The Coldest War (25 page)

“Safe. We moved her this morning.”

“You don't waste a moment, do you?”

Another flash of irritation passed over Marsh's face, but a knock sounded at the door before he could unleash a retort. Will sighed inwardly, thankful for the respite, no matter how brief.

He unlocked the door. “Yes, Angela.”

His secretary poked her head inside. She looked uncertainly around the room before turning her attention to Will. “Sir, there's a man here to see you. Samuel Pethick?”

Will looked at Marsh, then back to Angela. “Thank you. Let him in.”

She ushered Pethick into the crowded office, then pulled the door behind him. Pethick waited for the paneled door to latch shut with an audible
click
before addressing Marsh. “Just got an interesting message over the blower. Our lamplighters down in Lyminster report that Ivan's gone bughouse. Started a few minutes ago. The rats are abandoning ship.” He glanced at Klaus and Gretel, who still stood at the window. “I think it worked.”

Will realized he hadn't a clue what Pethick was talking about. Nothing the man said made the least bit of sense. And that only deepened the sense of terror, because Will was at the center of it all. How had everything gone so utterly beyond his control? He'd thought he finally put everything in his life right. Yet now he didn't know if he'd survive the week. The carousel of life was spinning out of control, faster and faster, while Will's sweaty fingers lost their grip an inch at a time. Soon he'd be flung into the bushes, where lurked bears and demons.

All because he found the murder of innocent civilians disgusting and inexcusable.

Marsh scowled at Will. “And you think
we
work quickly? Your would-be masters make us a tortoise.” To Pethick, he said, “Thanks, Sam. Take the others and wait for us outside, will you? I need a word alone with Will.”

Pethick beckoned to Klaus and Gretel, who followed him back into the anteroom without another word. Gretel winked at Will as she passed his desk. It scratched something deep inside him, the hard pit at the center of his fear.

Will waited for the door to
click
closed again. When he and Marsh were alone, he snapped, “How dare you drag my wife into this? She's innocent.”

Marsh stood, drew himself to his full height. “You involved her the moment you decided to sell us out.”

“Listen to your self-righteousness. Sell you out? I did nothing of the sort. They were evil men. You know it. Not so well as I, and for that you should be damn grateful, but you know it.” Marsh snorted. “Milkweed was a sick organization! We did the most heinous things. Why am I the only person willing to admit it?”

“I won't see my sacrifices come to naught just because William bloody Beauclerk decided in a fit of pique to single-handedly rearrange the state of the world.” Marsh punctuated his statement with short, sharp jabs of the finger at Will.

That sense of looking upon a coiled spring came over Will as he stared at Marsh, just as it had in the old days. The difference being that Will was now the target of that suppressed power, those barely contained destructive urges. He backed away, wondering if he'd make it to the door if Marsh snapped. The man would beat him to death, and they'd call him a patriot for it. A poor, angry patriot.

“I've already heard this tirade, you know. Yes, yes, your martyrdom is quite impressive,” Will said. “Everybody lost something in the war, Pip. You act like your loss is the only one that matters, that your sorrow is unique. Having lost somebody doesn't make you privileged. It makes you British.”

“British? There might not be a Britain left after what you've done.”

“Dear Lord. You yearn to punish the people responsible for what happened to Agnes. You virtually tremble with the need,” said Will. “And yet you'd deny me the same urge to punish wicked people, to set things right. I do believe that is the most hypocritical thing I've heard in many long years.” He paused, blinking in the glare from a new flash of insight. “You're not angry because of what I've done. You're envious because I succeeded.”

Marsh extended an arm, pointing vigorously at the door. His voice became a harsh whisper. “Gretel still breathes because I have more self-control than you do.”

“You sanctimonious ass. Are you lying to me, or yourself? I'd wager you tried to strangle her the moment you saw her. But you failed, didn't you? And so you've decided to show me up, just to assuage your wounded pride. Whisk my wife away while you march me around town until somebody slits my throat. Is that your plan?”

