‘West came by the Office today.’ His father’s smell was overpowering and sweet, but that evening it was still as safe and familiar as his baritone voice.
‘Oh,’ Peter’s mother said.
‘He wants to do some war work. War work! Can you believe him? After everything his Dimensionists have done to get us into that mess in the first place.’
‘What did you say to him?’
‘Well, no matter what I think about the old boy’s politics, he is Herbert Blanco West. I could hardly refuse him.’ Peter’s father leaned back. ‘I said that if he was not too busy with campaigning, we would be happy to have a few morale pieces from him. He was very enthusiastic, kept saying how he wants to do his part. I wanted to tell him, HB, you did your part already by persuading Marconi to give us those ghastly ectotanks, but I bit my tongue. Just tried to play it like it was the good old days.’
‘It is a bit unfair to hold that against him, Charles. You know what I think about the Dimensionists, but it is wartime. We need all the weapons we can get.’
‘Well, that is exactly what they want us to think, isn’t it?’
‘Charles, we are both tired, let us not argue politics, please. How was HB otherwise?’
‘Looked a bit fatigued, but hale as a horse. Would not shut up about his new book. Another history thing. A “joint symphony of the living and the dead,” he called it. A bit grandiose, if you ask me.’
‘Well, if there is anyone who can succeed in something like that, it’s him. Did he say anything else?’
‘He did hint at some new affair, if that is what you want to know. But I think he has to be more careful now that he is planning to run for office.’
Peter’s mother closed her book slowly and put away her pen.
‘In fact, I did not want to know that, Charles. But thank you.’
‘I am sorry. It was unkind of me. It’s just that whenever I see him, I wonder—’
‘Well, you have nothing to wonder about,’ Peter’s mother said gently. She stood up, walked over to the other chair and stroked the man’s cheek.
‘It has been a while,’ she said.
‘Not in front of the boy, Ann.’
‘The poor boy is fast asleep. Perhaps we could—’
The electric lamp in the corner flickered and went out. A thunder-like rumble woke Peter up fully.
‘Who is Mr West?’ he asked.
* * *
‘So, who is this Dzhugashvili chap, then?’ the prime minister asked.
His voice brought Peter back to the present, and he blinked owlishly at his notes.
C rolled his eyes at him. ‘I believe that is your cue, Bloom.’
‘Dzhugashvili, Iosif, also known as Josif Stalin,’ Peter read from his notes. ‘Born in Georgia. Instrumental in obtaining early funds for the Revolution, often via criminal means. One of the contenders to succeed Lenin until the God-Builders drove him into exile.’ Peter recited Dzhugashvili’s biography while pondering the question that had troubled him since the meeting with C.
Why had West requested him, after all these years?
Even though the PM could not see spirits, Peter felt the soul-spark’s attention directed at him. It was like standing next to a bonfire.
‘Over the last decade, Dzhugashvili has been creating a network of agents and counter-revolutionary cells all over Europe, notably in Paris, Prague and Rotterdam. However, Spain is the first region where he has operated this openly. Given extensive NKVD penetration of the Communist parties of the Republic, he is taking a considerable risk. He may be genuinely trying to establish a power base in the Iberian Peninsula. It could well be in our interest to aid him.’
‘I think I met this Dzhugashvili once, in Petrograd,’ the prime minister said wistfully. ‘Back then, he wrote poetry. Not bad, if I recall correctly.’
‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ Sir Stewart said, ‘but poets rarely make the best statesmen. Present company excepted, of course.’
The PM chuckled. ‘I was never much of a poet.’
‘That just proves my point, eh? Our aetheric colleagues have obviously discovered something interesting—with the help of our own BRIAR, of course. But they lack the perspective to understand the bigger picture. They just dance around Communists. We hunt down agitators infiltrating the unions.
‘I say that a Communist is a Communist, and this Dzhugashvili is no different. If he fails, we have the same situation as before—a Soviet puppet state on our doorstep. If he succeeds, it is conceivably even worse: an ideologue strongman setting an example to both our workers and the rest of Europe.
‘No, gentlemen, I propose we stick to the devil we know and support Franco. Maybe your chap can create pandemonium on the Republic side, but there is no need to get our own hands dirty. Besides, that did not work out too well last time, as Mr Hill well knows.’
Hill’s self-image grew pale with rage, but C raised a hand to silence him.
‘Sir Stewart is droll, as always,’ he said. ‘Perhaps he was too busy chasing agitators to read Mr Bloom’s report? Or maybe the subtle implications simply eluded him.’
It did not take an experienced soul-reader to interpret the forest of red crystal spikes that appeared in Sir Stewart’s soul-spark.
‘Look here—’ Sir Stewart started.
‘My apologies,’ C said. ‘I spoke out of turn. But I would do Her Majesty’s government a disservice if I failed to emphasise the seriousness of the matter. Previously, I also agreed to support the Fascists, but now the Soviets have upped the game twofold. First, their agents are rapidly infiltrating the Republic’s government. Second, they are providing the Republic with aetherguns to counter Franco’s ectotanks. That means sending Russian officers to train the Spanish forces. We are one escalation step away from actual war.
‘Prime Minister, sir, let us do this. We have an opportunity to turn the tables on the Soviets. We make Dzhugashvili our man, and he will cut out the NKVD cancer from Spain’s flesh. We can set conditions, install observers, steer things in the right direction. And remember, the Republic will need someone to build an afterlife. Why not Marconi? Once that is in place, Dzhugashvili may find it difficult not to embrace the virtues of ectocapitalism.’
The intelligence chiefs paused and waited for the prime minister’s response. West’s thought-forms were darker now, with hues of green and deep red. The more Peter studied them, the clearer they became. He was certain he could see dark, multi-legged shapes moving through green clouds, and a burning city.
Peter thought of Madrid, of the lie he had told Inez, and the truth that lay behind it.
* * *
That evening in 1916, after Peter asked his question, Mr Bloom frowned.
‘Peter, it is not polite to listen in to grown-up conversations. You should—’
‘Let me take care of this, Charles.’
Peter’s mother took his face between her small, warm hands and looked at him seriously.
‘Mr West is a writer, like Mummy. It means he tells stories. Except that his stories are a lot sillier than Mummy’s. And he is a very silly little man, and we are not going to talk about him anymore.’
The glass in the windows tinkled and sirens started howling in the distance.
‘Oh, bloody hell, not again,’ Peter’s father said. He stood up with a jerk, walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside. A pale green light played on his features as the rumbling and the siren howls continued.
‘A zeppelin,’ he said darkly. ‘The ectoflyers are already up there. I think they are going to bring it down.’