“As long as we both know it, what difference does it make? And to be perfectly blunt,” said Pethick, “my hands—” His telephone rang, as if on cue. “—are quite full at the moment.”
He lifted the receiver. “Pethick.” He listened for a few seconds. “Very good. Make certain they maintain as long as possible.”
He set the receiver down again. “I think Cherkashin has just noticed his girl is missing. We started jamming a few minutes ago.”
Which meant SIS transceiver stations throughout the countryside were pumping out broadband radio hash at full power. Cherkashin’s warning to Moscow would disappear in the noise.
Pethick gave a mirthless laugh. “Perhaps I ought to send a car to the embassy. If he’s smart, he’ll turn himself in to us before he’s summoned to Moscow.”
But Marsh didn’t feel like sharing the joke. “We have both Twins. Roger’s taking them to the safe house.”
Pethick massaged his temples, stretching smooth the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes. “And now?”
“We stick to the plan, and hope Ivan takes the bait.”
Marsh stood. It was harder than it should have been. He carried a heavier yoke now, a burden that hadn’t been his just a few minutes earlier. Stephenson had been such a towering presence in Marsh’s life, now gone these many years. His was a heavy ghost newly cleaved to Marsh. He added the new key to his ring, alongside the cellar key.
“Notify me if anything changes.”
“Where will you be?”
“Home,” Marsh rasped. “I haven’t slept in two days.”
* * *
Head throbbing with each heartbeat, Marsh trudged along cracked and weathered pavement. His thoughts were jumbled, his mind unsettled. His worries together carried a weight that bowed his shoulders. Like a dog chasing its tail, he spun himself through the same path again and again.
The Soviets. The Eidolons. Pembroke. Gretel.
She had to be waiting for something. But what? He would return to Croydon when he was rested and alert. He had tricked Gretel once, caught her off guard, however briefly. Perhaps he could do it again. But not if he was exhausted. If her mask slipped, or she dropped one of her cryptic comments, he had to be alert enough to catch it.
Swirling thoughts pushed everything to the periphery of his awareness. Thus, as he approached his house, he had only a vague sense that something had changed. He paused with his hand on the door handle. Smooth brass cooled his fingertips while he listened. Recognition came to him slowly, tenuously, like fragments of a long-forgotten dream.
Liv. Singing to herself.
She hadn’t sung in the house since John had been an infant. It agitated him, made him howl, no matter how softly she made her music. He always knew.
Marsh closed his eyes, concentrating.
Yes, that was Liv. And John was silent. Not a peep. Marsh’s homemade soundproofing wasn’t that effective.
He removed his shoes in the vestibule after closing the door as quietly as he was able. He paused at the edge of the den, still listening. The familiar clunk of the pipes as Liv ran the water; the click-click-whoosh as she lit the gas hob; the whistle of the teakettle. Liv sang through it all. A melancholy piece; he didn’t recognize it. But he imagined she might have picked up any number of melodies she’d never shared.… Marsh had always thought their son killed her love of music. Perhaps she had just hidden it away. Or shared it with others. He wondered if she sang for the aftershave men.
Liv’s silverbell voice made his chest ache. He’d tried and failed many times to forget the sound of it. Hearing it now brought back so many unwelcome memories. Memories of himself as a young man, his heart not yet rusted and cobwebbed. Memories of lying in bed with Liv, their infant daughter snuggled between them. Liv in her WAAF uniform; Liv taking it off … Another man’s life.
Why was John so quiet?
He tiptoed backwards through the den. He took the stairs slowly, one at a time, stepping at the edges so they wouldn’t creak. The key ring jangled when he took it from the hook beside the door. But John didn’t stir, even when Marsh turned the locks.
His son lay naked in the center of the floor. He was curled in the fetal position, hands clamped over his ears. Just as the children at the Admiralty had done when the Twins somehow enraged the Eidolon. A short, shallow breath swelled John’s chest; it came out in a little wheeze through his nose. He had a bit of congestion.
