The Coldest War (43 page)

Marsh wanted to lash out at her. Strangle her, smash her head against the windshield glass until she explained herself. But driving required more and more of his attention. And most infuriating of all was the fact they wouldn't make it a quarter mile without her guidance. He needed her help. She had made him dependent upon her. And nothing would ever scrape away the rancid, oily feeling.

These bastards will obliterate everything that has ever meant a damn. Everything that has ever lent any meaning and purpose to my life. Every halfhearted reason I could muster for enduring my awful life is getting ripped away.

Gretel had planned the trip carefully. She took them straight through the epicenter of the destruction. Getting to the Old Admiralty building meant threading a needle.

They sped past the pineapple finial on the west end of the mangled Lambeth Bridge. The bridge's steel center span lay twisted in the Thames. Farther downstream, the current lapped against the shattered ruins of Westminster Bridge. Veering north up Millbank, Marsh watched flames engulf Westminster Abbey on their left and the Houses of Parliament to the right.

A pair of figures spiraled up through the air around the Perpendicular Gothic filigrees of Victoria Tower. They tossed explosives. Gouts of white-hot flame followed in their wake, blowing out the mullioned windows and cracking the stone.

Of course they would single out Victoria Tower; it held five centuries of parliamentary records. Britain's heritage of governance. Erased in a few seconds.

Britain was dying.

Murdered before Marsh's eyes.

Will witnessed the spectacle, too. “And they can fly.”

Which explained the antiaircraft fire.

“Rudolf could fly.” Gretel nodded, as if confiding something. “He died before you could meet him,” she added, sounding not entirely sad about it.

As they approached Parliament Square, Marsh remembered following this same route with Stephenson long, long ago. He had just returned from Spain with fragments of a charred filmstrip and no idea where the puzzle would lead. The two of them had created Milkweed that very afternoon. And as he had ridden in the old man's Rolls-Royce, watching Victoria Tower glide past them wreathed in fog and lamplight, he'd never imagined how much the world could change within a single lifetime. Surely Britain would always stand, so long as men like Marsh did the work to make it so.

And he would. He had the power to stop this.

He swung the Morris around the square. They made a short jaunt west toward St. James' while Gretel called a string of warnings (“Veer left!” “Right!” “Slower!” “Faster!”) to evade the attacks of Willenskräfte hurled at them. More screeching came from the abused undercarriage as Marsh sent the car banging over the curb and scraping around the iron partition at the south end of Horse Guards Road, and then it was a dead run past the smoldering crater where Downing Street had been to the parade ground behind the Old Admiralty.

Marine sentries had taken positions on the ground, forming a thin defensive perimeter. But there had been no time for sandbags and revetments. They stood in the open, looking confused but determined, useless rifles held at the ready. Pethick oversaw several pairs of marines, who were erecting pixies. The devices looked little different from Lorimer's original design.

The Arzamas attackers were eliminating their targets in order of priority. Milkweed had to be on that list.

Two sentries tracked the approaching car with their rifle barrels. Marsh leapt out of the car with the motor still running. The sentries recognized him and waved him through without a word. He half shoved, half dragged Will and Gretel into the building.

Pethick's office door stood wide open. He'd left in a hurry, as evidenced by the phone hanging off the cradle. The vault also stood open; the pixies had come from there.

But Pethick was immaterial. Marsh was the old man now. With Pembroke dead, it all fell on his shoulders. He'd returned to Milkweed with the job of untangling Gretel's web. But that hardly mattered now.

It was Marsh's job to fix this problem. And he would.

Marsh bounded down the stairs two at a time. Gretel and Will followed him to the Admiralty cellar. Will threw himself against the door as Marsh unlocked it.

14 June 1963
Milkweed Headquarters, London, England

Will said, “The children haven't done this. I think that much is clear.”

He disliked the children, but they were innocent in this. They didn't deserve to get gunned down because of a misunderstanding.

“I know,” said Marsh. Rage blazed in his unfocused eyes, beneath a cryogenic sheen of icy determination. Sweat glistened on his pale forehead. Will shuddered with apprehension. The look on Marsh's face … the man would do anything to stop the tragedy unfolding outside. Anything at all, and damn the consequences. He was too angry to think clearly.

Quietly, he asked, “Why are we here, Pip?”

“Get out of my way.”

Will raised his hands, palm out. Unthreatening. “Just tell me what you intend. So I can help you.”

Marsh pointed upstairs with one hand while with the other he twisted the wheel that released the lock mechanism. “We have to end this.”

“Yes. We do.” Will focused on keeping an even tone. The last thing he wanted was to turn Marsh against him, or to make Marsh think he wasn't a willing ally. “But how do we manage that?”

Marsh didn't answer. The cellar door sprang open with the
clack
of great steel bolts. Will stumbled to keep his footing when the heavy door bumped against him.

He took Gretel by the arm. “What will he do?”

The corner of her mouth quirked up. “He'll do what he must to protect his country.”

The look in her eyes was worse than that in Marsh's. She knew exactly what Marsh intended, because she had been nudging events in this direction since the beginning.

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes.”

Marsh had already set off toward the children. Will bounded after him, his footing unsteady on the thick carpet. The soundproofing made his protests sound thin, ineffectual.

“Please, Pip. I am begging you. Do not do this.”

But Marsh didn't drop a stride. “Those bastards outside stand to do more damage to London in one afternoon than the Luftwaffe did in one year. Either we do something this instant, or by sunrise Britain will cease to exist.” He brushed Will aside. Fury burned through the sheen of self-control. “I will not let that happen!”

“You can't just wipe them out.”

