The Empire of Time Page 14
Unless that too is part of the game.
You see, nothing is ever straightforward in Time. If we both did the same old things, time and again, it would soon become predictable. And though the aim is to win – to eradicate the enemy – there is also a feeling, and I know I’m not alone in this, that the game is of itself a satisfaction, and a deep one at that.
I like to outguess them, to prove myself not only quicker and tougher, but also smarter than they are. They outnumber us three to one and they are good – Yastryeb has trained them well – but we’re better. We have to be simply to survive.
I let them get some way ahead, then follow, keeping to the shadows. They are going to Taysen’s, of course, to buy up the last of his horses, and I could have waited there for them, but I want to be there when they link up with the others – to see exactly what’s going on.
Freisler is waiting at the Nauener-Tor, just outside the north wall of the town, among the trees. He has the horse I purchased from the captain of dragoons. If the Russians double back, he’ll see that and pursue them, otherwise I’ll catch up with him on the Berlin road.
Their business with Taysen takes but a moment. Nemtsov goes in alone and emerges with a big grin on his face and seven lead reins in his big right hand. Dankevich and the other go across to help him with the horses, but Gruber holds back.
I get a glimpse of his face in the light and see the pain there. But whether it’s a physical thing or something deeper, some malaise of the soul, it’s hard to tell, and I wonder just what made him switch. Is the blood tie really that strong? Or did they work on him with drugs and propagandist talk until he buckled to their will? If so, I didn’t notice any change in him. Yet change there must have been.
Nemtsov helps Gruber into the saddle, then mounts his own horse. In a moment they are gone. I hurry after, trying not to look suspicious. But the big garrison town is quiet now and I reach the gate without incident.
Freisler is waiting for me among the trees outside the town wall, and I climb up into the saddle behind him. He tells me that the Russians have gone straight on, and so we follow at a canter, but we have barely gone two miles when Freisler slows and, half turning to me, puts a finger to his lips.
He’s right. There are voices in the darkness up ahead. We jump down and, tying the horse to a tree, walk quietly, silently, towards them.
The road climbs, then dips towards a village. As we stop on the ridge, we can see, not two hundred metres away, a group of men standing in the centre of the muddy track. Two of them carry lanterns, and by their light I can make out six figures. Bobrov is one of them, and there beside him is Dankevich. The two who are holding the lanterns look vaguely familiar, but it’s too distant, the light too patchy, for me to make them out properly, but that’s not what worries me.
Freisler says it for me. ‘Where’s Gruber?’ he whispers.
‘He’s there somewhere,’ I say quietly, only half convinced. ‘He must be there.’
But I can’t see him. There are raised voices now – a disagreement. They’re different from us in that way, too, these Russians: we know what we have to do and get on with it, but the Russians … the Russians love to argue. As Hecht says, they’ve a dozen generals for every foot soldier.
Nemtsov, particularly, seems very heated. He makes an angry movement of his head, then leans in and pokes one of the newcomers in the chest. There’s a moment’s stunned silence and then the other draws his gun. Nemtsov laughs and turns away, as if it’s of no consequence, but when he turns back there is a gun in his hand too and he fires it point blank. The Russian drops like a sack.
‘What the …?’
Freisler, for once, seems shocked, but my own thoughts are going in another direction. The Russians like to set traps. The bomb in Berlin was one, so why should this not be another, a fall-back, just in case the first one failed? Only what are we meant to believe, and how might it work to their benefit?
There are shouts, threats, another shot. Another Russian falls.
Games within games. But what if it’s true? What if Nemtsov has just shot two of his own men? What’s going on here?
I think back to the first time I pursued them down the road. There was no sign then of a scuffle. No bodies by the roadside. But then, I was a good hour or two behind them, and they would surely hide their dead among the trees.
And how does this help them in the least? If the four go to Berlin, who’s Gruber with? Not with the dead men, that’s for sure.
‘Look!’ Freisler hisses.
It’s Gruber, staggering across, pleading for them to settle things. One hand clutches his chest, and even as we watch he falls to his knees and keels over.
It has its effect. The Russians stop arguing at once. Nemtsov looks about him, then gestures to the two dead men. He says something I can’t catch and there are nods all round. Then, with a strange unanimity of purpose, they disappear, one after another, vanishing like soap bubbles into the air, the two corpses following a moment after.
There’s a moment’s strangeness. Vision swims. The air itself shimmers. And then it’s gone.
Silence. The call of an owl. Freisler touches my arm. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s take Gruber now.’
But he has barely uttered the words, when we glimpse lights among the trees up ahead and hear their laughter, coming down the road ahead of us.
A game. It’s all a bloody game to them.
44
They split up outside Berlin, in Spandau, two of them heading south with Gruber, the others travelling on, to Colln and Fischerstrasse.
Freisler leaves me there and goes to report back, while I trail the southbound party. They’re heading across country now and I have to stay closer than I like simply to keep in touch, but after a while they change direction,. Heading east towards Furstenwalde and Frankfurt.
