The Coldest War

by Ian Tregillis

  Will said, “Roped you into joining the fun, did he, Klaus?”

  “Don’t worry about him,” Marsh snapped. “Be thankful he wants to see the end of this as badly as we do.”

  Will dined alone. His dinner consisted of marinated lamb shank with mint jelly, green beans with almond slivers, and a sweet potato soufflé. Mrs. Toomre had planned two such servings before the faux evacuation sent her home to Swansea for the foreseeable future. If he didn’t die in his sleep tonight, Will would eat Gwendolyn’s portion tomorrow.

  Marsh and Anthony staked out different rooms downstairs, while Klaus took a seat in a corner of Will’s bedroom. The idea being, apparently, that Klaus would pull Will to safety at the first hint of trouble.

  Will didn’t like the sound of that.

  Occasionally one of the others would come upstairs to check in with Klaus. Will found he could distinguish the men from their breathing and how they trod the stairs. Anthony fidgeted, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, eliciting creaks from the floorboards. Klaus made the slightest of rasps when he inhaled. Only Marsh was perfectly silent, a shadow brooding in the darkness.

  The drowsy part of Will’s mind marveled at the twisted set of circumstances. Klaus was one of the reasons Milkweed had been created; a formidable enemy, whose existence had goaded Marsh and the old man to extreme measures. Klaus’s spectacular foray into the Admiralty building to free Gretel had prompted Will to track down and recruit Britain’s warlocks for the war effort. Those had been frightening days; time’s passage hadn’t blunted Will’s memory. It wasn’t so different from now, the sweaty anxiety, the dodgy sensation of teetering on the razor edge of panic. The impotent worry that any moment they’d be overrun by dozens of Klauses, and all the others on the Tarragona filmstrip.

  Yet now Will found he much preferred to have this former enemy looking after his well-being rather than his former friend and ally. Part of him secretly feared that Marsh might succumb to rage and slit Will’s throat in the middle of the night. If nothing else, the Nazis knew discipline.

  Will whispered, “Why are you doing this, Klaus? How terribly did Marsh twist your arm?”

  “He didn’t,” said Klaus. But he didn’t elaborate.

  Later, Will caught a snippet of whispered conversation.

  “I recognize you. From the safe house.”

  “I reckon so.”

  “You played cards with my sister. For hours.”

  This was followed by a chuckle and what might have been the susurration of fabric, like corduroy. “Commander Marsh’s orders. Wanted us to test her limits a bit. Glad it weren’t for real quid, though.”

  Sometime past midnight, the play of headlights shone through the drapes and danced along the ceiling of the bedroom as a lone car rounded the crescent. Will, who had been sleeping lightly if at all, sat bolt upright.

  Klaus’s radio squawked to life. Will recognized Pembroke’s voice. “Stand by.”

  The quiet somehow became more complete, more oppressive, as every person in the house held his breath. Klaus plugged in; the click ricocheted through the pregnant silence. The Milkweed men covertly monitoring the street gave a running commentary on the passing car. Sweat trickled down Will’s arms.

  “Two occupants … A man and a woman … They’re slowing.… They’ve stopped before number twenty-three.… They’re consulting a map, looks like they’re having a row.… They’re pulling out.… Stand down. Stand down.”

  The adrenaline surge kept Will awake most of the rest of the night. But he did doze off, eventually, and woke the next morning slightly surprised to find himself still alive.

  * * *

  Will even snored like a toff. Marsh made this observation when he went upstairs to relieve Klaus. Sunrise peeked through the blinds of Will’s bedroom. It had been a long, frustrating night.

  “Knock off for a few, Klaus. Sleep it off if you’re able. We’ll rest in shifts.”

  Klaus stood. It sounded like every joint in his arms and legs cracked. He yawned, rubbed his eyes.

  “Have you budged from that spot this entire night?”

  “No,” said Klaus.

  Well, thought Marsh. That’s Nazi discipline for you.

  “You can rack out on the couch downstairs,” he said. Klaus nodded, yawned again, and tromped down the stairs. Marsh tapped Will’s shoulder. “Oy. Get up.”

  Will mumbled. Marsh poked him harder. “Get up.”

