The Coldest War

by Ian Tregillis

  Will drew a long, shuddery breath. He was frightened, and weary from the effort to relearn something he’d abandoned long ago. “I promised myself I’d never speak Enochian again.”

  Gwendolyn absently tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Perhaps you won’t have to.”

  “Perhaps. But Pip wants me there when they try to bring her across.” The plan to reunite the Twins contributed to Will’s growing sense of dread. It drew inevitable comparison to the wartime raid on the REGP. Which to Marsh’s mind meant success was virtually guaranteed. After all, while the raid itself had been a monumental cock-up, courtesy of Gretel, the coming and going had worked. Marsh didn’t know just how close the Eidolons had come to stranding the last surviving members of the raid in Germany. Will had never told him about it. Which sooner than later would make an uncomfortable conversation.

  “And for the rest,” Will added. Marsh’s plan came in two parts.

  “He trusts you.”

  “I rather doubt Pip trusts anybody. He doesn’t know the children. Doesn’t understand them. But I’m the devil he does know.”

  “Needs must when the devil drives,” she quoted.

  “Speaking of whom,” said Will. He turned his head slightly and nodded, quietly drawing her attention toward the staircase. Gretel descended slowly, her attention fixed on one of the books she’d requested Madeleine find for her, Shirer’s Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. She and Gwendolyn nodded amiably at each other.

  They waited until Gretel passed out of earshot. Gwendolyn whispered, “Can she truly do what they say?”

  Will thought about this. “Yes. I believe so.”

  He arched his back, stretching until his chest cracked. He’d spent too many hours hunched over the lexicon. He sat up. “So. Am I forgiven?”

  Gwendolyn looked as if she’d swallowed something sour. “William. You committed treason. Men have died.”

  It went without saying that his cooperation in Milkweed’s efforts was the price he had to pay if he wished to avoid lifetime incarceration. Although whether it would truly keep him out of prison remained to be seen. He had the impression Klaus had made his own agreement and now wondered whether anything would come of it.

  “I don’t give a toss if Britain forgives me,” said Will. “Only that you do.” He sighed. His breath carried a lingering taste of the ginger tea he’d taken to calm his stomach. “Do you?”

  She stared at him for a long moment before shaking her head. “Not yet.” Gwendolyn touched his knee. “But you are improving.” She kissed him on the cheek, then rose to leave.

  “Gwendolyn?” he said. “I’m frightened.”

  Accepting that he had been wrong meant also accepting the world was not improved by his actions. That the world was no safer for him and Gwendolyn. If the Soviets decided to give it another go, what could Marsh and his ilk truly do to protect them? But that wasn’t what kept Will awake at night.

  She sat again. “Frightened.”

  “Of what’s coming. Of what they’ll make me do, make me witness. I’m afraid this will break me again.” He bowed his head, unable to meet her gaze. “And I’m terrified there will be nobody to pick up the pieces this time.”

  She took his hand, laid an arm around his shoulders, pulled him close.

  9 June 1963

  Mayfair, London, England

  The plan was complicated, and it was urgent. A bad combination.

  It was crucial they put things in motion prior to the conclusion of the annual Queen’s Birthday celebration. But the real difficulties weren’t in the timeline, nor the resources that SIS had to wrangle on such short notice.

  The second-largest difficulty was mathematics.

  The largest was securing Klaus’s cooperation.

  Marsh stood inside a stand of silver limes, watching the tents, pavilions, and grandstands rising like toadstools in Green Park. Though the morning’s drizzle had given way to bright sunlight shimmering in the puddles along the Broad Walk, he still wore his mackintosh. By turning up the collar and tipping the fedora to shade his face, he could hide the worst of his scars from random passersby. He hoped the beard would help, when it came in fully. He looked a proper fool—and felt it, too, as the sun rose higher and the summer humidity asserted itself—but it was better than the alternative.

  People stared at him now. He would never be inconspicuous again. At the moment, his beard was nothing more than heavy stubble. It itched, particularly along the ragged edges of his scars. He rubbed his face, then winced.