John wasn’t a warlock child. He couldn’t speak English, much less Enochian. He was the furthest thing from those children in the Admiralty cellar. And yet, here he was, reacting as they had.
The soul of an unborn child.
Will had known all along. All these years, wondering what had gone wrong with John. Blaming ourselves. Blaming each other.
But the Eidolons had done this. True demons, more inscrutable than even Gretel. This curse came from beyond any human interaction, beyond any human comprehension, beyond any hope of revenge.
“He’s been like that for hours.”
Marsh started. Beside him, Liv continued, “He let out a terrible shriek, clear as day. I came up when I heard the thump.” She shook her head. “He hasn’t moved since.”
Looking at her twisted the tight skin along his throat. Liv stood close enough that he could smell the rose blossom tea on her breath. She stared straight ahead, choosing to see John rather than Marsh’s ruined face.
It wasn’t unusual for John to do a single thing for hours on end. Rocking. Knocking. Howling. But not for him to be still and silent like this. He made noise even in his sleep. Marsh wondered from time to time about the nightmares that sometimes plagued his son.
“When did this happen?” he asked.
Liv shrugged. She still wouldn’t look at him. She hadn’t, much, since he’d come home from the hospital. “Midmorning. Nine or ten.”
Marsh didn’t know exactly when they’d brought the second Twin over, because clocks and watches were useless in the vicinity of an Eidolon. But it fit the time frame. He’d have to ask Will about this.
He almost said this last aloud, but caught himself in the nick of time as he remembered Liv believed Will dead. What was one more secret on top of everything else?
Liv closed the door. She tossed the locks with practiced ease. “Put you on the night shift, did they?”
By which she meant he’d been gone all night plus most of the previous day, and now he was home at noon.
“I came home for a lie down. I’m not feeling well.”
“Oh,” she said. This time she did look at him. A flicker of what might have been concern formed a crease between her eyebrows. She held that look for a beat before returning downstairs.
The stairs were too great an obstacle between him and the cot in his shed. Stephenson’s ghost was far too heavy to carry much farther without rest. He paused at the open door to the bedroom he ostensibly shared with Liv. The sheets were rumpled on her side of the mattress, untouched on his. To hell with things; this was his, too. Marsh kicked off his shoes en route to the bed. He dropped most of the rest of his clothes in a heap on the floor.
The cool, smooth sheets soothed his aching scars. He lay on his side, cradling his head on the pillow so as not to put pressure on his face. After a moment he took the other pillow, too. It smelled of Liv. Stray strands of her hair tickled the parts of his face that retained feeling.
He awoke after sunset. His nap had been deep and dreamless. The throbbing pain behind his eyes had receded to a dull ache. Several moments of disorientation passed between realizing he wasn’t in the shed and remembering he was in the bedroom. Liv’s bedroom.
John had roused himself. Banging and mewling sounded from his room up the corridor. The soundproofing muted most of the vocalizations, but it couldn’t stop the floorboards from rattling beneath his stomping feet. Well. Whatever had caused him to curl up and fall silent, it had passed.
And the boy needed to eat. It was probably past time for his dinner. Marsh tossed aside t
he covers, gathering his strength for a trip downstairs to see if Liv had left some food prepared for John before leaving for the evening.
He struggled to find his clothes in the darkened bedroom. He hadn’t bothered to pull the blinds, but the illumination from the streetlamps merely cast a dim yellow rectangle on the ceiling. He’d managed to find his shirt but no trousers when the overhead light clicked on.
Liv stood in the doorway with a tray. They stared at each other in surprise. Marsh, wounded and indecent, felt surprised because the sun had set yet Liv was home; Liv looked harried and embarrassed, perhaps because he was wounded and indecent.
“You’re home,” he blurted, at the same moment she said, “You’re up.”
Another awkward silence. Liv broke it: “I made soup,” she said, indicating the tray. It held a bowl, a piece of black bread, and a spoon. She stepped into the room. Marsh sat on the edge of the bed. He felt self-conscious without his trousers, and then mournful that such would be his reaction to appearing undressed before his wife.
“You’re home,” he repeated, because the surprise hadn’t left him, and he didn’t know what else to say.