  Will blinked at him blearily. “Pip?” He took a moment to survey his surroundings. In a raspy voice he said, “I still live, I see.”

  “For the moment.”

  “Well. Thank heavens for quiet nights, then.”

  Marsh waited outside the master bath while Will showered and shaved. Surveying the bedroom, he realized that Will slept with silk sheets on his king-sized, four-poster bed. That single set probably cost more than all the sheets and towels in Marsh’s house, combined.

  The surge of resentment tasted like bile on the back of Marsh’s tongue. Every crystal light fixture, every sterling silver teaspoon, grated like a draft of cold air on a cracked tooth. Just the previous morning, he and Liv had fought over whether they could afford to hire a plumber to fix the kitchen sink.

  And to think that Will was the poorer Beauclerk brother. Marsh doubted Aubrey’s lifestyle was any less opulent, in spite of his affection for socialism. He’d have to ask Klaus the Russian word for “hypocrite.”

  Will emerged from the steamy bathroom in his dressing gown, hair wet, face pink from the razor. He hadn’t slept well; Marsh could read it in the darkened skin beneath his eyes. But the bags weren’t so pronounced as they had been in the days after Will had discovered morphine. An errant thought tainted with guilt; Marsh punched it aside.

  Will opened a wardrobe. He sifted through the clothes hung inside, critically examining each pair of trousers. Likewise the shirts. This went on for a full minute.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” said Marsh. “You’re not meeting the bloody Queen today.”

  “And what am I doing today?” Will put a set of clothes on the bed and began to dress. It was an awkward process. Milkweed’s medic had dispensed with Will’s sling, but Will still moved gingerly, favoring the arm. Marsh rolled his eyes; the doc had suggested the original injury hadn’t been more than a mild sprain.

  “When does your secretary arrive at the foundation in the morning?”

  “I haven’t a clue.” Goaded by Marsh’s snort of impatience, Will added, “Angela is always there before me.”

  “Why am I not surprised,” said Marsh.

  “Why the interest in Angela? She’s too young for you.”

  “You’re calling in sick today.”

  “Ah.”

  “We suspect Cherkashin may have your phones tapped.”

  A pause. And then, more quietly, “I see.”

  “It might speed things along, if they think you’ll be home alone all day.”

  “Yes. Nothing could be more vexing than a tardy assassin. Very uncouth, taking his time like this.”

  “I haven’t slept. Don’t try my patience.”

  Will fell silent while he struggled to dress. As he fumbled the last button through its hole, he said, “I want to see the end of this as much as you. I won’t see Gwendolyn until then.”

  Marsh followed him down the stairs. “I can’t begin to imagine what she sees in you.”

  “Neither can I, Pip.”

  Downstairs, they found Klaus stretched out and breathing deeply on the fainting couch in the parlor. The scent of eggs and bacon wafted out of the kitchen. Anthony had taken it upon himself to scrounge up breakfast for the beleaguered team. Marsh’s stomach grumbled. He’d neglected to eat dinner during the hectic rush to turn Will’s home into a trap.

  “You’re lucky she found you when she did,” said Marsh.

  Will said, “Nobody understands that better than I.”

  * * *

  The radio squawked again that afternoon, rousing Will fro
m a fitful nap in the reading alcove. Unlike Marsh and the others, who had been napping in shifts and resorting to generous helpings of tea and coffee to stay alert, Will had no reason to force himself awake. He’d dozed through much of the morning and early afternoon. His dreams had been feverish, still life montages of being buried alive.

  As it had during the previous night’s false alarm, a burst of static preceded a transmission from the SIS lorry parked down the crescent. Marsh, Klaus, and Anthony tensed, turning their attention to the two-way handset situated on the dining room table alongside several Mills bombs. Will drew a shuddery breath.

  “Stand by,” announced the tinny, disembodied voice. Pethick, rather than Pembroke this time; perhaps the SIS lorry had a cot.

  A shadow slipped across the curtains of the bay window as a vehicle pulled to a stop on the street outside. Will resisted the urge to peek.

  “It’s a lorry,” said their eyes outside. “National gas.” Gas distribution had been nationalized in the mid-forties.