  His career in foreign ops was officially dead. Marsh reminded himself that he’d turned his back on that life long before, but somehow this felt more final. Something fundamental had changed, far beyond his physical appearance.

  Liv would never touch him again. Touch him? She recoiled from him now. What woman wouldn’t?

  The rising heat made the park smell pleasantly damp. It mingled with the petrol fumes from lorries and omnibuses rumbling along Piccadilly. The traffic lurched forward an inch at a time, restricted to a single lane. Road crews patched holes on Piccadilly and several surrounding streets in anticipation of Saturday’s crowds. Earlier that morning, before the breeze had died off, the roadwork had wafted the unpleasant stink of hot tar across the park. Marsh preferred the smell of old rain. He wished for a rain hard and pure enough to cleanse his life of all its mistakes.

  On his left, across the wide expanse of Green Park, stood Buckingham Palace and the Palace Gardens. The palace itself was a jumble of the so-called revived classic style dating from the time of George IV, plainer additions and alterations made during Victoria’s reign, and modern additions dating from after the Blitz. Before him, past the pavilions and slightly off to his right, across the snarled traffic along Piccadilly, stood the Soviet Embassy.

  Ostensibly, the temporary structures in Green Park were there to accommodate the crowds expected for the Queen’s Birthday. And so it would appear to any curious onlookers from the embassy.

  Secretly, however, they existed to hide a new trench from those same onlookers. Just as the road crews—all manned by SIS agents, including Roger—were a cover for surveying, measuring, grading, and marking Half Moon Street according to figures from the maths boffins.

  Simple physics, the boffins had said. Assuming you chaps have done your figures correctly.

  That depended upon having an accurate layout of the embassy. Which Milkweed didn’t have. They had the original designs, dating from the building’s construction, and Will’s testimony. But it was wise to assume the Soviets had altered the internal layout for their own purposes. Or for spite.

  SIS didn’t have a man inside the Soviet Embassy. Thus, Pembroke had funneled requests via his superiors to their colleagues in MI5. Milkweed was a mystery to the rest of the British intelligence community, which knew only that the tiny, semiautonomous organization was deep black, and that its rare requests were to be afforded the highest priority. MI5 had provided an updated floor plan. It came with no guarantees, but it was consistent with Will’s recollection as to the location of the guarded door.

  Satisfied that preparations here were under way, and resigned to the fact he couldn’t speed them along, Marsh returned to the Admiralty. He couldn’t in good conscience ask more of Klaus without first apprising Pembroke of the agreement they’d struck prior to the operation at Will’s town house. He’d been trying to do so for the past day.

  Marsh knocked on Pembroke’s door. No answer. He knocked again and, on receiving no answer, tried the knob. It was locked.

  Pethick poked his head out of his own office. “He hasn’t been in today,” he said. “Nor yesterday.”

  “Where is he?” Marsh enunciated his question carefully. People found it difficult to understand his altered voice.

  Pethick stepped into the corridor. “Probably off smoothing ruffled feathers.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “There have been quite a few of late. The new operation isn’t helping.”

  Mar
sh reached up to crack his knuckles against his jaw and winced when he touched his scar. It would be a difficult habit to break.

  “Ruffled feathers?” he asked. The jagged ache he’d learned to dread wedged itself in his throat.

  “First,” said Pethick, “Milkweed came this close—” He held his forefingers a centimeter apart. “—to burning down half of Knightsbridge. No explanation given. And now we’ve made a point of blowing the Queen’s Birthday far out of proportion this year. Thirty-seven is a rather odd number for such a large production, isn’t it?”

  Marsh shrugged. “Ten years since the coronation.” A fortunate happenstance. It lent plausibility to the celebration.

  Pethick said, “Even we can’t tell the Crown what to do. We advise. The Crown listens, if it so chooses.”

  Marsh shook his head. “Somebody had better listen, if we’re to avoid a war,” he muttered. “When he returns, tell Pembroke I need to speak with him, please?”

  “I will,” said Pethick. “Where can he find you?”

