The Coldest War (14 page)

—screaming?

—crying?

—laughing.

My brother and I will be occupied tomorrow. A family matter.

Marsh threw his head backwards. The back of his skull connected with Pethick's face. By then, Klaus was on his feet with one arm hooked under Marsh's extended shoulder and the other around his waist.

Together, he and Pethick wrenched Marsh to his feet, off Gretel. Pethick took the knife. Klaus kneeled over his sister, desperate to know if she were hurt. She answered with more giggling.

Pembroke—who, Klaus realized, hadn't moved an inch during the altercation—looked at the men flanking the door. One had drawn his sidearm. “You didn't search him.” A statement, rather than a question, rendered so dispassionately that Klaus suppressed a shudder at the memory of Doctor von Westarp. “You brought a potential hostile inside, and it didn't occur to you to search him.”

“We thought he was one of us, sir.”

Marsh muttered, “Not in a long bloody time, mate.”

Pembroke looked at Pethick, who had disregarded the trickle of blood from his nose long enough to search Marsh.

“He's clean now, sir,” he said.

“Shall we take him downstairs, sir?”

Pembroke produced an envelope from inside his tweed jacket. The envelope had
Leslie Pembroke
written on it in Gretel's handwriting. He took the knife from Pethick, sliced the envelope open, and removed the note Gretel had written the previous afternoon in Pembroke's office. His eyes scanned down the lines of Gretel's spidery copperplate.

Then he tossed the note on the table, pointedly landing it in front of Marsh. Marsh's scowl deepened into a vision of pure disgust. Pembroke turned his attention back to the men at the door. He answered their question: “No. We'll have no further problems.”

He gestured for everybody to regain their seats. To Marsh, he said in a conversational tone, “If you're quite finished, perhaps now we can hear the rest of their story.”

14 May 1963
Milkweed Headquarters, London, England

Pethick escorted Klaus and Gretel back to their cells. Marsh gathered they were being held down in the storerooms. Which was where they'd locked Gretel the first time, after he'd captured her in France.

He amended that thought.
After she
let
me capture her. Why?
Why did she do anything?
Because she is a raven-haired demon, sowing chaos and pain for her own amusement.

His boots smeared mud on the floor when he followed Pembroke back to his office. Which, Marsh realized with a pang, had been Stephenson's office once upon a time. Same view of St. James' Park, same desk, even the same chairs (leather behind the desk, button-tufted chintz before it). Only the artwork on the walls had changed. Framed prints of antique maps had replaced the watercolors painted by Stephenson's wife, Corrie: Terra Australis for flowering dogwood; Nueva España for magnolia.

Milkweed had been born in an office much like this one, christened from an image on one of those watercolors. Marsh wondered if Pembroke knew that.

Thinking of Stephenson and his wife reminded Marsh of his own wedding. Held in the Stephensons' garden. Corrie had given a watercolor to Liv that evening, as a token; it had hung in their vestibule for years, until a row when Marsh slammed the door just a bit too hard. The frame shattered on the floor. Liv tossed the painting in the rubbish bin.

Marsh shook his head, trying to clear away memories that clung to him like smoke and old cobwebs.

The smell had changed, too. Now it was the sweet odor of Pembroke's pipe tobacco leaching out of the upholstery, rather than the sharp scent of Stephenson's Lucky Strikes. The pipe seemed an obnoxious affectation on one so young.

But then Marsh realized Pembroke's youth was an illusion created by the perspective of his own age.

Pembroke closed the door. He opened a sideboard, pulled out a bottle and two tumblers.

That's new, too,
thought Marsh.
The old man kept his brandy in his desk drawer. Until Will drank it all.

“I think we could both use a drink,” said Pembroke. “You, especially.”

“I'm not the one running around like Gretel's lapdog. You must work up bloody great a thirst.”

Pembroke poured a generous portion into both glasses. The earth-and-fire scent of scotch tickled Marsh's nose. He set a glass on the desk for Marsh, then took the seat behind it. The casters squeaked.

Marsh squelched into a chair. His sodden boilersuit itched all over.

