The Coldest War (18 page)

Because I've been a prisoner my entire life,
he thought,
and being a prisoner means knowing the boundaries.
He made a show of looking to the blade in her hands.
And more to the point, because you store knives in here.

He said, “I don't know your rules yet.”

“We're not jailers, Klaus,” she said.

“Am I free to come and go as I please?”

“Within the house, yes. But you ought not venture outside without escorts.”

“Escorts or guards?”

There might have been a glimmer of amusement in her eyes, or perhaps irritation at being second-guessed. She gestured at the refrigerator with her knife. “There's watercress and tomato in there if you fancy a sandwich. Bread's in the pantry.”

The house featured a narrow kitchen. He brushed past her on his way to the pantry. She wore a hint of perfume; it smelled clean and light. Somehow, it reminded Klaus of early autumn snowfalls at the Reichsbehörde. Back when the world was black-and-white, when he and his sister stood together against the world.

“Do let us know if you'd like us to obtain something particular from the grocer,” she said. “Reasonable requests can usually be accommodated.”

The knife in her hand caused the skin between his shoulder blades to itch. A lifetime of training made his body unwilling to turn its back on an armed opponent. He felt her eyes on the back of his head, fixating on the wire bundle that dangled past his shoulder. Marsh had insisted that the siblings wear their wires on the outside at all times, so that any attempts to use them would be noticed immediately. As though Klaus were likely to find compatible batteries stocked in the pantry.

Anticipating the question she wouldn't dream of asking, he trotted out the familiar canard. “It happened in the camps. During the war.”

He wondered if she knew he had been a Nazi. Probably. But he said it anyway.

He wondered if she'd had family members killed during the long Blitz. Probably.

He found the bread, and a jar of honey. Madeleine was still watching him when he turned to put them on the counter. “Your sister. Is she settling in well?”

Another curse sounded in the den, followed by Gretel's laughter. “She always does,” he sighed.

Madeleine brushed past him again to toss her dirty knife in the sink. Part of him wondered who would be tasked with washing the dishes, while another part of him wondered if she was trying to arouse him. That seemed a likely ploy. And somewhat to his dismay, it worked. He kept his back to her in order to hide this.

She turned to leave before he said anything. “What I said about the grocer applies in general,” said Madeleine. “We'll make your stay here more pleasant, if we can. Books, perhaps?”

She's trying to learn more about me,
thought Klaus.
Fishing for information.
That was yet more training rising to the surface, the vestige of a youth spent at the Reichsbehörde and a middle age spent at Arzamas-16. But the oldest Klaus, the one who'd come to Britain foolishly thinking it would make him a free man, found he didn't care if Madeleine were fishing or not.

He thought back to what he saw in the park during his taxi ride through London. “Painting supplies,” he said over his shoulder. “I'd like painting supplies.”

“Are you a painter?”

“No.”

This time there definitely was a hint of amusement in her expression. He could tell she wanted him to elaborate, but the bell chimed just then, and so Madeleine went to answer the door. Klaus followed her a minute later, just in time for the argument.

Marsh and Pethick had arrived. To Roger and Anthony, Marsh said, “Having fun? Party's over. Get back to work.”

Roger scowled. Pethick pulled out his billfold, removing a five-pound note to cut off Anthony before he could protest: “Take a breather, gents. We need a private few with the guests.”

The two minders tossed their cards on the table. Anthony collected his blazer from the floor, took the note from Pethick, and followed Roger through the garden door behind the house. The hinges needed oiling. Madeleine, Klaus noticed, had also made herself scarce.

Marsh took one of the vacated seats. Gretel pouted at him. “I was going to win that hand, Raybould.”

“Don't call me that.” He tossed an envelope on the table, scattering the pile of chips she had amassed. Cards fluttered to the tangerine carpet. “What the hell is this?”

Klaus recognized Reinhardt's handwriting. He suppressed the urge to step forward and see firsthand what Gretel's instructions had wrought. But something in his bearing piqued Pethick's curiosity. Pethick sidled up to the kitchen, where Klaus leaned against the doorjamb.

