A month later, Robert and his wife, Sarah, moved to London. The city had one of the largest concentrations of universities in the world, and he was offered several positions—all arranged by Citium members. He took a job at King’s College, and published a paper from time to time—but his real work was done in secret. The protocols were largely copied from the Manhattan Project: independent teams working on components of a larger device. What that larger device was, he didn’t know, only that it would save humanity from itself, from the deadly device he’d helped to create during the war. Working on the Looking Glass was the solution to the depression he’d experienced after the atomic bombs had been dropped. He believed he was creating the antidote to the poison he’d injected into the world.

That gave him hope.

His wife also found solace in her work: volunteering at one of the city’s many orphanages. For years, she and Robert had tried to have a child, but without success. It was hard on her; being a mother was something she wanted more than anything.

One Saturday, she asked him to come with her to the orphanage. The facility was a converted hotel, and though it was a bit run-down, it was clean. He visited with several of the children, read stories, and gave out small toys and books his wife had brought with them that day. She asked him to join her again the following Saturday, and the next. Soon it became their ritual. He knew she was working up to something, and he knew what it was. And he knew what he would say.

She asked him on a Sunday afternoon, without preamble, as if she were confirming a decision they had already made. “I think we should adopt him.”

“Yes, certainly,” he replied, not even glancing up from the paper.

I was the boy they adopted, and to understand what that meant to me, you have to know what happened during the war.

Chapter 78

Chapter 78

On the day Germany invaded Poland, they evacuated the children from London. There had been rumors of mass evacuations for months.

That night my parents fought about it. I didn’t understand it at the time. Later, I learned the truth: my father had insisted my mother leave London too. She was an assistant professor at the University of London’s School of Oriental and African Studies, and spoke and taught courses in three foreign languages: Japanese, Arabic, and German. My mother’s school was set to move to Christ Church in Cambridge—all of London’s colleges and universities were being evacuated—but she wanted to stay and assist in the war effort. And she wasn’t taking no for an answer.

My father was no pushover. He was a captain in the British Third Infantry, currently under the command of Bernard Montgomery. But he folded that night.