Their actions surprise me. Gruber is clearly in a bad way and, unless they can operate on him soon, he’s liable to die. When I catch a glimpse of him, it’s like looking at a ghost, he’s so pale. And his eyes …
I can’t get over how he looks. Not like a zealot at all, but like a condemned man, haunted by his betrayal. And that altercation earlier – what was that about? Was Nemtsov merely making a point, knowing that all he had to do was jump back and change events? If so, it was not how we Germans would behave.
And what were they arguing about? Whatever it was, it’s settled, and Gruber – looking half-dead himself – now rides with two men I saw shot dead before my eyes not six hours past. Then again, I shot Nemtsov myself, only an hour before that.
These dead who can’t stay dead, they worry me.
It’s midday when they finally stop. We are still in dense woodland. I dismount and tie my horse to a tree, then go to investigate.
The two Russians – the ones Nemtsov shot – are very much alike. One is the man I first glimpsed coming out of Gruber’s apartment, the other could be his twin, but for the duelling scar on his left cheek. They talk quietly, ignoring Gruber.
As for Gruber, he seems in a kind of trance. They have given him a plate of food – meat, bread and cheese – but it rests beside him on the ground, untouched. I could shoot him right now, but I hesitate. There’s something in his face. And besides, I want to know what the Russians are planning. So long as they’re not operating on him, I can afford to wait.
For a while I listen to them, picking up the odd word, the odd phrase. It all seems harmless enough. Chit-chat mainly. I speak Russian fluently – like a native – but theirs is heavily accented, and it gives me a clue as to where they’re from. There’s Mechanist jargon thrown in here and there – odd words that jar – and that’s where Nemtsov was operating. So maybe these two are Nemtsov’s men, and maybe he was making a point as to who was boss.
Maybe …
I jump, then jump straight back. A moment later, Freisler appears beside me, homing in on my grid-reference.
He nods towards the Russians and mouths a word.
Now?
I shake my head and he puts away the gun. We could take them. It would be fairly easy, in fact, only I know what would happen. Kill them and the place would be swarming with Russians.
No – tell it right. The place would be swarming with Russians right now, merely because we intended to kill them. We would never stand a chance. They would hit us before we even knew they were there. But as it is …
I gesture towards my left and begin to make my way back, making no sound, knowing that Freisler is behind me. Back at the horse, I unfasten the saddle-pack, take a couple of packs of food and hand one to Freisler.
‘Any news?’ I ask.
‘They’ve got Locke.’
‘Is that all?’
‘It’s a start.’
Then there are still four loose, Gruber included.
I meet Freisler’s eyes. ‘Did you see Gruber?’
Freisler nods. ‘He doesn’t look a willing man.’
That’s true, but I hadn’t thought of it that way. Putting my food aside, I tell Freisler to stay where he is, then go back.
Gruber is exactly where I left him, only he’s looking down now, staring at his feet. There’s misery in his face. Not anger or a desire for vengeance, just misery. I see, and know, without a shadow of a doubt, that he is being coerced.
I go back, keeping my thoughts to myself. If I say what I’m thinking, then Freisler will want to discuss it. He always does. He’s like Hecht in that; he thinks you can pick at a problem. But I trust to my back-brain. I like to let a problem stew inside my head until an answer comes.
The Russians move off after a while, and we follow, keeping some way behind them, listening to their voices drift back to us through the trees. And all the while I’m thinking about Gruber. If this isn’t voluntary on his part, then precisely why is he doing it? What possible hold could they have over him? Like all our agents, Gruber’s single, and as far as I know there’s no one in this age. But then, that’s precisely what I thought about Hans Luwer.
In fact, I’m so immersed in my thoughts that when Freisler pulls up the horse and turns to me, I’m at a loss as to why.
‘What?’
And then I hear it. Silence. Not a whisper of a voice. The ancient wood seems to sleep around us.’
We jump down, and while Freisler ties up the horse, I draw my gun and crouch, searching the surrounding woodland with my eyes. It’s possible they’ve doubled back; that they’re watching us even now. The hairs on the back of my neck stiffen as I peer out into that maze of branch and leaf, craning to see some shape, some sudden movement among the trees. For a moment the sense of threat is overpowering, yet as the seconds pass and Freisler joins me, I start to think.
What would you do, Otto? How would you handle the situation?
Whatever they plan to do with Gruber, they need to make him theirs – to put their focus in his chest. To do that they need time, true – and that’s what we’ve been obsessed with so far – but what else do they need?
Simple. A place to do it in, and the right equipment.
All along I’ve been assuming that they’d take shortcuts; that they’d get him to some hideaway in one of the towns and do the operation there. But why? They have had years to prepare for this.
No wonder they’re playing with us. No wonder they’re so relaxed about it all.
‘Come on,’ I say to Freisler and stand. ‘It’s here somewhere.’
He stares at me. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Don’t you understand? They’re not going to a town. They’re going to do it here.’
‘But this is a forest!’
True. And what better place to hide something away? Even so, we search for the best part of an hour before we find it.
‘Urd protect us!’ Freisler murmurs as I come and stand beside him, looking across the clearing at it.