  “Single occupant. He’s getting out. Dressed as a workman.” Anthony pulled his sidearm; Marsh did likewise, then pointed from Klaus to Will to the stairs. Will followed Klaus up to the master bedroom, where the second radio handset took up the running commentary.

  “He’s giving the crescent a good look over, both directions.…”

  Klaus plugged in. Will looked at the wall. He swallowed. The boundary separating the Beauclerk household from the Ashton-Clarke household, through which the rattle of plumbing and the occasional muffled voice had escaped over the years, now seemed impassable. Impregnable.

  “He’s crossing the street, approaching the door.”

  Klaus glanced at the gauge on his battery. He frowned.

  It turned Will’s knees to jelly. “Look,” he said. “If there’s a problem, perhaps we should rethink—”

  “Go! Go! Go!” The radio squealed, overdriven by the urgency and excitement in Pethick’s voice.

  Klaus grabbed Will’s arm. An electric tingle suffused his body, made his mouth taste as though he’d been sucking on a ha’penny. Klaus pulled Will behind him. Will tried to object, tried to break away, but Klaus’s grip was too firm. The wall engulfed Klaus.

  Wallpaper, plaster, timber, and paint passed through Will’s eyes, bones, brain, and heart. Buried alive. He panicked, overwhelmed by claustrophobia. But his screams only expelled ghostly air from ephemeral lungs.

  And then he was out again, staggering through the neighbors’ bedroom. He needed to catch his breath but Klaus wouldn’t stop. They passed through another wall. And another. And another. Each residence took Will closer to the SIS lorry, and closer to blacking out.

  They stumbled to a halt in an unfamiliar master bathroom. A towel lay crumpled alongside a safety razor and a white porcelain sink dusted with the black detritus of somebody’s beard. Klaus released him.

  “Get outside!” he said.

  Will doubled over, sucking down air. “I hope never to do that again,” he gasped.

  But Klaus had already disappeared.

  * * *

  Marsh crouched in the shadows behind the stairwell, which gave him a clear view of the foyer. A man stood on the landing, his features blurred by the frosted panes.

  Anthony hid behind the green baize chair in the parlor, Browning pistol at the ready.

  The silhouette on the landing turned, as if surveying the street again. The doorknob rattled. Marsh laid a finger on the light switch.

  The stranger’s hand ghosted through the door at the same moment the radio gave the order for Klaus to move. The phantom hand felt around the inside of the doorframe, and then turned the latch.

  He’s like Klaus, thought Marsh. So much for our traps.

  The door swung open. Cherkashin’s man stepped soundlessly into the foyer. He wore the uniform of a gas company workman, complete with boilersuit and tool belt. Silhouetted by the afternoon glare, his features were invisible to Marsh. Marsh squinted, straining for any sign of wires snaking down the man’s collar, but could see none. Perhaps they were subcutaneous, as Klaus had warned.

  Cherkashin’s man turned to close the door behind him, but froze when he glimpsed the exposed electrical mains.

  Marsh flipped the switch.

  For an instant the walls trembled with a tremendous buzzing as if packed with lightning and hornets. The chandelier above the foyer exploded at the center of an electric-blue flash. It showered the intruder with shards of broken crystal. An ozone tang filled the house, sharp enough to sting.

  And now he knows we’re wise to him.

  Marsh blinked rapidly; the flash from the chandelier had imprinted green afterimages in the corners of his vision. He needed to see clearly, to gauge whether the improvised pixie had worked. The assassin shook his head as if trying to clear it. Crystal fragments tinkled to the floor when he brushed himself off, the only sound in the aftermath of the blast. Marsh held his breath.

  The debris didn’t pass through your body. Are you disabled, or merely surprised?

  The assassin turned his attention toward the shadows of the darkened house. Slowly. Deliberately. He wasn’t dazed, and he wasn’t retreating.

  God damn it. The pixie needed just under a minute to recharge. Marsh reached for one of the Mills bombs on his belt, mentally reviewing what Klaus had confirmed for him. Have to do this the hard way. Keep him insubstantial until he needs to draw a breath.

  From the parlor he heard the bump of a chair shouldered aside, and Anthony saying, “Don’t move.”

  Heat shimmer engulfed the assassin. Anthony screamed. Tufts of torn silk wallpaper fluttered like gossamer pennants in the sudden updraft before flaring into ash.

