The Coldest War (38 page)

A silent explosion. The Eidolon withdrew, and the world reverted to its shadow-puppet reality. Two women lay on the floor, where eons earlier there had been only one.

Marsh scrambled to their sides. He checked their pulses, their shallow breathing. The new arrival sat up, unsteadily, with Marsh's help. Her sister's eyelids fluttered.

A stillness had descended upon the classroom, broken only by scattered sniffling and crying. Will crouched beside the nearest children. Roused them, reassured them.

The Twins huddled in the corner. They held each other. Will wanted to believe their tears came from the joy of being reunited. But he knew better.

11 June 1963
Milkweed Headquarters, London, England

The Twins were disoriented, and unsteady on their feet. As was Marsh after the ordeal in the classroom. He worried the Eidolons might have left the Twins permanently addled. Several men who had participated in the raid on von Westarp's farm had gone mad during the transit to Germany. It was difficult to diagnose the mutes; their silence made them seem perpetually withdrawn. How did trauma manifest?

In one morning, Milkweed had stolen two of Ivan's most precious toys. Marsh hoped they hadn't lobotomized two innocents in the process. Knowing this was all for the greater good did nothing to assuage the pangs of guilt. The women were victims of von Westarp, the Schuztstaffel, Arzamas-16. But no longer. Perhaps some tiny measure of good could come of this. But the thought didn't relieve the pounding pressure behind Marsh's eyes.

Almost done,
he told himself.
Just a little more
.

Gently, he took one Twin's arm across his shoulders to help her to her feet. Will did likewise. They escorted the women upstairs, where Roger waited for them. Marsh collected both batteries; like Klaus, the Twins relinquished them without any hint of regret. Their equipment differed from what Klaus and Gretel wore.

Marsh introduced the Twins to Roger. “He'll take you someplace safe,” he said. They nodded. Their faces, Marsh realized, were mirror images of each other. Both had mismatched eyes, but one pair was blue/brown and the other brown/blue.

Roger asked, “Croydon?”

“Yes,” Marsh said.

Roger sighed, rubbed the nape of his neck. “Getting a bit crowded out there.”

“Madeleine will just have to make do.”

The Twins showed no interest in this exchange. They held hands, resolutely determined to stay together, when they followed Roger to his car.

Will waited until the trio disappeared around a corner before saying, “I warned you something wasn't right with the Eidolons. Don't pretend you didn't notice.”

Marsh fished another painkiller tablet out of his pocket. It crackled between his molars. The astringent taste made the muscles in his jaw clench up, like biting into a lemon. It always hurt to swallow, but the tablet dulled the worst of the pain in his throat. He tried to savor the minor relief; he'd be out of tablets soon enough. The morning's adventures had spawned a blistering headache.

“The Eidolon didn't like it when they contacted each other,” he said.

“Obviously.”

“Why not?”

“I can't begin to guess. But let's be glad we needn't do that again. And I think we should call upon the children as sparingly as possible.”

Maybe, just maybe, Will had a point for once. Marsh had experienced the Eidolons before, felt their contempt for the stain of humanity. But this … He shook off the unease. Events were too far along; they were committed. Indecision was deadly. “We're almost done. Rest up. And make certain the children are ready.”

Will frowned. He raised his hands as if to argue. But he studied Marsh's face for a few seconds; then his shoulders slumped. “Captain Ahab had nothing on you,” he muttered. Will handed over the cellar key, trudged downstairs, and locked the sally port behind him.

Marsh knocked on Pethick's door, but didn't wait before entering. The urbane Cornishman was slumped over his desk, cradling his forehead with one hand and holding the telephone to his ear with the other. His face was flushed, and he'd loosened his tie.

Marsh knew what this meant. He took a seat as weariness seeped into his bones.

“Keep me posted,” said Pethick. He tossed the handset back on its cradle. His chair creaked in protest when he stretched his arms and legs.

“Pembroke's dead.” Marsh didn't ask.

Pethick nodded. “I sent a lamplighter team into his house. The place had been turned over. It appears Leslie and his wife surprised a burglar several nights ago.”