  “I’m off to beg Klaus for a bloody great favor. But first I’ll check on Will,” said Marsh with a nod to the floor. It hurt.

  Pethick fished out his basement key. Handing it to Marsh, he asked, “Has he shared his concerns with you about the children? I mean the Eidolons, rather.”

  Marsh rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  “I think Will would say anything to get out of this.”

  “He struck me as sincere.”

  “No doubt he was. Will excels at lying to himself.”

  “I do understand you two have a history,” said Pethick. “But for what it’s worth, he has been cooperating.”

  “Good. He’s come to understand he has no choice.” Marsh set off down the corridor. Over his shoulder he said, “Perhaps his wife set him straight.”

  Marsh spent a few minutes in the Milkweed vault before going downstairs. While there, he chewed another painkiller. The conversation with Pethick left Marsh feeling like he’d attempted to gargle hot pitch. But he still had Will and Klaus to deal with.

  He found Will in the observation room, hunched over a lexicon. An odd expression crossed the dead man’s face when he looked at Marsh; Marsh was growing accustomed to that. But the children in the adjoining room were too rowdy for the adults to converse easily. Rather than speak over the half-human–half-Enochian din, Marsh gestured Will into the soundproofed corridor outside. Silence engulfed them as soon as the door whispered shut behind Will.

  Will said, “How are you feeling, Pip?”

  “Leaving aside the constant sensation of choking on a razor blade?”

  “Ah … no. I only meant to say … Look, Pip. I am sorry about what happened. In spite of our disagreements, I wouldn’t have wanted … Well. You didn’t deserve this.”

  “Found religion, have you?”

  “I’m sorry my actions led to this.”

  “It’s a bit late to have a crisis of conscience. If you’d thought about what you were doing, truly thought about it, none of this would have happened.” I wouldn’t be fit for the bloody circus, Marsh wanted to add.

  Will blinked. “You’re right. I only—”

  “Words won’t fix this, so don’t bother. Can the children do it?”

  “There’s very little they can’t do.” Will fidgeted. He was nervous. “But I am concerned.”

  “Pethick will handle the blood price. You won’t have to do anything. He has specialists for that.” Marsh gathered that Pethick’s men carried vials of the children’s blood when carrying out payments. He wondered what possible cover could explain that.

  “And that’s fortunate for the both of us.” Will’s voice hardened. It matched the flinty look in his eyes as he said, “There is nothing on this earth you could do that would force me to carry out one single blood price. I’ve done quite enough of that.”

  Had Will suddenly grown a spine? Apparently. What had become of the man? First remorse, then a spine … But Marsh doubted he couldn’t make Will cooperate, if it came down to that. Will had weak spots, like any person. But since the point was moot, Marsh decided to let it pass.

  Very well. Let the man think he’s had his moral victory, if it will grease the wheels.

  “My understanding,” said Marsh, “is that the children excel at keeping the prices acceptably low.”

  “Oh, listen to you,” Will snorted. “There is no such thing as an acceptable level of state-sanctioned murder. But taking it for granted that Pethick’s men won’t balk at sabotaging airplanes and burning down crowded dance halls, there is another concern.

  “There may be complications when we attempt to reunite the Twins.”

  “How complicated can it be? You did this before when you were half soused.”

  Will flinched. Marsh tried to rein in his irritation, but the pain made it difficult. No point in enraging Will; he was the only living warlock ever to have witnessed a teleportation. Milkweed needed him. But why let that go to Will’s head?

  Marsh said, “It’s a one-way trip for one person. Simpler than the last time we used the Eidolons to move people about.”

  Will straightened his shoulders, as though steeling himself for something. It made Marsh weary. He didn’t have the strength for another round of Will’s drama, whether apologetic or moralistic.

  “I must tell you something about that night in Germany. Getting home wasn’t as easy as you think.” Will hesitated, looking for the right words. “When it became clear the venture had gone into a cocked hat, I called upon the Eidolons to fulfill the second half of our agreement. They refused to bring us home, Pip.”

  A prickling sensation crept across the nape of Marsh’s neck. Refused?

