The Coldest War (44 page)

“Bad men disappeared,” said the oldest boy.

Marsh asked, “Did it work? Is it done?”

“Bad men disappeared,” repeated the little girl with corn silk hair.

He removed the chair from where he'd wedged it under the door handle, and stepped into the observation room. Will sat slumped in one corner, long arms around his legs and his forehead pressed against his knees. Gretel, as always, was unreadable.

“What have you done?” Will whispered.

Marsh returned upstairs. Will lumbered to his feet and followed, along with Gretel.

It wasn't until he'd emerged from the cellar and its countless layers of soundproofing that Marsh realized the sounds of the dying city had changed. Sirens still blared across the city, and roiling smoke still darkened the sky. But the sounds of combat had disappeared. No more gunfire. And the city's antiaircraft batteries had fallen silent.

From his office, with its view of the parade ground, Marsh saw the marine sentries milling about, looking no less confused than they had earlier. He could tell from the scorch marks and shrapnel that two of the pixies had been fired. Marsh opened the window and called to Pethick. Pethick, surprised to see him, acknowledged with a wave. He told the men to maintain their positions near the pixies before he came inside. He joined Marsh, Will, and Gretel a moment later.

Acrid smoke from dozens of fires wafted through the open window. It stung the eyes and irritated Marsh's throat. He closed the window again, but not before succumbing to a coughing spasm. The fever burned freely now, tossing him high and light-headed on its updraft.

His gambit had worked. He had saved Britain.

“They're gone,” Pethick reported. He looked pale. His tie hung loose; the collar of his cream-colored shirt was stained with sweat. He shook his head, confused by what he was reporting. “The Arzamas saboteurs have retreated.”

Marsh said, “No. Not retreated.”

“Then where have they gone?”

“Dead,” said Marsh. “Disintegrated. What have you.” He shrugged.

“What?”

“The children,” said Gretel.

“Oh, dear.” Pethick took a chair. His skin went even paler. “Leslie and I were under the impression that such a thing was forbidden. Too dangerous.”

“It is,” said Will. He'd sprawled in a chair, one leg thrown carelessly over an armrest.

Pethick narrowed his eyes at Gretel. “Leslie wouldn't have done this. He would have prevented it, wouldn't he?”

Will glared at Marsh. “With good reason.”

This was Marsh's triumph. He wouldn't let them step all over it. “Perhaps you don't like my methods, but I had no choice. It was this or be destroyed.”

Will looked unconvinced.

Pethick turned on Gretel. “You should know that your failure to warn us about this attack could be construed as levying war against the Sovereign. We might make a case for treason,” he said. “Or treachery.”

“You see?” said Will, lazily waving one finger in the air. He sounded half pissed. “I did say they were quite keen on it.”

Gretel looked unimpressed. Then she looked at the telephone on the corner of Marsh's desk.

“Ivan will regroup,” Marsh told Pethick. “We can't assume they've committed all of the Arzamas troops to this operation. We—”

The telephone rang. Will started. Marsh and Pethick shared a glance. Pethick shrugged in response to the implied question; few people had Marsh's work line.

Marsh picked up the receiver, wondering if the safe house had fallen under attack. “Yes,” he said.

“Raybould? Is that you?” said a high, reedy voice on the verge of tears.

Marsh straightened in his chair, thrown again into high alert. His mind raced. Had the Arzamas agents attacked his home?

“Liv? What's wrong?”

“It's John. He's…”

“What about John?”

Her voice trembled. “Come home.”

“Tell me what happened. Are you hurt?”

“He's different. Please,” she said faintly, “come home.”
Click.

“Liv?” But she was gone, her terror replaced with the clicking of the line.

Marsh stood to leave without another word, but thought better of it. John was somehow connected to the children and the Eidolons. Connected by something the Eidolons had done even before Liv and Marsh had conceived him. If Marsh's extreme actions to eradicate the Soviet saboteurs had changed John somehow, that meant something significant had changed for the Eidolons as well.

What if Will had been right all along? Was this what Gretel wanted?

The implication left him feeling queasy, as though his stomach were full of mothballs.

He needed an expert. “Will.” Marsh beckoned at him. “Come with me.”