“We both know this wasn't a random accident,” said Marsh. “This reeks of Gretel. I'd wager anything Reinhardt had been waiting for them.”

“Most likely.”

He'd warned Pembroke.
She will dance on your grave,
he'd said. Pembroke hadn't listened and now he was dead. But would it have made a difference if he had listened?

The pain and weariness sank deeper, past Marsh's bones and into the marrow. Fighting Gretel made as much sense as fighting the wind. Resisting her was like trying to push back the tide. And yet that was his job.

“I suppose,” said Pethick, “this means you're in charge now.” He slid a key across the desk. It differed from the cellar key. Marsh turned the cold metal in his hand. Pethick said, “Leslie's office. Yours, now. I'll arrange to have your effects moved.”

To Marsh's mind, it wasn't Leslie Pembroke's office he stood to inherit. It was John Stephenson's office.

I miss you, old man.
He set the key on the desk. A flick of the finger sent it spinning back to Pethick.
But Lord knows I never wanted your job.

“You've been here the longest,” he said.

Pethick replied, “Longest, perhaps, but not earliest. Like it or not, you have the seniority.” He pushed the key back across the desk.

Seniority. That's just another way of saying
I'm
Milkweed's old man now. A tired old man.

Marsh said, “This is what she wants, you know.”

“As long as we both know it, what difference does it make? And to be perfectly blunt,” said Pethick, “my hands—” His telephone rang, as if on cue. “—are quite full at the moment.”

He lifted the receiver. “Pethick.” He listened for a few seconds. “Very good. Make certain they maintain as long as possible.”

He set the receiver down again. “I think Cherkashin has just noticed his girl is missing. We started jamming a few minutes ago.”

Which meant SIS transceiver stations throughout the countryside were pumping out broadband radio hash at full power. Cherkashin's warning to Moscow would disappear in the noise.

Pethick gave a mirthless laugh. “Perhaps I ought to send a car to the embassy. If he's smart, he'll turn himself in to us before he's summoned to Moscow.”

But Marsh didn't feel like sharing the joke. “We have both Twins. Roger's taking them to the safe house.”

Pethick massaged his temples, stretching smooth the crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes. “And now?”

“We stick to the plan, and hope Ivan takes the bait.”

Marsh stood. It was harder than it should have been. He carried a heavier yoke now, a burden that hadn't been his just a few minutes earlier. Stephenson had been such a towering presence in Marsh's life, now gone these many years. His was a heavy ghost newly cleaved to Marsh. He added the new key to his ring, alongside the cellar key.

“Notify me if anything changes.”

“Where will you be?”

“Home,” Marsh rasped. “I haven't slept in two days.”

*   *   *

Head throbbing with each heartbeat, Marsh trudged along cracked and weathered pavement. His thoughts were jumbled, his mind unsettled. His worries together carried a weight that bowed his shoulders. Like a dog chasing its tail, he spun himself through the same path again and again.

The Soviets. The Eidolons. Pembroke. Gretel.

She had to be waiting for something. But what? He would return to Croydon when he was rested and alert. He had tricked Gretel once, caught her off guard, however briefly. Perhaps he could do it again. But not if he was exhausted. If her mask slipped, or she dropped one of her cryptic comments, he had to be alert enough to catch it.

Swirling thoughts pushed everything to the periphery of his awareness. Thus, as he approached his house, he had only a vague sense that something had changed. He paused with his hand on the door handle. Smooth brass cooled his fingertips while he listened. Recognition came to him slowly, tenuously, like fragments of a long-forgotten dream.

Liv. Singing to herself.

She hadn't sung in the house since John had been an infant. It agitated him, made him howl, no matter how softly she made her music. He always knew.

Marsh closed his eyes, concentrating.

Yes, that was Liv. And John was silent. Not a peep. Marsh's homemade soundproofing wasn't that effective.

He removed his shoes in the vestibule after closing the door as quietly as he was able. He paused at the edge of the den, still listening. The familiar clunk of the pipes as Liv ran the water; the
click-click-whoosh
as she lit the gas hob; the whistle of the teakettle. Liv sang through it all. A melancholy piece; he didn't recognize it. But he imagined she might have picked up any number of melodies she'd never shared.… Marsh had always thought their son killed her love of music. Perhaps she had just hidden it away. Or shared it with others. He wondered if she sang for the aftershave men.