She turned her head away, gave a halfhearted shrug. “I thought I’d stay in.”
He stared at her. Something had changed, but he didn’t understand.
Liv hefted the tray again. “It’s getting cold.” The timbre of embarrassment tarnished her silver voice.
“Oh. Right.” His stomach rumbled at the smell of food. Slowly, uncertainly, he pulled himself back into bed. She waited for him to pull the covers across himself, then set the tray on his lap.
“Thank you,” he said. And then he tucked in, because he discovered he was ravenous. Liv sat in the armchair beside the wardrobe and watched him eat.
John thumped more loudly. Marsh started to get up, but Liv raised a hand. “I fed him while you slept.”
Marsh nodded. He tore off a piece of bread and dunked it in the bowl. The soup was warm but not salty. It soothed the persistent ache in his throat. Salt was painful.
“You weren’t home last night,” she said.
“Work,” he said around a mouthful of wet bread.
A thought struck him. Rumpled sheets. He realized that Liv had stayed home last night. But in a strange reversal, he had been gone all night, leaving her to wonder.
“Was Gretel there?”
So that was it. “She isn’t my lover, Liv. If you believe anything, believe that.”
“I know it. I know. She explained things to me.”
He nearly dropped his spoon. “She did?”
“She said there was a lot of friction between you. That you should be warmer to her. But you’re not, because of the pain.”
Marsh gritted his teeth. How long had they talked in the hospital? Gretel might have tested a hundred variations of the conversation, a thousand, foreseeing every variation, every outcome, until she knew how to educe the precise reactions she wanted from Liv.
“It’s complicated,” he muttered.
“Why?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he concentrated on spooning the last drops of soup from the bowl. How could Marsh explain this? How could he tell her that Agnes had died in the past because Liv had confided to Gretel in the present? How could he condemn Liv to a life inside that impregnable grief?
Liv changed the subject. “Is she married?”
“What?”
“She mentioned a Klaus. I thought…”
The spoon rang against ceramic while he fished out the last piece of carrot. “Klaus isn’t her husband,” he managed. “He’s her brother.”
“Oh,” said Liv. She looked momentarily confused by that. “Do you think they would…” She trailed off again. “Maybe we could have dinner. The four of us.”
“What?” This time he did drop the spoon.
“I like Gretel. She’s easy to talk to.”
Oh dear God. Marsh was at a loss for how to navigate this minefield. On the one hand, his estranged wife was telling him in so many words that she wanted to be around him, at least a little bit. And that hadn’t happened in a very long time. It should have brought him happiness. But the joy and hope were corrupted, tainted with suspicion. This otherwise welcome change had come about because of Gretel. Even here, even now, the monster’s fingerprints smudged his life. She cast her shadow even on the delicate private interactions of a strained marriage.
“Please don’t ask this of me, Liv. Not Gretel.”
“I want to have friends again. Real friends.”
She had gone to Will’s funeral. Will had been touched by that. The funeral and the interaction with Gretel had together left their marks on Liv. They’d forced her to confront a loneliness she’d buried long ago. And Marsh, seeing it so plain on his wife for the first time, felt a gentle connection to her because he carried the same burden. They were twins in sorrow and regret. Two halves of a sundered life.
“Me, too. But not Gretel. It’s impossible.”
“What about her brother?”
“Klaus?” He was certainly the lesser of two evils. And to be fair, he’d been a fairly good bloke. But: “He’s good. But he’s gone. He isn’t here any longer.”
“Oh,” said Liv. “How sad. Gretel must be lonely.” She stood and took the tray with its empty bowl.
“Thank you for the soup,” said Marsh. “I feel better.”
“Rest,” she said. He settled back under the covers. Liv turned off the light on her way out. But she stood in the corridor and watched him until he fell asleep.
11 June 1963
Milkweed Headquarters, London, England
The children hadn’t recovered from their ordeal with the Twins by the time Milkweed received confirmation the Soviets were on the move. But Moscow had taken Marsh’s bait, and thus it fell to Will to spring the trap.
