The Coldest War Page 3

  “I distilled it myself.” Again, the sound of a bottle being pushed across the desk. “One drink. To the workers.”

  A gasp. “I’m not putting that thing to my lips. Don’t you ever brush your teeth? Your breath smells like shit.”

  “Suit yourself, Sacha.”

  “Not getting shot for dereliction of duty, that’s what suits me.”

  “They don’t shoot people here. They give them to the troops. Comrade Lysenko’s special troops. For practice.”

  “I’d rather be shot.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  A minute passed. Then: “One of us has to do the rounds. I suppose that’s me, since you’re hell-bent on getting shit-faced.”

  “No, no, I’ll do the rounds. It’s my service to the great Soviet Union.” A wooden chair squeaked across pitted concrete. “But first I must piss. Patriotism is the only drink that stays in your blood. Vodka comes back out again. Watch the boards while I’m out.”

  The other guard—Sacha—sighed. “I’ll watch.”

  Kostya’s unsteady footsteps sounded louder and louder until he appeared around the corner. Klaus held his breath because he and Gretel were sitting in shadow but still easily visible to anybody who looked in their direction. His sloe-eyed sister watched the guard with something akin to dark amusement playing across her face. The guard shuffled past them without a glance.

  From the direction of the bathroom, Klaus heard banging, flushing, belching, and running water.

  Kostya shuffled past them again a few minutes later, jar in hand. He waved it triumphantly overhead. “Good news, Sacha!” he announced, disappearing around the corner. “I found this in the bathroom. Now you can have a drink with me.”

  Klaus turned to stare at his sister. She winked.

  From the guard station, Sascha’s voice said, “You found a jar in the bathroom? It’s probably a sample jar. I’ll bet somebody pissed in it.”

  “Nonsense. Look. Clean.”

  “Did you piss in it?”

  “One drink. On Workers’ Day.”

  Glass clinked against glass as somebody, probably Kostya, poured into the jar.

  “Not so much. I don’t want to go blind.”

  All Klaus could think of was formaldehyde and poor Heike’s brain; the thought of imbibing from that jar nauseated him.

  “To the Great Soviet.” More clinking of glass.

  Several moments passed in silence. And then Sacha said, “This isn’t half bad.”

  After that there was more pouring, more toasts, and more clinking. Time passed. Gretel nudged Klaus with her elbow at one point, jerking him back to alertness. “You were going to snore,” she whispered.

  Klaus asked, “Do we rush them? They’re both drunk.”

  Gretel rolled her eyes, but didn’t say anything.

  Not long after that, Sacha said (sounding more relaxed than he had before), “You smell like a wet dog, but you make a fine drink.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is this really your own?”

  “Yes.” Kostya sounded blurry, subdued.

  “How?”

  Klaus understood the question. This was the most sensitive facility in the entire Soviet Union: an empire that stretched from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Even the guards were subject to scrutiny here. Klaus imagined the guards’ quarters were searched almost as frequently as his own. So how did Kostya manage to distill his own vodka?

  “I do it where they never look.”

  “They look everywhere.”

  “No.” Kostya paused, possibly for another sip. He smacked his lips. “They never search the fail-safe chamber. Nobody likes to go down there…”

  Klaus filled in the rest:… because it’s full of high explosives.

  The Götterelektron was the key to the superhuman feats of Doctor von Westarp’s children, and their Soviet successors. But it was also their Achilles’ heel. The circuitry was susceptible to a suitably crafted electromagnetic pulse. The British had designed their pixies after reverse engineering Gretel’s battery, and used them with middling success during an ill-fated raid on the Reichsbehörde. Later, when the tide of war turned against the Reich, the Communists had unveiled a more potent version of the same technology.

  The Arzamas fail-safe devices dwarfed the original pixies, but they worked on the same principle. They used chemical explosives to crush an electromagnet, blanketing the facility with a crippling EMP.

  The bottom line being that nobody in his right mind willingly spent time near the fail-safes. An unannounced drill, a malfunction, even an escape attempt might come at any time. Death would be quick, and it would be certain.

  Nobody searched the fail-safe chambers.