Pembroke said, “We're on the same side here, Marsh. I am not your enemy.”

“You are as long as you're working for Gretel.”

“I think you're a bit confused.”

Marsh took Gretel's note in his fist, shook it in Pembroke's face. “She's pulling your strings. Jesus Christ, how long did that take? One day?”

Pembroke sipped. He swallowed loudly. “Of course I let things unfold the way they did. It was a perfect opportunity to test her. That's not letting her pull the strings. It's basic tradecraft, and you should recognize that.” He sipped again. “Besides, unlike you, I've never seen her ability at work. Not directly. And, you must admit, your attempted assault did unfold precisely as she'd foretold. Chapter and verse. Remarkable.”

“I presume you had the presence of mind to disconnect her battery the moment she arrived?”

“Sam did.”

Marsh said, “I've seen her do this before. She pulls these things off long after her battery has been removed. So rather than gaping in wonderment, you should be wondering how long she's been planning this. And why.”

Pembroke gestured at the letter, stilled balled in Marsh's fist. “I watched her write that.”

Marsh threw the paper across the room. He shook his head in disgust. “Jesus.” He massaged his temples. “She's playing you.”

“She's not the enemy any longer. She's a defector.”

“She's not here to help us.” Marsh shifted in his chair. The fabric of his drying boilersuit had constricted uncomfortably against his legs.

“The Soviets would never let her off the leash. She's far too valuable to squander as a double agent.”

“I didn't say she's working for them. I said she's not here to help us,” said Marsh. He drained his glass in two swallows; it was a nice single malt. “Let me spare you months of effort,” Marsh whispered. Coughing past the fire in his sinuses, he added, “They never turned her. Her brother, maybe, but never Gretel. Hell, in the end even von Westarp couldn't control her. And he created her.”

“It's not a matter of controlling her,” said Pembroke. “It's a question of securing her willing cooperation.”

“Cooperation? Are you mad? Downstairs you have locked up a man who can walk through walls like a ghost. And his sister, who can read the future as easily as you and I read the goddamned newspaper. Now, you tell me something. Do you honestly believe it took them twenty-odd years to escape?”

Pembroke sighed. “You're probably right.” In response to the skepticism on Marsh's face, he said, “Look, I'm not a fool. But I'll happily play the part if it means access to the secrets in her head. If we could know a fraction of the things she knows, we could chart a new course for Britain.”

“She's seducing you, and you don't even realize it.”

“I'm willing to let her think that. We ought to work together on this, Marsh. Work the problem from both ends. Let Gretel believe I'm her willing pawn. Meanwhile, you unravel what she's really after.”

A thrill raced through Marsh. A chance to return to the only life he'd ever fit? But it was replaced just as quickly with irritation bordering on shame. What a sad carrot this was. Pembroke didn't have a fraction of Stephenson's mettle. Gretel would eat him alive.

“You can't outwit her,” he said. “You can't outmaneuver her. And if you try, she will dance on your grave.”

“I will never trust Gretel. Not after everything I've read about her history.”

“You've been into the archives, then.”

“Of course I have.”

“The archives I retrieved from Germany.”

Pembroke paused in mid-sip, pointing at Marsh across the lip of his glass. “That was an incredible piece of work, by the way. Something of a legend in these parts.”

Marsh dipped his head slightly, acknowledging the compliment but not enough to dislodge the icy veneer he presented to Pembroke. He asked, “And where exactly are ‘these parts' today?”

It was Pembroke's turn to nod, acknowledging the subtext of Marsh's question. “We're back in circulating section T. Have been since … forty-five?” He nodded to himself, then plied Marsh with a wry smile. “Stephenson's old purview, if I know my history.”

Back before the creation of Milkweed, in the late 1930s, Marsh had been a field agent reporting to Stephenson, who headed the “technological surprise” section of MI6, Britain's Secret Intelligence Service. It was on a mission to Spain during the civil war there that Marsh had stumbled across the greatest technological surprise of the century: the Reichsbehörde. Not long after that, the old man had created Milkweed, handing T-section over to others and even giving up his opportunity at the top of SIS in exchange for free rein to run Milkweed as he pleased.

