The Coldest War by Ian Tregillis Page A

frowned. “We know who Marsh is.”
    â€œThen you should have no trouble finding him, yes?”
    13 May 1963
Knightsbridge, London, England
    As always, Gwendolyn was up and well into her day, or at the very least finishing breakfast, before Will made it downstairs. Even if there hadn’t been a biblical deluge raging outside, she still would have risen before him.
    â€œGood morning, love.” A peppery scent wafted up from the empty shell of her soft-boiled egg when he kissed the top of her head. The spiciness mingled not unpleasantly with the lavender smell of her shampoo.
    He took his seat beside her at the round inlaid table that served as their dining room. A proper dining room would have had a long table, suitable for entertaining a dozen guests. Will preferred to talk with his wife without resorting to flag semaphore. Their tastes ran more modestly than their peers’. The modest and immodest tables traded places in storage as necessary.
    â€œYou were up rather early yesterday.” He paused, waiting for a crack of thunder to subside. “I saw neither hide nor hair of you the entire day.”
    â€œYou were up rather late yesterday,” said Gwendolyn. She folded the paper she’d been reading and set it aside. Then she handed him the toast rack.
    While he spooned lemon curd on lukewarm toast, Will said, “The ambassador’s little soiree lasted entirely longer than I’d have preferred.”
    She laughed, but ruefully. “I’m the one who found herself cornered by your brother’s dreadful wife all evening.” Another blast of thunder swallowed the tink of her saucer as she set down her teacup. She pointed outside, where squalls of rain gusted past the bay window. “Do you know what we discussed? Window sashes. All evening.”
    Will lifted the teapot. “I have every confidence you were up to the task.”
    She nudged him with her elbow, but softly, not enough to make him spill. “You were rather scarce. Why did Fedotov need to speak with you so urgently?”
    Their cook, Mrs. Toomre—the eldest daughter of one of his grandfather’s servants, one of those who’d raised young Will—came in with a plate of egg, bean, and tomato. She set it before Will; he nodded his appreciation to her.
    â€œI cocked up the schedule for Minister Kalugin’s visit. We had to get it squared away.” Will took a bite of his toast and washed down the sweet curd with a sip of strong tea. It had steeped just long enough: astringent, but not unpleasantly so.
    Gwendolyn frowned. “That was it, then?”
    Her doubt elicited new pangs of guilt. “Yes. Why? Is something wrong?”
    â€œI don’t like you spending time alone with Cherkashin. I find him thoroughly unpleasant.”
    Will laughed. “First poor Viola, now Cherkashin. My dear, if you’re not careful, I’ll begin to think you don’t approve of anybody.” He meant it as a joke, but she was having none of it.
    â€œHe’s KGB, you know.”
    A bead of sweat tickled Will’s widow’s peak. He tucked into his tomato, hoping to hide his anxiety. Soon, he promised himself. I’ll tell you soon, love . Gwendolyn would understand after he explained things carefully. Wouldn’t she?
    â€œCherkashin? I think you’re being a bit oversensitive. Not every cultural attaché is a KGB agent.”
    â€œIt virtually guarantees he’s one of them. Did you see how quickly he scurried across the room when he saw the ambassador talking privately with us? I think he nearly elbowed Lady Spencer in his haste.” She shook her head. “He’s a dreadful fellow. Be careful around him.”
    â€œI give you my word,” said Will. But he couldn’t bring himself to lie so baldly to his love and savior. Not after all she’d done for him. So he said, truthfully, “I shall avoid him as much as humanly possible.”
    The caveat