The Coldest War (24 page)

The fatigued cot springs creaked when Marsh shifted his weight to stretch. “I feared as much.”

Pethick said, “Our guests might know more about this.”

“Klaus? I doubt it,” said Marsh. “Gretel does, but she's immune to coercion. Von Westarp, the Schutzstaffel, and the NKVD couldn't break her in over forty years of continuous effort. We won't manage in a handful of days.”

“They'll want to move him. Sooner rather than later. We need to do something before they call his bluff.” Pethick frowned. “It is a bluff, is it not?”

Marsh said, “William Beauclerk is naïve as the day is long. But I do believe him when he says he did what he did for purposes of revenge, not ideology.”

“The Soviets won't care if he's a willing defector or not, if they see a chance to send him to Moscow. I don't know him as you do, but I suspect he'd crumble under their questioning.” Pethick shrugged. “If they get him, he'll tell them everything he knows about Eidolons and Enochian.”

Marsh shook his head. “It won't come to that. Will won't board that ship.” He nodded toward the pocket where Pethick had tucked away the reconnaissance photo. “I'll shoot him myself, if need be.”

“In the meantime,” said Pethick, “Cherkashin's pet killer is still out there. Yours was a good notion, starting at the top, but we're no closer to finding him.”

“I know.…” Marsh massaged his temples, fostering the warm glow of a new idea. “I suppose this means we'll have to flush out Cherkashin's man directly.”

28 May 1963
Croydon, London, England

Klaus found himself waking earlier and earlier. He enjoyed the serenity of dawn, that special time of day when the world was empty but for himself, the songbirds in the garden, and a cup of coffee. His thoughts, he found, were clearest and most creative early in the morning. Thus, within a week of receiving Madeleine's gift, he forged a new routine for himself. He'd wake before dawn, creep downstairs, make breakfast for himself, eat at the window while songbirds serenaded the rising sun and the first rays of sunrise dipped into the garden, then retreat to his bedroom—and his brushes, and his watercolors, and his exercises—before the others appeared.

Properly timed, on a good morning, he could almost pretend that the house was his and his alone. That he had a normal life of his own choosing. But Gretel was the pin to Klaus's soap bubble illusion. The fragility of his imagined life could not hope to withstand her.

Klaus preferred the comforting illusion of solitude to the ugly reality of his sister. Even when she adopted her most pleasant mode. Such as the previous morning, when Gretel had awakened him before dawn to watch a particularly colorful sunrise with her. “Something for you to strive for,” she'd said.

A knock sounded on his door around midmorning. Technically, Klaus wasn't permitted (or even able) to lock the door, so knocking was merely a courtesy. One he appreciated; it contributed to the fantasy of normality. Knocking had been unknown at Arzamas.

Klaus set down his brush. He stationed himself between his makeshift easel and the door. “Yes?”

Madeleine poked her head in. The papers tacked to the walls caught her attention. She opened the door more widely and slipped inside, head turning to take in his work.

“You've certainly been busy,” she said.

He knew what she saw. Pages covered with wavy lines, straight lines, thick lines, thin lines, solid colors, blended colors. And most of these, he knew objectively, were rendered with a childlike lack of skill. Klaus shrugged, feeling embarrassed by this attention to his personal efforts. It had been a long time since he had tried to acquire a new skill.

“They're nothing,” he said. “Exercises. From books.”

Madeleine smiled. “I'm pleased to hear it.” She gave his exercises another approving glance, then pointed back over her shoulder with one finger. “Marsh is here. Wants to see you and your sister.”

Klaus sighed. The debriefings had long ago become tedious, and difficult.
How many times must I say, “I don't know”? They've heard it in English, German, and Russian.

At least it was Marsh this time. One on one, he was easier to deal with than the others. On the other hand, Marsh became much pricklier in Gretel's presence. But to be fair, so did Klaus.

But Marsh hadn't come for another debriefing session. Instead he ushered Klaus and Gretel to a car parked outside. Pethick sat behind the wheel. Marsh sat in front. The floor behind the front seat, Klaus noticed as he climbed in, had been fitted with an iron ring. A bulky radio set hung beneath the fascia, alongside the driver.

He asked, “Where are you taking us?”