Gretel took the envelope. She studied the postmark for a long moment, as if committing it to memory. Which she was, Klaus knew. Committing it to the memory of a younger version of herself, the Gretel who had foreseen this moment.

What are you doing, sister? What will this new paradox achieve?

After studying the envelope, she tipped it over the table. A set of photographs spilled out, knocking more chips to the floor. Most were of a pair of men sitting on a park bench; Klaus recognized neither of them. One photo was of a newspaper. Gretel scrutinized this as closely as she had the postmark.

Marsh leaned forward. “Well?”

Gretel sifted through the remaining photos. Her gaze lingered over one of the clearer shots. “I haven't seen William in ages,” she said.

“Who took these photos?”

Klaus felt Pethick watching him, sidewise. Honey trickled down his fingers, cool and sticky. He took a bite from his sandwich. The bread was stale. He chewed nonchalantly, thinking about anyone but Reinhardt.

“A friend,” said Gretel.

Marsh's tone was calm. Measured. “Why so baroque, Gretel? Why not tell us about Will when you came in?”

“Without evidence? Would you have believed me?” Her playful demeanor vanished. She stared at Marsh, bottomless dark eyes boring straight into his. “The woman who killed your daughter?”

Six words that sucked all the air from the room. Pethick and Klaus both turned to watch Marsh. Their breath ought to have steamed in the sudden chill. The silence was so complete, so heavy, that Klaus couldn't hear anything but his own chewing. He realized he wasn't tensing up to grab Gretel, nor preparing to pull her out of harm's way. This time, he was a spectator. Let Gretel fend for herself. She always did.

Marsh held her gaze through the length of several agonizingly long heartbeats. He didn't blink. That impressed Klaus. He'd never known anybody who could stare her down. Not when the madness behind her eyes was so naked to the world.

And, yes, it was madness. Klaus knew that as well as anybody. But there was something else, too. Something previously hidden to him.

No, not hidden. Something he'd never dared to acknowledge before. Gretel had dropped her masks and her pretenses, and for the space of those few heartbeats, he saw his sister's essence.

He saw her heart and soul, darker even than her eyes. He saw the truth of this woman for whom the world and its people were nothing more than tools toward an end. Remorseless, like a chess player sacrificing pieces according to her grand strategy: Rudolf. Heike. Doctor von Westarp. Marsh's daughter. The REGP itself.

Klaus's freedom. Twenty years of his life.

The way Gretel moved through the world … it wasn't simple madness. Nor was she misguided, as he'd let himself believe.

Klaus started to laugh. He couldn't help himself. He was the world's greatest fool. After so many years spent struggling to justify Gretel's actions, so much effort expended bending over backwards to give her the benefit of the doubt, the real explanation turned out to be absurdly simple.

Gretel was evil, and she was insane.

Reinhardt could have told him that.

Thinking of Reinhardt sent another wave of hysteria crashing over the feeble breakwaters of his self-control. But it wasn't joyful laughter. It was the laughter of the utterly overwhelmed. The others stared at Klaus. He retreated to the kitchen, wiping tears from his eyes. He breathed deeply until the fit subsided. And then the deeper reality hit.

Klaus doubled over and emptied his stomach into the sink. It took three glasses of water to wash the worst of the taste from his mouth.

Pethick came in. “Are you ill?”

Klaus waved him off with one hand, gulping more water. He swished it around his mouth, then spit the remnants of his gorge into the sink. The cloying scent of honey threatened to evoke a second wave of nausea. Klaus screwed the lid back on the honey jar and tossed the entire thing into the rubbish bin. He walked around Pethick and returned to his spot in the kitchen entryway.

Marsh hadn't moved a hairsbreadth. His body had become a tightly coiled spring, and it wound tighter and tighter with every word Gretel spoke. She broke off when Klaus returned.

“Brother?” she said. “What troubles you?” It was still there, that thing behind her eyes, that alien emotion, bare to the world. She directed it straight at him. And the look in her eyes …

Doctor von Westarp, the mad genius who had turned a handful of starving orphans into the pinnacle of German military might, had a way of looking at people. When the doctor directed that dispassionate gaze through his thick glasses, it felt like Klaus was looking up from a microscope slide. The doctor had seen everything around him with a clinical detachment. Not malevolent—it was emotionless—but cold and hyperanalytical. That simple look cowed his mightiest children, long after they had mastered the Götterelektron.