  Sacha said, “Genius. To you.”

  “To me.” Clink.

  “Maintenance … they do that, time to time. What then? Pay them in vodka?”

  “Some I could. Others would take my vodka and still sell me out. Pigs.” Kostya spat. “Come. I’ll show you.”

  Sascha belched before responding. “Into the chamber? Not going down there.”

  “It’s safe. I’ve done it many times.”

  “You’re a drunken madman.” It sounded as though Sacha was making an effort not to slur his words. “I am smarter and more responsible.”

  “Then we’ll disarm the fail-safe before we go down.”

  “Yes. That’s a much better idea.”

  And then, after some discussion of whether they’d take the remainder of the bottle with them, they stumbled off to visit Kostya’s still.

  Gretel stood, stretched. “Well,” she said. “Off we go.”

  Incredible, thought Klaus.

  After half an hour of sneaking, hiding, dodging, and sprinting—each move dictated by the time line in Gretel’s head—they stole a car. And, because the fail-safes had been disarmed, there was nothing to stop Klaus from dematerializing the car and everything in it when they reached the perimeter.

  They escaped Arzamas-16 without incident, just two more ghosts in the gulag.

  3 May 1963

  Belgravia, London, England

  Candlelight flickered through crystal wineglasses, glinted on true silverware, shimmered on fine tablecloths. The restaurant hummed with the murmur of genteel conversation punctuated by the occasional clink of fine china or pop of a wine cork.

  Lady Gwendolyn Beauclerk said, “You’re hopeless, William. You won’t stop until you’ve found your way into a pauper’s grave. I’m quite convinced.”

  Lord William Edward Guthrie Beauclerk, younger brother to the Thirteenth Duke of Aelred, squeezed his wife’s hand. She laughed again.

  “Pauper’s grave? Never, my dear. I’ve left very specific instructions to be carried out on the event of my death.”

  “Have you?” Gwendolyn took another sip of the Chilean red. William hadn’t tasted it, but the unanimous consensus at the table was that France’s collectivized wineries would never produce anything approaching the South American wines.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “You haven’t mentioned this to me,” said Will’s brother, Aubrey.

  Gwendolyn cocked her head. Her gown, royal blue silk, matched her eyes. Eyes that shone in the familiar way that meant, I’m listening.

  Will paused to savor a last morsel of breaded veal. “When the time comes, darling, and I have departed from this mortal coil,” said Will, “you and Aubrey shall bring my remains to the Tower Bridge. And there, from the highest parapet, you’ll toss my body in the Thames.”

  Aubrey’s face betrayed a flash of anger. “William!”

  Viola Beauclerk, his horsey-faced wife, tittered behind an upraised hand. She stifled herself when the sommelier returned with another bottle to refill their glasses.

  Will gently laid one hand over his unused glass. The sommelier acknowledged the gesture with a nod, sparing only the briefest glance at the stump of Will’s missing finger. He whisked the glass away, looked doubly abashed: the glass ought to have been removed at
the start of the meal, and he ought not to have noticed the injury. Such things were unimportant to Will, but the sommelier worked at the fringes of a social set where such lapses bordered on inexcusable.

  Aubrey frowned. He waited for the sommelier to pass out of earshot before saying, “Must you talk so common at the table?”

  “I’m merely reporting the facts of the matter, Your Grace.” Will gestured at Gwendolyn. “You wouldn’t ask me to keep secrets from my better half, would you? After all, this affects her as much as it does you. You’ll be the ones carrying my body.” Will patted his stomach, where the beginnings of a paunch were just visible beneath his vest. “You agreed it should be so.”

  “I have most certainly done nothing of the sort,” said Aubrey. A quick, vocal disavowal fueled by the concern that somebody might overhear the conversation and somehow believe it to be the truth. Poor Aubrey, thought Will. Even as a child, you were humorless. I can’t resist winding you up, and you know it.

  Aubrey would never be capable of leaving Will’s dark years entirely in the past. He’d spent too much time worrying about being seen with his younger brother, which at one time would have been social suicide. Will had come close to scuttling Aubrey’s political career on more than one occasion. To this day, a sheen of anxiety—fear of embarrassment, of damaging publicity—settled over Aubrey whenever he and Will were together in public.

