have managed to track down our men. They excel at hiding, at staying in the shadows. As you may remember.”

  What Marsh remembered was how Will had taken great lengths—traversing the United Kingdom from north to south, from east to west, and back again—to track down and recruit less than a dozen warlocks for
Milkweed. Finding them would have been impossible if not for the cryptic hints found in the journal of Will’s grandfather.

  Back then, all the world’s warlocks wouldn’t have filled the chairs in the conference room down the corridor. Now, Marsh feared, they wouldn’t fill this office.

  It struck Marsh he hadn’t considered Will might be one of the victims. He found he was too detached to care one way or the other. Then again, Will’s death would have made the news.

  Marsh said, “It’s bloody obvious. Arzamas-16 has an agent in the country. Gretel said as much. He waltzed in here and took a stroll through your files. Von Westarp had an invisible girl. Or maybe he’s like Klaus. Or, for all we know, Klaus and Gretel are behind this. How long have they been in the country? You don’t know, do you?”

  Once again, that infuriating look passed across Pembroke’s face. Marsh clenched his fist.

  “I doubt very much that their man has been to the Admiralty. Instead, I’d wager the leak, if there is one, is one of your contemporaries. From the old days,” said Pembroke. He glimpsed Marsh’s fist, then changed the subject. He opened a drawer and set a file folder on the desk. Marsh recognized the green border of an MI6 personnel file. “You’ve had a difficult time of it, these past few years.”

  Marsh disliked the sudden turn to the conversation. And he certainly didn’t welcome the attention to his home life. But he kept quiet, waiting to see just how deep a hole Pembroke would dig for himself.

  “You’ve had a number of run-ins. Fighting. Disorderly conduct. Disturbing the peace.” Pembroke turned a page. “A long succession of odd jobs. Gardening. Mending. A bit of construction here and there. All aboveboard?” he asked.

  But Marsh held his silence.

  “I ask only out of curiosity. It’s difficult to reconcile your tax records with what we know of your work history. A bit of cash paid under the counter from time to time?” Pembroke shrugged. “I truly couldn’t care if you’ve let a few quid go unreported. You do have two mouths to feed.” Another page.

  He continued, “Presumably two mouths. Nobody has seen your son in years. Not even the neighbors. Not since the last nanny packed up and quit rather suddenly, from what I gather.” Pembroke turned another page in Marsh’s file, shaking his head sadly. “Quite a few hospital visits in his early years, though.”

  Marsh’s jaw ached when he ground his molars together. His fingernails dug into his palms; he stopped just short of drawing blood. The effort not to leap across the desk and throttle Pembroke left him physically trembling.

  “My son is not on the table for discussion,” he managed. His voice trembled with the same effort.

  Pembroke looked up, wide-eyed as if surprised to find Marsh upset. “Of course he isn’t.” The file made a soft clapping sound when he flipped it shut. “Look. I don’t raise these issues because I think I can strong-arm you into returning. I know that wouldn’t work with you. I’m merely trying to suggest that you might be happier if you returned to the service. Leaving SIS was your great mistake, Marsh.”

  “It wasn’t a mistake,” said Marsh. Just as he’d told himself countless times over the years. Perhaps it was even true. Things had been bright, even rosy, when he’d left. He’d yearned to get out, to start over with Liv. His row with the old man at war’s end had been the opportunity he’d needed to turn his back on the life of the spy. Jumping at that opportunity was the smart thing. He would have been a fool not to do it.

  No. Leaving the service hadn’t been a mistake. Marsh’s great regret was not coming back. But he’d never admit that to Pembroke.

  “Steady pay,” said Pembroke. “We’ll put you in at what your salary would have been today, had you stayed and continued your record of exemplary service. And, of course, we can have the more colorful incidents expunged from your police record.” He pulled the pipe from his breast pocket, gestured vaguely with the stem. “The usual caveats continue to apply. Official Secrets Act and the rest.”

  Marsh didn’t want to acknowledge the thrill he felt. A chance to make up for the failures of the past twenty years … “And what would my assignment be?”

  “I’ve already told you.” Pembroke produced a tobacco pouch from his desk. Tamping the bowl of his pipe, he said, “Suss out Gretel’s intentions. You’d have complete latitude to do so however you see fit. You are the best man for that job.”

  “I’d be reporting to you, then.”

  “Yes.”

  Arthritis flared when Marsh pressed his fingers to his jaw, thinking. Pembroke misinterpreted the gesture.

  “You’re wondering about me.”

  “Ever been in combat?”

  “No. I was sixteen when the war ended.”

  “Your predecessor lost an arm in the First World War.”

  As if it would somehow justify himself, Pembroke said, “My father fought in Egypt.”