Marsh pinched the bridge of his nose, frowning with the effort not to bellow. “I swear to God, speaking with you is like speaking with a child,” he murmured. “Get this through your thick head. I've done you a courtesy, you stupid, chinless toff. Or would you rather Gwendolyn was home when Cherkashin's man comes for you? Because he'll murder her without a second thought.”

Oh, God, Gwendolyn. What have I done to you?
The urge to argue left Will, but the heat of anger had left his bones soft as candle wax.

Will sat heavily in his armchair. It rolled backwards, bumping to a stop against his safe. “How does this work?”

“We'll nab him at your house, when he comes for you.”

“You know, nobody ever thinks to ask the cheese how it feels, after the rat is dead and all is said and done.”

“The cheese doesn't get a say in the matter,” said Marsh.

“What did your men tell Gwendolyn?”

“That her safety was at stake. Which it is. Because of you.”

Will sighed. “She hasn't spoken to me.”

“Oh, do stop,” said Marsh. “I'll surely weep.”

Will glared at him. That was Marsh, self-absorbed to the last. Oblivious of any and all forms of human interaction. Will wondered if the man standing before him knew any emotions aside from the rainbow hues of rage.

“When the circumstances were reversed, I did my best for you,” he said. “I tried to save your marriage. Twice, in point of fact.”

“Save my—?” Marsh paced. He lost the struggle to control his voice. “Save my marriage? You told us to terminate Liv's pregnancy!”

Will met Marsh's eyes. Quietly, he said, “Was I wrong?”

The dart flew true.

No, I wasn't wrong. I see it in your face, Pip.
Will shuddered, as much for the unguarded glimpse of Marsh's despair as for the thought of what it meant.
What sort of abomination lives under your roof?

Will remembered his blood dripping to moonlit snow, while men screamed and died around him. Remembered the suffocating stink of cordite and the ground-meat remains of James Lorimer. Remembered trying to concentrate, trying to speak Enochian over the chatter of gunfire. Trying to get home. Trying to save Marsh's life.

And he remembered how the Eidolons had changed their price for the return trip. Inflated it, like black marketeers flouting the price of rationed sugar.

The soul of an unborn child.

Back in the present, Marsh said with icy calm, “You'd better get your things in order. They'll come for you soon, and when they do, you'll have to stay dead until we've cleaned every last bit of your mess.”

“Will I be allowed to see Gwendolyn?”

“It's easier to mind you both if you're together.”

Will stood. He considered pulling his personal documents from the safe, but decided against it. The bank and his attorney had copies, of course, but walking out with this collection of odd characters and a sheaf of papers under his arm would only raise more questions in Angela's mind. Better if he went nonchalantly. As though he didn't know he was toddling off to his own murder. And none of it mattered any longer. All he wanted was to see Gwendolyn.

“I'm ready now,” he said. Marsh followed him out of the office.

Pethick sat under the oil painting of Aubrey, next to Klaus. Marsh joined them. Gretel stood alongside the casement window behind Angela's desk, her back to the room.

“I'm stepping out for a bit,” said Will.

Angela worked diligently at her desk, acting as if she hadn't heard every word of what must have been a very perplexing row with Marsh. The epitome of professionalism.

“Sir, I know this isn't my place,” she said, looking at the men in the corner and briefly over her shoulder at the gypsy woman. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “But your visitors are a bit odd.” She pointed toward where Gretel stood behind her. “Especially that one,” she mouthed.

Bless you, Angela. Faithful and perceptive to the last,
thought Will.
I'll miss you. Aubrey will give you good references.

“Nothing to worry about.” Another flash, this time of inspiration. Will resisted the urge to pat himself on the back. “Refugees,” he whispered. “From the European camps.”

Angela raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear.”

“I'll be out the rest of the day,” he said.

“Very good, sir.” She returned to her typing.

Will rounded the desk and joined Gretel at the window. “I like this city,” she said. She was rather petite, he realized; the top of her head didn't reach his chin. He'd forgotten that.