  Will shook his head. “Oh, indeed you have. You ought to take more care when signing documents for the foundation.” He winked at Gwendolyn and his sister-in-law. “An unscrupulous fellow could take advantage.”

  The flush of indignation crept up through the folds of fat at Aubrey’s collar to his face. Quietly, he said, “It’s your job to prevent exactly that sort of thing.”

  “Yes, it is. And you should be thankful that I am ever vigilant. Still, some things cannot be helped,” said Will. He turned to Viola. “The arrangements for your husband’s funeral are nothing short of scandalous. Still, it will be his final wish and by honoring it we shall honor him. Though I can’t begin to speculate how we’ll find so many Morris dancers on short notice.”

  Viola tittered again, the guilty laugh of the mildly scandalized.

  Gwendolyn didn’t enjoy baiting Aubrey as much as Will did. She said, “Well, then, at least it won’t be a dour occasion. Let the Communists have their gray little lives.” She shook her head. “Terrible.”

  “That’s a rather unfair stereotype,” said Aubrey, clearly pleased at the chance to change the subject. “They’re just like us, truthfully.”

  Will read the subtle cues that told him Aubrey’s attitude had riled her a bit. He settled back to watch. It was an old argument, but he never tired of it. Gwendolyn had no equal in verbal contretemps.

  “Just like us? Forgive my ignorance, Your Grace, but I was unaware that the Kremlin had instituted a House of Lords,” said Gwendolyn. “Or have you collectivized the estate at Bestwood?”

  Touché, Will thought, and covered his mouth to hide a smile. Step lightly, brother.

  Aubrey sidestepped the barb. “A fair point. I meant simply that the people of the Soviet Union have the same wants and needs as the rest of us. Their leaders may have different ideas about how to provide these things, but in the end we’re all the same people.”

  “We’re free to move about within the UK as we see fit. I quite suspect you’d find it a different matter if you tried to drive from Poland to Portugal. What was it Mr. Churchill once said? About the iron curtain that had been drawn around Europe?”

  “Churchill was a good man for his time,” said Viola, joining the discussion to support her husband. “The man we needed during the war. Nobody denies that bringing us through those years was nothing if not miraculous.” Under the table, Gwendolyn squeezed Will’s hand. Unaware that she had raked an old wound, Viola plunged ahead, parroting things she had heard from her husband: “But that was a different time. He had an outmoded, adversarial view of socialism. It’s fortunate we’re not tied to that yoke any longer.”

  “Well said, dear,” said Aubrey. To Gwendolyn, he said, “I do agree that our cousins across the Channel are not so enlightened as we in certain areas. Which is precisely why I’ve sponsored several measures over the years aimed at fostering greater openness and cultural exchange between our peoples. We stand to benefit as much as they.”

  (“Surely you mean ‘comrades across the Channel,’” said Gwendolyn, sotto voce.)

  “Aubrey has been pushing for such reforms since before the notion of détente was in vogue,” Viola said.

  “Détente? Is that what we’re calling it?” said Gwendolyn. “The African situation strikes me as something of a stalemate. They support a revolution, or a workers’ revolt, and we counter it by supporting the opposition.”

  Viola ignored her. “In fact, he was advocating for change long before the Great Famine of ’42.”

  Aubrey shook his head. “Dreadful, that.”

  Gwendolyn squeezed Will’s hand again. This time her soothing touch lingered, and Aubrey’s disdain for open displays of affection be damned. The Great European Famine was the result of an exceptionally harsh winter. An unnatural winter. Will had been part of the team of warlocks tasked with creating that brutal weather. He’d been cut loose before the effort succeeded (more honestly, it had succeeded because he’d been tossed out), but not before he’d done wicked things for Crown and Country. Magical acts bought with blood.

  Talk of the famine dredged up haunting memories, rekindled a long-smoldering guilt. Raked a wound that was always fresh, always tender. Sometimes, late at night when the memories attacked, Will couldn’t meet his own eyes in the mirror.