The place is well camouflaged. Were you not looking for it, you might take it for a rocky outcrop. Young trees have sprouted all about it, disguising its shape, but there’s no doubting what it is. A bunker. The Russians have built themselves a bunker here – and for a single purpose.
‘They’re in there.’
Freisler looks to me and nods. ‘You want to fight them?’
I smile, then shake my head, for once admiring Freisler’s no-nonsense spirit, but he’s not thinking straight. If I were them, I’d make sure the place was well defended, particularly when they needed it most – that is, while they were operating on Gruber. We haven’t seen any yet, but I’m pretty certain there will be cameras and guns, computer-operated and primed to shoot at whatever came close. Yes, and I’d mine the surrounding area, just for good measure. Because while I was operating on Gruber, I’d not want to have one eye trained on intruders. It’s a complex job, and they’ll not want to botch it.
There’s no point in trying to get in there. The place will be defended like a fortress. But that doesn’t matter. I already know what to do.
‘Come,’ I say to Freisler. ‘Let’s get back.’
45
As Klaus and Gunner operate the digger, I set the charge and check the timer. We’ve come back thirty years, to May 1729 and, as I thought, there’s no sign yet of the bunker. If I were them, I’d not want to leave it there too long, either, lest someone stumble on it accidentally.
It won’t take long to make the bore-hole. The earth here is soft and at this time of year it yields easily to the excavator. We go down forty feet, just to make sure, then plant the charge and seal the hole. When the Russians come they’ll not suspect a thing. They’ll build their foundations directly over it.
Finished, we jump back to Four-Oh. Then, alone, I jump back to the clearing, this time to July 1750.
It’s there, just as I guessed it’d be from the age of the young trees I’d seen growing on its slopes. Those trees are mere saplings now, dotting the bare earth that covers the bunker. I move cautiously, yet I know I won’t be seen. Why? Because if I was then I’d not be able to do this at all. If they’d seen, they’d know, and they’d come looking for me. And so, unwatched, I make my way inside and see what they’ve prepared for Gruber.
Inside, there’s a simple lab facility with an operating theatre and living quarters for six agents. To set this up, they’d have had to bring things through bit by bit over a number of years, and it’s clear they’re far from finished. There are no defences yet and the cupboards in the operating theatre are bare. But someone has been staying here. There’s food in the cold-store and a change of clothes in one of the drawers.
Satisfied, I jump out of there and then instantly jump back, to two fifteen on the afternoon of 28 July 1759.
The clearing is exactly the same as I remember it. It is barely ten minutes since Freisler and I jumped out of here, though in subjective terms I have been gone the best part of four hours. I count to ten and Freisler appears beside me, shimmering out of the air like a ghost.
There’s a rustling in the branches to our left and I turn abruptly, tugging my gun from my pocket, but it’s a deer, a young buck. He stands there, staring across at Freisler and I from twenty paces away, his head held proudly upright, his antlers displayed. In that instant I meet his dark amber eyes and smile, even as the whole of the clearing in front of us begins to lift into the air with a tremendous roar, as if some sleeping giant has woken in the earth.
The startled deer turns and bounds away, even as the sky begins to rain earth and splintered wood. And as it does, so Freisler and I jump back.
46
Back at Four-Oh, the celebrations have begun in earnest. Finding that first bunker was the breakthrough. After that it was just a question of finding the others, then going back and blowing each of them.
Hecht is delighted with me. It was such a simple, elegant solution, and the best part of it is that the Russians probably don’t know just how we hit them. What’s more, they never will, for immediately it was done, we sent back agents to make small changes to each of the five time-lines, well back from t
he period we were dealing with.
I know what you’re thinking. What difference does that make? Only that, by making those small yet subtle changes, each of the time-lines containing one of the bunkers was shunted off into an alternate branch of history. Side-lined, if you like. And now, if the Russians go back, they can’t access those histories, not without discovering how we made those changes and when. And if they can’t access them, they can’t get at their agents, and their agents will remain dead, along with the traitors.
History is like that. Beside the great trunk of the Tree of Time lie countless other ghostly branches – the remnants of endless experiments to change and shape it. Sometimes one of those experiments works, and the ghost becomes reality – a switch is made. The sap flows elsewhere. But that doesn’t happen often. You can even travel to those other worlds and see the effects of your what-ifs, but you need to be careful always to come back to the point at which you entered that otherness. Step even a foot to the side and you can be lost.
For ever.
While I’m celebrating, Urte comes up to me and, gently stroking the back of my hand, asks me if I’ve remembered our appointment. Although it was only this morning, her time, for me it’s been a long time since I spoke to her – almost three days subjective – and I’m tired. Even so, I know my duty.
‘Half an hour,’ I say, and she slips away, grinning, as if I’d promised her the world. But now my mood is darker, and I wonder just how much use to her I’ll be.
I stay another fifteen minutes, then get a detoxifier from Zarah. She asks me what I’m doing later, and I tell her I’ve an appointment with Urte, and she nods, as if it’s okay, but I know Zarah is sweet on me, and I’m sad I can’t reciprocate. Oh, I’ll sleep with her when it’s my turn to see her, but for her that’s not the same, and I think I understand just what she’s feeling.