  “Shit!” The oath escaped Marsh before he could catch himself. It drew the assassin’s attention. He looked in Marsh’s direction, frowning.

  Marsh fumbled for the second light switch. It triggered a pair of antipersonnel mines embedded in opposite walls just as the Soviet agent stepped between them. The hail of shrapnel flashed into incandescent vapor.

  Marsh threw himself backwards, behind the stairwell, as a surge of superheated air flashed through his hiding spot. It charred the exposed timbers in the walls. His sinuses, throat, and chest erupted in blistering pain, scorched by the effort to breathe impossibly hot air. Tears trickled down his face.

  What else can this bastard do?

  He pressed himself into the corner, trying and failing to shield himself from the assault. What now? What now? Pain extinguished his concentration.

  Marsh realized he’d made a fatal mistake. He’d cornered himself. Because he was thinking like a frightened gardener, not a field agent. Too many years had passed. They’d made him soft. Careless. He remembered Krasnopolsky, the poor sod burning to death in the lobby of a Spanish hotel. And here he was, almost twenty-five years later, about to share the same fate.

  Keep him busy.… Something hot and salty coated Marsh’s tongue when he coughed.… His abilities don’t matter.… He gagged.… Just drain the battery. Any way possible.

  The walls crackled with flames. Marsh heard the slow, steady clomp of work boots on marble and the jingling of a tool belt as Will’s would-be killer drew closer.

  Marsh pulled his sidearm. It was warm to the touch.

  The assassin said, “Where is William Beauclerk?”

  The assassin glanced contemptuously at the Browning in Marsh’s hand. The barrel sagged. Marsh dropped the ruined gun before it scorched his hand.

  “Where,” repeated the assassin, “is William Beauclerk?”

  Marsh fumbled for a Mills bomb, knowing full well he wouldn’t survive the detonation, but hoping it would take the assassin with him. He managed to get a finger on the pin at the same moment Klaus blew through the ceiling like a ghostly cannonball.

  * * *

  Klaus left Will gasping for breath in a residence on the far end of the crescent. He doubled back toward where Marsh and Anthony lay in wait.

  Smoke and heat stung his nose t
he moment he emerged through the wall into Will’s house. It meant the improvised pixie had failed. But it also meant Klaus knew exactly how to deal with the Soviet agent: using the same strategy he’d developed for fighting Reinhardt. It had worked well, the one time he’d been forced to use it.

  He crouched behind the balustrade of the second-floor landing, peering down through the shimmering waves of heat that poured from the Soviet agent. The updraft wafted the stink of charred pork to him; someone had died.

  The agent said, in a quiet, almost conversational tone, “Where is William Beauclerk?”

  Klaus realized the man was addressing Marsh, who had taken a hiding spot behind the stairwell in order to watch the foyer. The gauge on Klaus’s harness rested just at the boundary between green and yellow; pulling Will halfway around the crescent had taxed the old battery.

  The assassin kept advancing. He repeated his question. Marsh was cornered.

  Klaus embraced his Willenskräfte and leapt at the Soviet agent. He willed himself transparent to the walls, the ceiling, the balustrade, the landing, and most of all heat. But not the floor. He landed a few paces behind the assassin, skidding on ash-slick marble.

  The assassin whirled to face him. Ripples of heat distorted the expression on his face. But the irritation on his face turned to surprise, then disdain, as if he recognized Klaus. Klaus didn’t know this man, but Arzamas-16 had become a large place over the years. Much larger than the old Reichsbehörde.

  Klaus gritted his teeth against the inevitable burn to his fingertips. He lunged, arm outstretched and fingers splayed, ready to snag his opponent’s wires on the way through his body. The Soviets, he knew, implanted them subcutaneously. Marsh and Pembroke wanted the assassin disabled and alive, suitable for questioning. Klaus found that wildly optimistic. He aimed for the man’s neck; if he missed the wire, it still gave him a chance of plucking at the carotid artery.

  The assassin saw Klaus’s advance. The heat shimmer winked out—

  —and his entire body became insubstantial. Klaus’s fingertips passed through it all without resistance, unable to snag anything.

  He does what I do? Scheisse!