The look on Gretel's face, there in the British safe house, made Klaus miss the doctor.

“Let us not worry about your brother.” Marsh snapped, “The photos. Who. Took. Them?”

“Reinhardt.” The name passed Klaus's lips as a whisper, floated across the silent room like a feather, and landed on the table with a thud. Pethick stared at Klaus. Marsh draped an arm over the back of his chair. “What was that?”

Klaus coughed. He peeled his gaze away from Gretel. He said, “Reinhardt is your photographer.”

Pethick shrugged at Marsh. Marsh looked down, shaking his head slowly, like a man listening to a faint echo. “Reinhardt,” he repeated, as though it were vaguely familiar. He looked up, wide-eyed. “Reinhardt from the Reichsbehörde? He's here?”

“Yes.”

Marsh stood. To Pethick he said, “Keep working on her.” He pointed at Gretel with a thumb over his shoulder. To Klaus he said, “Come with me. Let's talk.”

17 May 1963
Knightsbridge, London, England

Gwendolyn took Will's recuperation more seriously than he did. She forbade him from returning to work for several days. And when he refused to stay in bed any longer, she relented only insofar as to arrange him on the Victorian fainting couch in their parlor. She put a jade green porcelain tea service (complete with sliced lemon) within reach of his one free arm, alongside a stack of his beloved Dashiell Hammett novels.

Fixing Will was what she did. Letting Gwendolyn fix him was what he did. This was the center of their relationship, and had been since the beginning.

His fingertips tasted of lemon when he licked them to turn the pages. The collar of his dressing gown caressed his neck with silk; a cotton chenille blanket cushioned the sling and hugged his chest. He could almost forget the pain, so warm and drowsy was the parlor. It was so peaceful, so relaxing, he couldn't quite bring himself to tell Gwendolyn about his arrangement with Cherkashin. Not yet. He'd lost the gift that might have softened the blow. And he was in no shape for something so fraught. He had to be alert. Delivered injudiciously, the confession might color their relationship.

Will told himself he wasn't procrastinating while she pampered him. But he knew better.

Gwendolyn opened a window to admit a cooling draft. He dozed off halfway through
The Thin Man
.

The rap of the door knocker jostled him to wakefulness. The noise came from both sides of the door simultaneously, through the foyer and the open window. It gave Will a drowsy, inside-out feeling, as though he could perceive everything at once, like the Sphere in
Flatland
.

They had given their housekeeper the day off. He sat up, but Gwendolyn breezed past the parlor on her way to answer the door.

“William Beauclerk, I know you wouldn't dare remove yourself from that spot.”

She'd been sculpting. A kerchief held her hair, and a smear of dun-colored clay colored the curve of her jaw under her left ear, where she tended to tug at her hair absently when deep in thought.

Will settled back on the divan. He listened to the door scrape open a moment later.

A long pause. Then Gwendolyn said, “May I help you?”

A man's voice, heard again from both sides of the door, said, “I'm seeking Will Beauclerk.”

Gwendolyn, stiffly: “Lord William isn't receiving visitors presently. Kindly call another time.” And the door creaked again, but stopped, as though somebody held it back.

“This will not wait,” said the visitor. “I'm a colleague of Will's, from—”

“I know who you are,” said Gwendolyn. Crisp. Terse.

Who the devil is it? And what the devil is this about?
Will tottered to his feet, still woozy from the nap. He tossed aside the blanket, found his slippers, then tied the sash of his dressing gown more tightly about his waist as he shuffled to the foyer. The stranger was hidden from view by Gwendolyn.

“You must be Gwendolyn,” he said. She crossed her arms. “Are you Will's wife, his secretary, or his zookeeper?”

“I've told you,” she snapped. “He isn't well.”

Will said, “Darling? Who is it?”

Gwendolyn spun around, looking alarmed. “William! You must stay off your feet. You know what the doctor told us.”