“To frame an old friend,” said Gretel. He ignored her.

“To be seen,” said Marsh.

Pethick cranked the wheel to inch the car out of its parking spot. He cleared the other cars, then gunned the engine. They pulled away from the safe house. The acceleration sent Gretel sliding across the seat, into Klaus. He pushed her back. She laughed.

Marsh didn't elaborate, and Klaus didn't bother to press him for details.

They entered the heart of London after an uneventful drive. Pethick pulled the car to a stop before the steps of a Georgian office building. Marsh got out and motioned for Klaus and Gretel to do likewise. Pethick stayed in the car.

Marsh shepherded them to the lift. He jabbed the button for the fourth floor, which, according to a brass plate alongside the buttons, housed the
NORTH ATLANTIC CROSS-CULTURAL FOUNDATION
. The lift floor pressed against the soles of Klaus's shoes; Gretel hummed to herself during the short ride.

They emerged into what struck Klaus as an ultramodern office space, decked out in wood and brushed metal beneath bright fluorescents. Across a swath of burgundy carpet, a young brunette at a reception desk hammered on a typewriter with machine gun efficiency. She wore her hair in a tall mound atop her head. It seemed a popular style these days; Klaus had seen many variations of it since arriving in Britain. She paused when Marsh approached her desk.

“We're here to see Lord William,” he said.

She smiled at him, but it faltered when she glimpsed Klaus, and then again when she turned her eyes to Gretel. His sister twined a finger through one wire-wrapped braid.

“I'm afraid he isn't in, sir.”

Marsh said, “We'll wait.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“We do now.”

The receptionist looked unhappy about this, but there was nothing she could do about it. “Very well, then. May I offer you tea? Coffee?”

“No,” said Marsh.

Marsh stood by the windows, gazing at the building across the street. Klaus took a seat in a leather chair beneath an oil painting. An engraved placard affixed to the frame identified the subject as
AUBREY BEAUCLERK
: a pudgy, balding man who had apparently created the foundation. Klaus knew, based on what he'd heard in the debriefing of William Beauclerk, that Aubrey was his older brother. A member of the peerage.

Gretel settled beside him. She watched him sidewise, and smirked when his gaze kept returning to the receptionist. She leaned over, whispered in his ear. “Isn't she pretty?” she said, nodding toward the receptionist. “Do you think she's attracted to older men?”

The tickle of her breath made his skin crawl. Klaus shrugged her aside again.

It didn't require a genius to understand why Marsh had brought them here. The Soviets had asked William Beauclerk for help in finding the escaped siblings. And it was clear from what Will had said that the Soviets had people watching his office closely, for covert signals. By bringing Klaus here, Marsh had ensured that the Soviet spy network would conclude that the younger Beauclerk had betrayed them.

The question was why. What did Marsh hope to gain from this? Klaus would have asked him, were the two men alone. But they couldn't speak freely in front of the receptionist, nor would Marsh be candid while Gretel was in earshot.

Their wait lasted just long enough for the receptionist to notice Klaus's wires, and for her to cast a few alarmed glances at him and his sister, before Will arrived. He emerged from the lift, greeted his receptionist, and then paused when he saw Marsh standing at the window.

“Pip?”

Marsh turned. “Hi, Will. We need to have a chat.” He gestured at Klaus and Gretel. “Just the four of us.”

Will's shoulders sagged. He had all the presence of a fallen cake.

“They haven't made an appointment,” said the receptionist. “But they insisted on waiting for you.”

“Never mind, Angela,” said Will, clearly resigned to this turn of events. “Hold my calls.” He unlocked a narrow pair of double doors and beckoned the others inside. Klaus followed Gretel and Marsh into Will's office. Will locked the door behind him. Klaus took a seat on the wicker settee beside the door.

“May I ask what this is about?” Will slipped the key into a pocket of his herringbone weskit.

“Change of plans,” said Marsh. “Your meetings with Cherkashin aren't having the desired effect.”

Gretel crossed the large office to the wide mullioned window overlooking the street below. She made a show of studying the flower on the windowsill.

Will watched her. He turned to Marsh, his face pale. “You're setting me up.”

“We're forcing their hand,” said Marsh.