“If I'm going to die soon, I'd much rather do so in Gwendolyn's arms than your own. No offense, of course.”

Marsh squinted, pinched the bridge of his nose. His voice emerged as a whisper. “Please.”

Will regained his feet. “Well. In that case.”

To Pethick, Marsh said, “Watch her.”

“Don't worry. I'll wait here for your return,” Gretel said. She pointed toward the door with one dainty finger. “I'll be just down the corridor.”

Will said, “Pip, do you—?”

“Go,” said Gretel. She waved them off with a fluttering hand. “Hop, hop, hop.”

Their car still stood on the parade ground, at the end of two long skid marks etched in the gravel. The marines had had the consideration to turn the engine off and close the doors, but they'd left the keys inside.

Though the attack had been thwarted, getting across the river to Walworth was a chore. Fires still raged across London. Marsh had to weave around rubble and dodge emergency vehicles. In addition to Lambeth and Westminster bridges, Waterloo and Blackfriars had been destroyed as well, snarling traffic worse than anything since the Blitz. He crossed the Thames at Southwark. Things improved slightly with distance from the city center, but still it took far too long to get home.

It gave Marsh time to describe Liv's call. Will said nothing. But based on how vigorously he chewed his lip, he didn't like what he'd heard.

Marsh spent the rest of the drive cursing the traffic and wondering what had happened to Liv. Perhaps he was overreacting; perhaps it was nothing to do with the Eidolons. Had John overpowered her? Broken out of his room again? Out of the house? Had somebody seen a bruised and naked man escaping from Marsh's house, and decided to call the police? No. The coppers had bigger concerns today.

Marsh parked the car with two tires on the pavement. He shoved the gate open and dashed to the front door. Will lagged behind.

Marsh fished out his house key but the door was unlocked. From the entryway, Marsh called, “Liv?”

No answer. But he found her sitting on the sofa in the den. Her face was pale as flour. She wasn't alone. A man sat across from her, his back to Marsh.

His matted hair, his ears, the mole on the nape of his neck: it all looked impossibly familiar. But the man sat perfectly still, perfectly quiet. He was clothed, too; he wore one of Marsh's shirts and a pair of his trousers.

This wasn't happening. It was a fever dream.

Liv glanced up from the visitor. She looked relieved to see Marsh. “Raybould,” she whispered.

“What's happened? Who is this?”

The visitor stood. He turned, facing Marsh with empty, colorless eyes.

No. It couldn't be. But it was John.

“Hello, Father.”

 

interlude

For once, the crazy bitch was true to her word.

Reinhardt had dreaded checking his post office box for fear of finding another rambling missive with instructions for more incomprehensible errands. But Gretel had specifically stated she needed two favors, and Reinhardt had completed them both. So it appeared she truly intended to leave him alone, now that he had killed Leslie Pembroke and his fat excuse for a hausfrau.

The wife had put up more of a fight than Pembroke himself. That cow had nearly crushed Reinhardt by falling atop him as he strangled her. Pembroke had gone down quickly when Reinhardt dented his temple with a candlestick. Twice, for good measure. But Reinhardt had taken his time after finishing Gretel's part of the errand. Clearly the Pembrokes were not without means, and so it proved worthwhile to loot the premises. He'd made off with quite a bit of cash, some jewelry, and even a small wireless set for spare parts. He did, after all, want to make it look like a burglary.

It meant having enough money to keep the Jew landlord at bay, to eat real food again, and to replace a few supplies. Reinhardt splurged on an external-frame rucksack in anticipation of his imminent and long-sought success. Free of further interruptions, he threw himself back into his research. Gretel hadn't sent the entire blueprint. But the hole in this puzzle, the missing piece that would forever reunite him with the Götterelektron, grew smaller by the day.

And then, not long after midnight on a night like countless others, it all fell into place.

The circuit diagrams in his journal matched the blueprint fragments from Gretel. And the missing part, the part he'd reverse engineered by himself, fit naturally. Current flowed into his skull easier than water through a pipe. No convulsions, no hallucinations, no pain. Just the coppery taste of the Götterelektron.