In those early days, Marsh had thought he'd make a long career of serving the country. He'd never imagined the intelligence world would one day be overrun with twits like Pembroke.

“Still special access, I hope.”

“Naturally,” said Pembroke. “But there are few of us. Me; Sam, whom you've met; a handful of others. Field agents and technicians. And, of course, you.”

Marsh said, “But Milkweed isn't autonomous any longer.”

“Well, nearly so.” Pembroke shrugged. It reminded Marsh of the old man's peculiar one-armed shrugs. The loneliness hit harder this time. Marsh squirmed. Pembroke continued, “As autonomous as anything in the Service can be these days. This isn't wartime. And there is such a thing as a budget, you know.”

“I can't imagine that's been much of a problem for you. How much could you possibly cost the Crown, sitting there and twiddling your thumbs for years on end?”

Pembroke ignored the jab. He shook his head. If anything, he looked almost amused. “So you believe her story, then?”

“I don't believe she's being forthright with us,” said Marsh. “But yes, I expect that if you bother to check up on your warlocks, you'll find most of them dead. Just as she claimed.” He shook his head. “Every struggle, every sacrifice. Rendered moot by your carelessness.”

“Is that so.” A strange look came over Pembroke's face. Again, that hint of amusement. It was maddening. Marsh wanted to straighten him out. “If she's right, we have quite a mess on our hands.”

Marsh slammed his empty glass on the desk. “Quite a mess? Don't you see what they're doing? They're clearing the board, you imbecile. Your Soviet counterparts have tired of this so-called Cold War. So they're resetting the game.”

“That's not the problem to which I refer,” said Pembroke. “Because to my mind, the real issue is how the Soviets have managed to track down our men. They excel at hiding, at staying in the shadows. As you may remember.”

What Marsh remembered was how Will had taken great lengths—traversing the United Kingdom from north to south, from east to west, and back again—to track down and recruit less than a dozen warlocks for Milkweed. Finding them would have been impossible if not for the cryptic hints found in the journal of Will's grandfather.

Back then, all the world's warlocks wouldn't have filled the chairs in the conference room down the corridor. Now, Marsh feared, they wouldn't fill this office.

It struck Marsh he hadn't considered Will might be one of the victims. He found he was too detached to care one way or the other. Then again, Will's death would have made the news.

Marsh said, “It's bloody obvious. Arzamas-16 has an agent in the country. Gretel said as much. He waltzed in here and took a stroll through your files. Von Westarp had an invisible girl. Or maybe he's like Klaus. Or, for all we know, Klaus and Gretel are behind this. How long have they been in the country? You don't know, do you?”

Once again, that infuriating look passed across Pembroke's face. Marsh clenched his fist.

“I doubt very much that their man has been to the Admiralty. Instead, I'd wager the leak, if there is one, is one of your contemporaries. From the old days,” said Pembroke. He glimpsed Marsh's fist, then changed the subject. He opened a drawer and set a file folder on the desk. Marsh recognized the green border of an MI6 personnel file. “You've had a difficult time of it, these past few years.”

Marsh disliked the sudden turn to the conversation. And he certainly didn't welcome the attention to his home life. But he kept quiet, waiting to see just how deep a hole Pembroke would dig for himself.

“You've had a number of run-ins. Fighting. Disorderly conduct. Disturbing the peace.” Pembroke turned a page. “A long succession of odd jobs. Gardening. Mending. A bit of construction here and there. All aboveboard?” he asked.

But Marsh held his silence.

“I ask only out of curiosity. It's difficult to reconcile your tax records with what we know of your work history. A bit of cash paid under the counter from time to time?” Pembroke shrugged. “I truly couldn't care if you've let a few quid go unreported. You do have two mouths to feed.” Another page.

He continued, “Presumably two mouths. Nobody has seen your son in years. Not even the neighbors. Not since the last nanny packed up and quit rather suddenly, from what I gather.” Pembroke turned another page in Marsh's file, shaking his head sadly. “Quite a few hospital visits in his early years, though.”