The Coldest War by Ian Tregillis Page B

wasn’t lost on her. Her lips twisted in a moue of disapproval.
    Rain thrummed against the windowpanes. Will took up the paper. “Anything interesting today?” he asked.
    Gwendolyn pulled the jar of lemon curd closer to her plate. Sounding bored, she said, “The president has declared martial law in the American South. Again.” She spooned curd on the last piece of toast. “Von Braun’s cosmonauts have fallen silent; no transmissions since they returned to the Space Wheel. Cheltenham FC beat Hereford United three–one.” Lightning flashed outside, like a strobe. Over the booming reverberation of thunder, she added, “And today’s forecast calls for rain.”
    â€œI’ll be certain to warn Aubrey, then.”
    â€œYes. Do.”
    After breakfast, Will took up his briefcase, kissed his wife on the nose, and instructed his driver to take him to work. Within thirty minutes, he was stepping out of the Bentley and dashing up a flight of stairs to the lobby of a Georgian office building. Will paused in the lobby to remove his bowler hat and shake out the umbrella.
    The North Atlantic Cross-Cultural Foundation occupied the fourth floor. The lift opened on a reception area with burgundy carpeting, walnut panels, brushed aluminum accents, and thoroughly sterile fluorescent lighting. From behind the reception desk his secretary, Angela, a brunette with a beehive hairstyle said, “Good morning, Lord William.”
    She insisted on using his courtesy title. In return, he strove for scandalous informality.
    â€œMorning, Angie.” Will hung his bowler and overcoat on a rack in the corner. “Messages?”
    â€œSeveral. A busy start to the day, sir.” Will’s young secretary flipped through her message pad. “His Grace called, via his assistant, requesting the final schedule for the Minister Kalugin’s visit.” Flip. “A member of Ambassador Fedotov’s staff called. They found a pair of lady’s gloves after the gathering two nights ago; might they belong to your wife?” Flip …
    Will glanced out the window while Angela spoke. He studied the arrangement of curtains on the windows across the street, and blinked. He missed the rest of the messages, contemplating the weather. It was, he supposed, the best time for a covert meeting. But he would have preferred not to go out in that. It was raining stair-rods. Perhaps that was a fitting punishment for flouting Gwendolyn’s warning.
    â€œSir?”
    He shook his head, clearing it. “Apologies. You were saying?”
    â€œShall I phone the embassy regarding the gloves?”
    â€œAh … Yes, please. Thank them for me, but let them know my wife hasn’t misplaced anything. And then type up the new schedule, and have it couriered to my brother’s staff after I sign off, won’t you?”
    â€œIt’s on your desk, awaiting your approval, sir.”
    Will smiled as much as he could muster and inclined his head at her, acknowledging her efficiency. Only twenty-four years old, yet Angela was more collected than Will had been at thirty-four. When Gwendolyn had come along. When she had started to fix him.
    Inwardly, Will flinched. Their breakfast conversation jangled his nerves like a toothache. He’d meant what he said, yet here he was not two hours later planning to violate the spirit of the thing if not the wording.
    But on the other hand, the fact was that he had needed fixing. Because he’d been forced to do terrible things by despicable men. And, like the fairy-tale egg man, it had shattered him. Even now when he thought about the things they’d done, the atrocities they’d committed, he felt trapped and breathless. Sometimes the guilt lay so heavy upon him, it pressed the air from his lungs. And in the short term his decision to take the reins, to exorcise his demons, only made the guilt heavier. Because the only solution—arrived at