Liv's silverbell voice made his chest ache. He'd tried and failed many times to forget the sound of it. Hearing it now brought back so many unwelcome memories. Memories of himself as a young man, his heart not yet rusted and cobwebbed. Memories of lying in bed with Liv, their infant daughter snuggled between them. Liv in her WAAF uniform; Liv taking it off … Another man's life.

Why was John so quiet?

He tiptoed backwards through the den. He took the stairs slowly, one at a time, stepping at the edges so they wouldn't creak. The key ring jangled when he took it from the hook beside the door. But John didn't stir, even when Marsh turned the locks.

His son lay naked in the center of the floor. He was curled in the fetal position, hands clamped over his ears. Just as the children at the Admiralty had done when the Twins somehow enraged the Eidolon. A short, shallow breath swelled John's chest; it came out in a little wheeze through his nose. He had a bit of congestion.

John wasn't a warlock child. He couldn't speak English, much less Enochian. He was the furthest thing from those children in the Admiralty cellar. And yet, here he was, reacting as they had.

The soul of an unborn child.

Will had known all along.
All these years, wondering what had gone wrong with John. Blaming ourselves. Blaming each other.

But the Eidolons had done this. True demons, more inscrutable than even Gretel. This curse came from beyond any human interaction, beyond any human comprehension, beyond any hope of revenge.

“He's been like that for hours.”

Marsh started. Beside him, Liv continued, “He let out a terrible shriek, clear as day. I came up when I heard the thump.” She shook her head. “He hasn't moved since.”

Looking at her twisted the tight skin along his throat. Liv stood close enough that he could smell the rose blossom tea on her breath. She stared straight ahead, choosing to see John rather than Marsh's ruined face.

It wasn't unusual for John to do a single thing for hours on end. Rocking. Knocking. Howling. But not for him to be still and silent like this. He made noise even in his sleep. Marsh wondered from time to time about the nightmares that sometimes plagued his son.

“When did this happen?” he asked.

Liv shrugged. She still wouldn't look at him. She hadn't, much, since he'd come home from the hospital. “Midmorning. Nine or ten.”

Marsh didn't know exactly when they'd brought the second Twin over, because clocks and watches were useless in the vicinity of an Eidolon. But it fit the time frame. He'd have to ask Will about this.

He almost said this last aloud, but caught himself in the nick of time as he remembered Liv believed Will dead. What was one more secret on top of everything else?

Liv closed the door. She tossed the locks with practiced ease. “Put you on the night shift, did they?”

By which she meant he'd been gone all night plus most of the previous day, and now he was home at noon.

“I came home for a lie down. I'm not feeling well.”

“Oh,” she said. This time she did look at him. A flicker of what might have been concern formed a crease between her eyebrows. She held that look for a beat before returning downstairs.

The stairs were too great an obstacle between him and the cot in his shed. Stephenson's ghost was far too heavy to carry much farther without rest. He paused at the open door to the bedroom he ostensibly shared with Liv. The sheets were rumpled on her side of the mattress, untouched on his. To hell with things; this was his, too. Marsh kicked off his shoes en route to the bed. He dropped most of the rest of his clothes in a heap on the floor.

The cool, smooth sheets soothed his aching scars. He lay on his side, cradling his head on the pillow so as not to put pressure on his face. After a moment he took the other pillow, too. It smelled of Liv. Stray strands of her hair tickled the parts of his face that retained feeling.

He awoke after sunset. His nap had been deep and dreamless. The throbbing pain behind his eyes had receded to a dull ache. Several moments of disorientation passed between realizing he wasn't in the shed and remembering he was in the bedroom. Liv's bedroom.

John had roused himself. Banging and mewling sounded from his room up the corridor. The soundproofing muted most of the vocalizations, but it couldn't stop the floorboards from rattling beneath his stomping feet. Well. Whatever had caused him to curl up and fall silent, it had passed.