Moscow believed the final warlock had been eliminated. And that without the power of the Eidolons on its side, Britain no longer had an effective deterrent against Soviet aggression. No way to defend the Empire, no hope of clinging to its holdings.
Naturally, the USSR went straight for the low-hanging fruit.
Just hours after the Twins’ false message, Soviet forces spilled into Iran. The speed of the Kremlin’s response surprised nobody. The troop buildup had been in place for weeks. They’d been waiting, poised for the moment the path opened to them. Armored columns plunged deep into the country in a socialist version of the blitzkrieg, ready to claim the rich Persian oil fields for the Great Soviet. So greedy was the Kremlin that they were committed to this path before they realized the Moscow Twin had disappeared. Once again, as SIS analysts had predicted.
Iranian and British forces together attempted to resist the incursion. Under normal conditions, they would have been able to hold out for a long time, because preparing for this eventuality had long been a key element of Britain’s strategy in the region.
But this was not a normal conflict, because the attack also marked the world debut of an entirely new fighting force. Hundreds of Arzamas shock troops spearheaded the invasion.
Which meant they were concentrated and vulnerable to an Eidolonic counterattack.
It was all playing out according to Marsh’s plan.
twelve
12 June 1963
Aylesbury, Buckinghamshire, England
When dissimilar metals touch in the presence of a conductive medium, the result is a small but measurable voltage. The effect was discovered by Luigi Galvani in the late eighteenth century. It was rediscovered by Klaus on the morning of his first full day as a free man.
He’d arrived at his new flat by early afternoon. The package from Marsh contained the key and a lease already signed under Klaus’s new identity, Hans Kannenberg. (He made a mental note to practice his new signature.) The flat was a corner unit over a greengrocer, with an oriel window that overlooked the grocer’s awning at the intersection of two lanes lined with shops. The long wooden floorboards creaked with every footstep;
the bedroom wainscoting had a prominent mouse hole; the kitchen had only one tiny cupboard for storage. It was, he supposed, quaint.
And luxurious compared to Klaus’s expectations: the flat had a private bath. He’d taken it for granted he’d be given a room in a boarding house, forced to share a communal bathroom with a host of other residents.
Never in his entire life had Klaus enjoyed a private bathroom. It didn’t matter if the rest of the building turned out to be a rattrap. At least it would be his private rattrap.
He spent most of that first afternoon pacing through the flat. His flat. A fact that defeated him. He didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to stop running his hands along the walls, for fear that it would all disappear if he did.
But as afternoon slid into evening, the hunger pangs reminded Klaus he hadn’t eaten since the previous night. He ventured outside and caught the greengrocer as he was closing shop; Klaus spent some of the cash from Marsh’s package in return for a tomato, a cucumber, a head of lettuce, and a surprised glance at his wires. Klaus spotted a butcher’s shop down the road, just closed for the day. He knocked on the display window. The butcher unlocked the door; Klaus ducked in and managed to get another double take along with the last lamb chop. Neither shop had mint jelly on hand. He’d wondered at Will’s dinner in Knightsbridge, the fresh smell of the mint and the bloody scent of rare lamb. Klaus hadn’t eaten lamb since the days when he’d been the doctor’s favorite.
He rejected the memory, ashamed of it, vowing never to revisit it. Ancient history. Life began anew today.
On the way back, Klaus passed a newspaper stand. A deliveryman stood on the back of a truck, carelessly tossing down bundles of the evening edition. Klaus jumped aside to avoid a flying bundle, toppling a pile of papers in the process. The seller apologetically gathered up Klaus’s groceries while Klaus restacked the papers. Again, the sight of Klaus’s wires evoked a small frown and shudder.
Klaus glimpsed the front page while self-consciously offering his own apologies. More coverage of the situation in Iran: the Soviet columns had made great progress toward the refineries of the south in an improbably short time, but stopped abruptly. Klaus couldn’t stop himself from idle speculation; he couldn’t help but wonder how many Arzamas troops rode at the vanguard of that incursion.
The Coldest War Page 29