“If you haven't noticed, we're embroiled in a rather one-sided shooting war. People die. There's nothing criminal about defending ourselves.”

Will grabbed Marsh's arm, pulled him around. “Damn it, man! I'm not talking about the moral implications. There is a single sacrosanct rule by which all warlocks are bound. You know this! Yet you're a hairsbreadth from making those children violate it. And they'll do it because they don't know any better and because they think you're some sort of mythic figure.”

Marsh yanked free of Will's grasp. They reached the door to the observation room. Will jumped in front of Marsh. “I have told you again, and again, and again, since the earliest days of Milkweed. Since you first consulted me. What is the one thing I've always warned you against? One must never, ever use the Eidolons to kill.”

He lowered his voice, trying to sound like a counselor rather than an adversary. “We couldn't end the war in one stroke. And we can't end this so easily.”

“We'll see about that,” Marsh growled.

Will knew that appealing to logic was merely grasping at straws. But he tried again. “How are you going to seek them out? You don't have blood maps for the Soviets.”

“Don't need 'em.”

That took Will aback. “What?”

Marsh pointed at Gretel. “She's terrified of the Eidolons. Why? The Eidolons went berserk when the Twins communicated with each other. Why? Because, Will. Here's another thing you're always prattling on about: ‘The Eidolons are beings of pure volition.' Pure willpower. You've said it countless times. How do Gretel and the others do what they do? Von Westarp called it
die Willenskräfte
. That's ‘willpower' to you and me.”

My God,
thought Will. The Reichsbehörde technology poked the Eidolons right where they lived.

“And right now there's no end of willpower getting flung about. Enough to level London,” Marsh said.

“The Soviets call it
,” said Gretel. She smiled, as though this might be helpful.

“We don't need blood maps,” Marsh concluded. “The Eidolons can't help but see the Arzamas agents. They must blaze like magnesium flares to the Eidolons.”

Oh, hell.
Marsh was right.

Gretel said, “He's very, very good. Isn't he?”

Will braced himself against the door. “I still can't let you do this.”

Marsh pulled his sidearm. “Get out of the way, Will. I won't ask again.”

Will knew he meant it. He swallowed and shook his head, wishing he had taken time for a longer good-bye with Gwendolyn. Wishing she could see him doing the right thing, finally, at the bitter end. He hoped she understood how much he loved her. “You'll have to shoot me dead. Because that's the only way I'll let this happen.”

Marsh stepped forward.

“No,” said Gretel. They both turned to stare at her. “If you want to fix things, William mustn't die.”

Marsh considered this for several beats of Will's racing heart. He holstered his Browning in the rig beneath his arm. Will released a shuddery breath. Though it had surely saved his life, Will found himself appalled at how easily Marsh heeded Gretel's advice.

“Dear Lord,” Will said. “Do you even see what's happening here? You're doing everything she wants. She has made you her puppet. You. Of all people.”

Marsh grabbed the taller man by the collar. His breath was hot and sour as an unhealed wound. “I am not a puppet. I have free will. And I choose to do this.”

Will tried to put up a struggle, but it was little use. Marsh overpowered his feeble resistance. Will found himself sprawled facedown on the carpet as Marsh barged into the observation room.

Will rolled to his feet. He followed, but too late. Marsh slammed the connecting door to the classroom. Will threw himself against it, but it didn't budge. Marsh had wedged something under the handle.

“The man Marsh is here,” said the muted, ruined voice of a warlock child. The children began to chant.

“No!”

Will's fists barely rattled the paint-smeared observation window. He lifted a chair, swung it against the glass. It connected with a solid
clank
that didn't scratch the window but sent a painful reverberation back into his wrists. He dropped the chair.

Marsh bellowed in his own ruined voice. The dividing wall muted his voice, too. “Children, children!” He clapped for their attention. The chanting died off.

Gretel watched with a blank expression on her face.

“Why are you letting this happen?” Will asked. “Don't you know what will happen if he does this?”

She frowned, as though he'd just said something spectacularly dim. “Of course I do.”

“The bad men are here,” said Marsh. “In London. They're attacking us right now. They'll be in this building, in your home, in moments. I can't stop them.” He paused. “They want to kill us. Me, and all of you.”

If that garnered a reaction from the children, it was too quiet for Will to make it out.

He pounded on the glass again. “Children! It's me, William! Don't listen to him!”

Marsh continued. “But you can stop them. You can make the bad men disappear. Can you do that for me?”

Apparently they felt they could, because the children took up another chant.

“Bad men disappear,” said a girl.

“Bad men disappear,” said a boy.

“Bad men disappear,” said the group.

Will racked his brain for an alternative. “Bad men freeze!” he yelled.

The children found a single cadence. “Bad men disappear,” they chanted.

“Bad men freeze,” Will countered.

They switched to Enochian. Will did, too. But they were peerless in their mastery of Enochian. Even at his best, he never could have matched them. He hadn't spoken Enochian in decades. The impossible syllables wrenched his jaw, raked his tongue, cracked against his teeth. He couldn't formulate the grammar. It all came out as gibberish. The alien words disintegrated like splinters of glass wedged in his lips.

Will doubled over. “Please, no,” he whispered.

An Eidolon arrived. Its eager assent shook the world and tasted like rose petals strewn on a virgin's grave.

14 June 1963
Milkweed Headquarters, London, England

The Eidolon came and went so quickly that Marsh thought at first the negotiation had failed. Had he been wrong about using Willenskräfte in lieu of blood maps? If so, then what? They had no hope of obtaining the necessary samples from the Arzamas agents. It would require killing or incapacitating them, but if they could manage that, they wouldn't have needed the Eidolons' help in the first place.