  But Marsh ignored that, instead asking, “And how did you end up here?”

  Pembroke, it turned out, was a Cambridge man, recruited into the service directly out of university. He’d taken a starred first in Russian literature, another first in European history, and then went to work analyzing Soviet military tech for MI6. Pencil-and-paper war games. From there, it was but a lateral move into Milkweed.

  “In other words,” said Marsh, “you’re a pencil pusher.”

  Pembroke sighed. “I think we’re starting off on the wrong foot here. If Gretel’s right, you’re a part of this.”

  “If Gretel’s right, and she always is, you’ve pissed away Milkweed’s reason for existence. Your incompetence has broken the impasse of the past twenty years. The Eidolons were our trump card, the only thing keeping the Soviets at bay. But now, thanks to your bungling, the Eidolons are closed off from us.”

  “Because I’ve been twiddling my thumbs.”

  “Yes.”

  “If I could convince you the situation isn’t quite so dire,” Pembroke said, “would you consider returning?”

  Consider it? Returning to Milkweed was the single bright spot on the dreary horizon of Marsh’s life. He’d left the service after realizing he could either build a life with Liv, or build a career around a futile and poisonous quest for justice. He’d chosen Liv. But their attempts at creating a family had been spectacular failures. And today their marriage was nothing but a lie. He had chosen poorly.

  Coming back to SIS wouldn’t fix any of that. But it meant a steady income. It meant having a purpose in life. It meant a legitimate excuse to avoid Liv’s resentment without enduring tossers like Fitch. And it meant Marsh would be there when Gretel slipped. Everyone slips, eventually.

  Marsh hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the service until today. “I’ll consider it,” he said.

  “Excellent,” said Pembroke, standing. He set the unlit pipe on his desk. “I’d like to show you something.”

  The Old Admiralty was much as Marsh remembered; only the names on the doors had changed. He noticed that many of the rooms that had belonged to Milkweed in its brief heyday were now storerooms, crammed with old desks, chairs, rolls of carpet, filing cabinets, and the other office detritus that accumulates over the years.

  But then they descended a stairwell to a heavy door that looked like the entrance to a bank vault, and the sense of familiarity vanished. This was new.

  Pembroke spun the wheel in the center of the door. It moved silently. Even the bolts made barely a whisper when they withdrew. He started to pull the door open, but then he snapped his fingers and stopped. He turned to Marsh.

  “I ought to have asked earlier. You’re not bleeding anywhere, are you?”

  “Bleeding? No.”

  “You’re quite certain?” Pembroke eyed the bruise on Marsh’s face. “Your wounds have healed?”

  Marsh glanced at the scratches on his hands. “Yes.”

  “No open cuts? No ulcers?”

  “No.”

  “Very good, then.”

  The vault door was the first of a pair. They were connected
such that the inner door could be opened only when the outer door was locked, and vice versa. Like a castle’s sally port, or the air lock on a submersible.

  When they emerged in the cellar, Marsh found he didn’t recognize anything. The space had been radically altered since last he was down here. The cellar Marsh remembered had been a warren of brick barrel vault passageways. It had been lit by bare lightbulbs hung from wires overhead, and lined with the gray, rivet-studded steel doors of storerooms and bomb shelters. Water stains had mottled the ceiling and cold concrete floor.

  It was impossible to know if any of that remained. Thick carpet covered the floor, ceiling, and walls; the walls were studded with angular baffles carved from black plastic foam. Marsh understood at once, by virtue of having spent so much time struggling to perfect John’s room. This was soundproofing done right, at the Crown’s expense.

  Walking was a bit difficult. The thick beige carpet underfoot yielded a good inch beneath every footstep. The storerooms had been replaced with vaults much like the ones they’d passed through on their entrance to the cellar. These were also soundproofed.

  Pembroke pointed at two adjacent doors. “Gretel and her brother are in there, and there,” he said. Marsh had to listen carefully in order to hear him over the sound of his own beating heart and the blood rushing through his ears. “Do speak freely, however. They can’t hear anything that transpires out here, short of mortar fire.”

  Marsh wondered if Gretel had foreseen this place, this future version of the cellar, during her short incarceration here in 1940. Probably.

  He followed Pembroke to the end of a long corridor, around the corner, and down another. The Admiralty cellar adjoined tunnels that ran far past the footprint of the building itself; Marsh guessed they had passed beneath St. James’ Park. The world was silent except for footfalls and heartbeats. The carpeted soundproofing changed patterns here and there, from stripes to dots to triangular tilings. Marsh suspected the deepest reaches of this warren had been built earliest, out of scrap materials. Some of this carpeting predated the war.