  “That isn’t possible. We had an agreement. You and the others negotiated and paid for it.” Marsh didn’t understand the nuances of the system, but this much he did know. Negotiation, price, action: that’s how it worked.

  Will said, “Yes, we did. Nevertheless. When it came time to leave, the Eidolons changed the price for the return trip. They wanted something else.”

  Something else? But Will had managed to bring them home. Which meant … Why had Will seen fit to begin this conversation with an apology? The prickling sensation sent tendrils down Marsh’s spine.

  Quietly, calmly, he asked, “What did you give them?”

  “I didn’t understand—”

  “What did you give them, Will?”

  “They demanded the soul of an unborn child. I agreed.”

  The prickle on Marsh’s spine became a sickening rot in his stomach. Will had to be mistaken. He had to be.

  Marsh protested. “What does that mean? That’s gibberish, the province of clergy. It isn’t something you can dole out.”

  Will hesitated. He took a half step backwards. “Under the circumstances of the moment, which were rather pressing as you may recall, I was speaking for the both of us.”

  Marsh still remembered the sensation of falling through the crawlspaces of the universe. Remembered how the Eidolons had twined themselves through every particle of his being. How they’d studied him. Disassembled him. Past, present, and future.

  No. Not him. His future progeny. His son.

  That’s what had been wrong with John all these years. He was empty. Soulless.

  Marsh struggled but failed to keep his voice level. “You gave them my son,” he growled, swallowing blood. It curdled in his stomach.

  Will raised his hands, palm out, trying to mollify him. “I didn’t know what it meant. There wasn’t time to suss it out. I didn’t know until much later, when I saw that Liv was pregnant again.”

  Anger overwhelmed the throbbing pain in Marsh’s jaw. He cracked his knuckles. “You gave them my son.”

  “I saved your life.”

  Marsh stepped forward, fist clenched. Will retreated.

  No, said his conscience. It spoke with Liv’s voice. Not here. You mustn’t shed blood so close to the children. It’
s too dangerous.… Your throat is bleeding. You must leave, now. Get away from the children before your blood summons something. The Eidolons have an affinity for you.

  “Have you any idea how it’s been for us? Our son…”

  Dear God. How many times over the years had he wondered how things had gone so terribly wrong? Now, suddenly, he knew the answer. An answer more direct than he’d ever thought possible. But knowing didn’t help. It didn’t do a damn thing. He couldn’t share this with Liv. It didn’t show him how to fix John. It changed nothing, and that was the most frustrating thing of all.

  “I had no choice,” said Will. “I had to do it.”

  “Liv can’t stand to be under the same roof. With me, with him. Can’t stand what our life became. She boffs other men just to hurt me.” Marsh advanced on Will again. “And now you tell me it’s all because of what you did on that night?”

  Will retreated again, looking horrified. His voice came out as a whisper. “I didn’t know what would happen.”

  “Can you undo it? Can you fix John?”

  “No,” said Will.

  Marsh shoved him against the wall. The taller man fell back against a soundproofing baffle; the foam and carpet cushioned his fall.

  Marsh stared down at him. “Get it right next time.”

  9 June 1963

  Croydon, London, England

  Klaus kept painting while Marsh spoke. It was difficult to understand his raspy voice. On top of that, he was angry about something, which meant he spoke quickly. Marsh paced while he laid out his idea and made his plea.

  The Twins. Marsh spoke of them as game pieces. Or Gretel’s plastic chips. They were the other pair of siblings raised by Doctor von Westarp. Closer than any two people could ever be, yet separated by hundreds or thousands of miles for most of their lives. Always apart, because their ability demanded it.

  He’d sometimes wondered what happened to them. They’d always been the gentlest souls at the REGP. Klaus felt slightly ashamed that he hadn’t appreciated that in his youth. Instead, he’d sneered at it. Confused it with weakness. Uselessness. He didn’t know if they’d both survived and been put to use, or if one or both had been executed to keep them from being used. But as the long, gray years had dragged on at Arzamas-16, it became easier to forget the old life.