“Forcing their hand? What in blazes does that mean?”

“We know that your chums, Fedotov and Cherkashin, were hoping you'd let them know when these two showed their faces outside the Iron Curtain. We also know your chums like to keep a close eye on your office window. Convenient means of communicating, that.”

So Klaus was right. He could guess the rest without difficulty. But the details didn't matter. Marsh had chosen to parade Klaus in front of the people who wanted nothing more than to kill or imprison him. He might have lacked Gretel's subtlety, but in this they were very much the same: Both saw Klaus as a tool, a game piece, a chit, and used him accordingly. Klaus the man didn't matter; only his role in the game.

Gretel plucked a scarlet blossom from the flowerpot. She tucked it into her hair. “It's a lovely view,” she said. “Come see, brother.”

Klaus didn't move. He looked at Marsh. “Is that why I'm here?”

Marsh nodded. “I won't try to force you, Klaus. She's already let the cat out of the bag. But it would help if you showed yourself, too.”

“They don't want me,” said Klaus. “It's Gretel they care about.”

“If they intend to recapture you both,” said Will, “they must realize that's a rather far-fetched hope. Given her…” He trailed off, gesturing at Gretel with a languid wave of his hand.

Klaus shook his head. “They've never succeeded in replicating my sister's ability. There is only one Gretel.” At this, she smiled. “If the Soviets can't use her, they'll try to ensure that nobody can.”

“Again,” said Will, “a far-fetched ambition. Given the, ah, circumstances.”

“Of course they won't kill me,” said Gretel, still gazing out at the traffic below. “I'd never let
that
happen. But in their desperation, they can attempt to limit my resources.”

“And that brings us back to you, Will,” said Marsh.

Will said, “I rather dislike the look in your eyes.”

Klaus sighed. He joined his sister at the window. It wasn't a lovely view. If he stood on his toes, he could just make out a spot of greenery far past the sea of brick chimney pots and spindly television antennae. All the blinds on the windows across the street had been drawn.

Gretel put her head on his shoulder. He shrugged her off again. She smelled like Madeleine. They shared a bathroom; perhaps they used the same hair shampoo.

“I'd gather that just about now,” said Marsh, “Cherkashin is receiving a very urgent telephone call, alerting him to the fact you've just received a visit from a pair of escaped lunatics. But when you don't attempt to set up a meeting with him, he's going to assume you've betrayed him. And that shall make him rather cross.”

“What are you doing to me?” Will asked.

Gretel said, “They'll try to kill you.”

Will clutched absently at the sling cradling one arm. “You wretched cur. I've done everything you've asked of me.”

To Klaus, he sounded petulant. Will's country had trusted him with sensitive information. But he'd traded that information to a hostile nation, and now he acted as though being forced to deal with the consequences of his actions were an outrageous punishment. Punishment? Will had seen nothing of the sort. He had no idea just how fortunate he was. Klaus had spent his entire life in places where a far lesser transgression would have earned a bullet in the head from an officer's pistol, or several days of the doctor's “reconditioning.” He shivered at the memory of the old Reichsbehörde incubators, his old coffin box.

The irony of the situation angered Klaus. Enraged him. Will had betrayed the United Kingdom, a place far better than everywhere Klaus had ever lived, to the Soviet Union, a place with an institutional contempt for people like Will. Klaus had spent much of his life yearning for a chance to escape the latter for the former. His was a privileged perspective, if “privilege” was the right word.

Will's naïveté was breathtaking.

Klaus spat, “You are an extremely foolish man.”

Both Marsh and Will turned to blink at him in surprise. There may have been a flicker of appreciation on Marsh's face, just as Will stepped back, retreating from the truth.

Marsh said, “It's our only sure method of exposing Cherkashin's man.”

“And I'm to be the cheese in the rattrap, am I?”

“Yes.”

28 May 1963
Knightsbridge, London, England

Will fell silent for a moment, trying to gather thoughts that sluiced through his mind like water through his fingers. Marsh was trying to have him killed. The man had gone mad with rage. Couldn't anybody see that? But Will had no allies in this room. When he spoke again, his voice cracked. It betrayed the terror he felt as Marsh's plan came into focus. “Gwendolyn?”