He leaned over her. “I don't know why you've taken it upon yourself to ruin him,” he whispered, nodding at Marsh, “but I won't allow you to do the same to me. I am not your plaything.”

Gretel stared up at him, her blank face wide-eyed. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder. Then, seeing that the others were momentarily occupied, she quirked up the corner of her mouth. Her eyes shed their innocent quality, leaving in its place something that chilled him.

“Hop, little bunny.”

She plucked the nasturtium blossom from her hair and tucked the stem into Will's breast pocket. It snagged on the silk he'd arranged there. He caught a whiff of the scent.

She reached up, gently laid her hand on his face. Her skin, Will noticed, felt warm. Almost feverish.

Gretel patted his cheek. “Hop, hop, hop.”

 

eight

28 May 1963
Croydon, London, England

Klaus knew he was veering into foolishness. Refusing to interact with his sister? Pretending she didn't exist? They lived in the same space; rode in the same vehicles. It was pointless but, more frankly, childish. And so it would be while the British practically treated them as a single entity. He'd never be free of Gretel on his own.

Thus had the seed of an idea taken root while he sat in the foyer of the North Atlantic Cross-Cultural Foundation, waiting for Will and Marsh to finish their argument. It sprouted during the return drive across London. And by the time they returned to the safe house, it had borne fruit.

Everything hinged on Marsh's plan to use Will as bait. If it failed, Klaus's chance at a normal life would die on the vine. But if the plan succeeded with his help … Well, then it depended on whether or not Marsh was a man of his word.

Klaus tapped Marsh on the arm as everybody emerged from the Morris. “May I speak with you? Privately?”

He followed Marsh through the house to the garden, leaving Pethick to deal with Gretel. An empty planter stood where Marsh had identified the diseased maple. It had been transplanted, Klaus saw, into the south corner of the garden, in a niche where the walls met. He wondered if Marsh had done that.

Once they were outside, with the rear door firmly closed behind them, Marsh crossed his arms. “Well?”

“The plan you've hatched. You intend to trap the assassin by using a pixie.”

Marsh hesitated, just long enough to signify his surprise. He recovered, shrugging noncommittally. “Perhaps.”

He doesn't trust me. Nor do I trust him entirely.

“They're aware of that vulnerability,” said Klaus. “The Soviets. They used it against us when they occupied the Reichsbehörde. It's how they captured us.” He pointed at the house, a vague gesture to imply “us” meant him and his sister.

“We know that. What are you saying?”

“When you captured my sister during the war, you took her battery, yes? Studied it? And from that you derived a design for the pixies.”

Marsh frowned. “Is that why she came here? Why she let herself be captured? To give us a battery?”

Klaus had never considered this, but it was plausible. He reappraised Marsh; the man seemed to have given much thought to the complexity of Gretel's machinations. It bordered on an obsession.

“I don't know. But…” Klaus trailed off, shaking his head.

“… It sounds like something she might do?”

“Yes. The purpose of her trip to England was never clear to the rest of us. It served no … strategic purpose.”

“Hmm.” Marsh held his frown, contemplating this. Then he said, “I derailed you. What point were you trying to make regarding the pixies?”

Klaus said, “I understand how the Soviet engineers think. They have anticipated such countermeasures. They have—” He paused, grasping for the right word. “—reinforced the battery and its circuitry.” He touched his scalp, where the wires emerged.

“Damn,” Marsh whispered. He ran a hand over his face. “I'd feared that was the case.” He sighed, shook his head. “What would you have me do, Klaus? It's the only tool at our disposal.”

“You're wrong about that. You have another.”

“What?”

Klaus took a deep breath.
How long until I regret this? Five years? Five minutes?
But this was a rare opportunity. Better to chart one's own course than to have it dictated by others. How many times in life did Klaus have the opportunity to alter the course of his life? Few indeed.

And so he said: “You have me.”

“What?” The sound of Marsh's surprise echoed from the garden walls. It alarmed the handful of blackbirds perched on the eaves of the safe house. They responded with a shrill chorus. “Let me get this clear. Are you volunteering to help us?”