  But of course, Viola and even Aubrey were unaware of such things. There were men in Whitehall who would be quite displeased if they knew how completely Will had confided in his future wife during his long recuperation and reintroduction to civilized society. But they could go hang. Each and every one of them.

  “I’d also submit,” said Gwendolyn, “that the Japanese don’t share your views of détente.”

  The Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere scraped against the eastern reaches of the Soviet Union like flint on steel. Border skirmishes flared where the sparks fell.

  Viola shook her head knowingly. “Well, now, you simply can’t reason with those people. They’re not like us, you know. Brutal. Warlike. They lack the civilizing influence of a Christian faith. Twenty years of fighting!” She shuddered. “And what they did in Manchuria…”

  “Speaking of cultural exchanges,” said Aubrey, nudging the conversation in a direction less upsetting to his wife, “I spoke to Ambassador Fedotov today. He’ll be hosting a reception next week.” He raised his eyebrows, looking earnestly at both Will and Gwen. “You’re available, I hope?” His smile was of the type wielded by only the wealthiest men, and only to their peers. “I give you my word the gathering won’t be too terribly dour.”

  “Of course,” said Will. “It would be a pleasure.”

  “Excellent. Fedotov said he looked forward to meeting you again.”

  Gwendolyn turned to Will. “You know the ambassador?”

  Will shrugged. “We’ve crossed paths.” Tipping his head at Aubrey, he said, “Via the foundation. Queer little fellow, the ambassador.”

  “I find him rather charming,” said Viola.

  As servers cleared away their dinner plates, Gwendolyn said to her husband, “You haven’t told me about this.”

  Will shouldered more guilt. Not for deeds of the past, but for secrets kept in the here and now. She deserved better.

  “Meeting the ambassador? It truly wasn’t notable, darling. He had occasion to visit the foundation recently. It was the day of our whist tournament with Lord and Lady Albemarle, in fact. I was leaving, and in something of a state—you’ll remember I was a bit tardy—”

  “Yes. I remember.” Gwendolyn didn’t roll her eyes, instead letting the tone of her voice carry the effect.

  “—and ha
ppened to encounter Aubrey and the ambassador as they came through the foundation. We exchanged niceties, that was that, and then I was out the door and somewhat manic about it.”

  Gwendolyn sat silently, watching Will for several moments. “Hmmm. Fascinating.”

  “Oh, if you haven’t had a chance to enjoy his company,” Viola said, “then you must attend. Do come. You’ll find him delightful, Gwendolyn.”

  Gwendolyn smiled, just thinly enough that Viola wouldn’t notice she was gritting her teeth. “I’m sure I will. I look forward to it.”

  Dessert was crème brûlée served with a raspberry reduction and bitter Rhodesian coffee. Will declined the coffee, ordering instead a strong Indian tea with lemon. Conversation turned to more mundane and less charged topics: race riots in the United States (disgraceful); another disruption in train service to the Midlands (disgraceful); Buckingham Palace’s first color television (decadent).

  The evening ended as they frequently did, with Will and Aubrey discussing foundation business at one end of the table while Gwendolyn and Viola chatted. The North Atlantic Cross-Cultural Foundation was a small, private, nongovernmental organization chartered with fostering improved relations between the United Kingdom and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Aubrey had created the foundation via permanent endowment in 1942, just in time for it to take a leading role in dealing with the flood of refugees streaming across the Channel. The flow of refugees came to an abrupt halt the following spring when the Iron Curtain slammed shut. But the foundation remained, and quickly became the place where, publicly, the British and Soviet empires intersected. Will liked to joke that he was both a lion tamer and a bear keeper. As the head of the foundation, Will worked closely with members of the Soviet diplomatic mission, their British counterparts, various members of Parliament, and occasionally the Foreign Secretary himself.

  On the ride home, the London night cast dark shadows across Gwendolyn’s face, interspersed with pale reflections from streetlamps shining on the white stucco houses of Belgrave Square. The interplay of light and shadow turned her blond hair white; it spun the faint dusting of gray at her temples to silver. She sighed, and tucked an errant lock behind her ear. She noticed Will watching her.