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Authors: Susan Elia MacNeal
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particular … unpleasantness … about them. Part of that is because they’re really not that easy to control in a tactical way—their sole purpose is to kill and incapacitate people downwind. That makes them much more indiscriminate. It’s the equivalent of the weaker party in a fight resorting to throwing a fistful of sand in the stronger party’s face.”
“I meant it when I said we would fight on the beaches, and that includes throwing sand—or anything else my wizards at Porton Down conjure—in the faces of Nazzi invaders.”
John didn’t flinch. “Nevertheless, sir, to use chemical and biological weapons is to cross a dangerous threshold, especially when used with civilians. The Americans would be horrified to learn of our research.”
“The Americans don’t need to know everything we’re thinking,” the P.M. rumbled, “especially when they’re sitting pretty and don’t seem to be bothered much by Britons killed by Nazzi bombs.”
Dill interjected, “Our experiments with N include putting them into cakes of grain, which would be dropped for livestock to eat.”
“So starvation’s better than gas or poison?” John asked.
“Mr. Sterling, you are certainly correct—the dead are dead inany case, and it’s unclear that having someone choke to death while convulsing is somehow worse than burning them to death with jellied gasoline, or causing a firestorm, or blowing them up, or shooting them in the head, or even instituting a blockade that denies them access to food and medicine.”
The P.M. puffed on his cigar; he looked tired, his eyes were ringed with red. “War is a terrible, terrible thing. Robert E. Lee allegedly said that it is well that war is so terrible, or we should grow too fond of it. And now we have witchcraft and magic added to the mix.
‘Double, double, toil and trouble,’
” he quoted, “
‘Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.’
Find out what progress there is on our hell-broth boiling and broiling in Porton Down, Mr. Sterling!”
John rose. “Yes, sir.” He left the room.
Only Dill and Ismay remained with Churchill. “And these developments are
not
something we will share with the Americans,” Churchill decided, rising and pacing, jabbing at the air with his cigar. Blue smoke wove tendrils around his head like the tentacles of a man-of-war.
“Understood, sir,” Dill said.
“Yes, sir,” chimed in Ismay.
Abruptly, Churchill changed the subject. “Odds of Russia falling?”
“I should be inclined to put it even at this point, sir, with Old Man Winter giving Mother Russia the edge,” Dill replied.
“The Balkans are a sticking point—but if Hitler invaded hell, I would make at least a favorable reference to the Devil in the House of Commons. If we’re still standing alone by the end of ’41 …”
Churchill bellowed, “Fetch me the women!” referring to his typists. “I’m going to dictate another letter to President Roosevelt,” the Prime Minister stated. “Let’s meet up again later—at one, back here, to discuss these matters further, once Greene andSterling have procured more information.” He left the room, muttering,
Swelter’d venom sleeping got
,
Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot!
For a charm of powerful trouble
,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble
.
Chapter Five
By Clara’s calculations, it was 3 A.M. on November twenty-sixth—three months to the day since she’d been taken into British custody. None of her many overtures at brokering a peace treaty had been taken seriously. Her daughter wouldn’t meet with her. She’d continued to refuse to offer British Intelligence anything without her daughter’s intervention. And so, like the German spy Josef Jakobs before her, she was to be executed. The date of her death had been set: Sunday, December 7, 1941.
Clara stood at one of the barred windows overlooking the Thames and began to sing, her once golden voice now breathy and raspy. What she chose for her debut at the Tower
“I meant it when I said we would fight on the beaches, and that includes throwing sand—or anything else my wizards at Porton Down conjure—in the faces of Nazzi invaders.”
John didn’t flinch. “Nevertheless, sir, to use chemical and biological weapons is to cross a dangerous threshold, especially when used with civilians. The Americans would be horrified to learn of our research.”
“The Americans don’t need to know everything we’re thinking,” the P.M. rumbled, “especially when they’re sitting pretty and don’t seem to be bothered much by Britons killed by Nazzi bombs.”
Dill interjected, “Our experiments with N include putting them into cakes of grain, which would be dropped for livestock to eat.”
“So starvation’s better than gas or poison?” John asked.
“Mr. Sterling, you are certainly correct—the dead are dead inany case, and it’s unclear that having someone choke to death while convulsing is somehow worse than burning them to death with jellied gasoline, or causing a firestorm, or blowing them up, or shooting them in the head, or even instituting a blockade that denies them access to food and medicine.”
The P.M. puffed on his cigar; he looked tired, his eyes were ringed with red. “War is a terrible, terrible thing. Robert E. Lee allegedly said that it is well that war is so terrible, or we should grow too fond of it. And now we have witchcraft and magic added to the mix.
‘Double, double, toil and trouble,’
” he quoted, “
‘Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.’
Find out what progress there is on our hell-broth boiling and broiling in Porton Down, Mr. Sterling!”
John rose. “Yes, sir.” He left the room.
Only Dill and Ismay remained with Churchill. “And these developments are
not
something we will share with the Americans,” Churchill decided, rising and pacing, jabbing at the air with his cigar. Blue smoke wove tendrils around his head like the tentacles of a man-of-war.
“Understood, sir,” Dill said.
“Yes, sir,” chimed in Ismay.
Abruptly, Churchill changed the subject. “Odds of Russia falling?”
“I should be inclined to put it even at this point, sir, with Old Man Winter giving Mother Russia the edge,” Dill replied.
“The Balkans are a sticking point—but if Hitler invaded hell, I would make at least a favorable reference to the Devil in the House of Commons. If we’re still standing alone by the end of ’41 …”
Churchill bellowed, “Fetch me the women!” referring to his typists. “I’m going to dictate another letter to President Roosevelt,” the Prime Minister stated. “Let’s meet up again later—at one, back here, to discuss these matters further, once Greene andSterling have procured more information.” He left the room, muttering,
Swelter’d venom sleeping got
,
Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot!
For a charm of powerful trouble
,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble
.
Chapter Five
By Clara’s calculations, it was 3 A.M. on November twenty-sixth—three months to the day since she’d been taken into British custody. None of her many overtures at brokering a peace treaty had been taken seriously. Her daughter wouldn’t meet with her. She’d continued to refuse to offer British Intelligence anything without her daughter’s intervention. And so, like the German spy Josef Jakobs before her, she was to be executed. The date of her death had been set: Sunday, December 7, 1941.
Clara stood at one of the barred windows overlooking the Thames and began to sing, her once golden voice now breathy and raspy. What she chose for her debut at the Tower
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