And delivered exactly as required for energizing his Willenskräfte. He started small, wary after so many failures, so many painful near misses. But he could tell it was different this time. It felt right. More satisfying than any whore he'd ever bedded. Better even than Heike.

Nothing more than a slight heat shimmer at first, roiling in the palm of his hand. Then the other hand. Next, a single violet flame no longer than the tip of his finger. Reinhardt made it dance. It jumped from one finger to the next, slowly up one hand and down the other.

Tears trickled down his face, but they evaporated in the heat of his vindication.

He couldn't summon the same agility he'd had in his youth. Too many years without practice. But that would change soon. Now, he'd do nothing but practice. He'd be his old self in no time.

He didn't sleep that night. The thrill was an electric hum in his blood. And there was all the work of documenting his triumph. He spent hours on three copies of the circuit diagram, each annotated with every detail: wire gauges, serial numbers, even the make and model of the televisions and radios from which he'd taken parts. One copy he'd keep on his person, for repairs in the field; copies two and three he would stash in safe-deposit boxes. Reinhardt supplemented the documentation with photographs of the circuit board.

After that, he converted the working design into a portable format. His own design would never be so compact as the original Reichsbehörde technology, nor would it be rechargeable. The rucksack offered enough space for one board split into two layers, with wooden spacers for ventilation. He filled the smaller pockets with tools and spare parts. This project took until midmorning, because each slight alteration to the circuit layout required testing to ensure it wouldn't hinder his ability to call up the Götterelektron.

The finished package was damn heavy. Reinhardt hefted it, settled the straps over his shoulders, and plugged in. He made one last test of the final arrangement—lighting candles, flashing pots of water into steam—while moving about the flat. Everything worked the way it was meant to. The rucksack was awkward, far more so than the original batteries, but the tingling embrace of the Götterelektron was worth any inconvenience.

He was Richard the electrician no longer. He was Reinhardt the salamander. Once more a god.

No more wigs. No more Junkman.

Junkman. Reinhardt had long known the first thing he'd do with a working battery. He'd return to East Ham and show those brats at the council estate just who the Junkman really was. He'd once told them that they'd burn. Today, finally, he'd make good on that promise to himself. Perhaps eventually he'd find Gretel and her lickspittle brother. But the children came first.

He had to remove the rucksack to drive. He laid it on the passenger seat. He'd gone halfway to East Ham when behind him the heart of London erupted into a cacophony of distant alarms and sirens. If he hadn't known better, he might have sworn the rhythmic booming came from antiaircraft guns.

But unless the Soviets had finally decided to occupy this dirty, dinky little island, or bomb it into submission, that seemed unlikely. Some tragedy going on downtown, he decided. Perhaps more gas main explosions.

He worried that if something serious were happening, the children's parents might have ushered them inside. The council estate cellars doubled as bomb shelters. But his fears were allayed when he pulled into the car park. A dozen of the rotten whelps played in the adjacent vacant lot. Reinhardt recognized most of them.

And they recognized his car straightaway. As he'd hoped they would. He laughed to himself as he climbed out, thinking the children were drawn to the sight of the Junkman like moths to a flame. How very true.

“Lookee this!” said one of the boys. “It's Junkman, come back to visit us!”

“We missed ya, Junkman!”

“Junkman!”

“Rubbish bin man!”

Reinhardt donned the rucksack. Over the years, when he had fantasized about this moment, he often wondered what he'd say. But in the end, he decided to let the fire speak for him.

And so he did.

“Junkman, trash man, rubbish bin man!”

He searched their faces, looking for the ringleader, the boy who had convinced the others to pelt Reinhardt with snowballs in winter and mud in the spring. That boy stood at the center of a semicircle of jeering brats.

“What's in the bag, Junkman? Got us some treats?”

Reinhardt pointed at him with an outstretched arm.

The boy's flesh erupted in white-hot flames. There wasn't much sound to it, just a little
pop
as the violent reaction sucked down liters of air in an instant. An updraft ripped the breath from his crackling lungs, so he didn't even scream. A wave of furnace heat blew the other children aside and blistered the paint on Reinhardt's car. The burning boy staggered just a few steps before his bones crumbled to ash. He collapsed in a blackened heap, stinking of charred pork. It was over in seconds.