‘He said that?’
‘Clear as day. Says he’s waiting for instructions. From you, no doubt!’
‘It’s true.’
Her face clouds again. When she speaks next, the fire has gone out of her. ‘Then I was right to say no.’
I walk over to the window and pull back the rough hemp curtain an inch or two, looking down at the street outside. It’s filled with Cossacks and their women, making the most of these last few nights of peace. Behind me, I hear her sigh. I turn back, to find her watching me.
‘Are you sure you don’t want me?’ she asks, arching her body slightly, seductively.
I walk across. ‘My wife, Katerina, she is young and beautiful. She makes love like an angel.’
‘An angel, eh?’ And it’s said wistfully. ‘Such a shame. You’re a handsome man.’
‘Otto,’ I say. ‘My name is Otto.’
She reaches out and lays her hand flat against my groin. I do nothing, and after a moment she removes it – the same hand that held her lover’s hand so gently but an hour past.
A whore, yet not a bad woman.
‘The other, the bad one, what is it he asks you to do?’
‘Don’t ask,’ she says, as if I should imagine the very worst. ‘Just don’t ask.’
240
A simple triangle, then, after all. The woman a whore, one of the men a sadist, the other a tender lover. All in all, a tragedy waiting to happen.
Simple, yes, only it doesn’t feel right.
I track down Rieber’s partner, a man named Edmund Koeler. I have met Koeler several times before now, but never really made a connection. Now I pull rank, ordering him to tell me everything.
We are in his room, talking as he gets ready for the evening ahead. A single candle burns in a stand on the corner table. In its flickering light I watch him button up his shirt.
‘I should have reported him,’ Koeler says angrily. ‘He knows the rules.’
‘Maybe. But couldn’t you just use another woman?’
He turns on me. ‘Why should I? She’s the best in Baturin. The best in the whole of southern Russia, if you must know. The things she does.’
I sigh. ‘Okay. Listen to me. I’m ordering you to back off.’
‘Ordering me?’
‘I have Hecht’s warrant to do whatever’s needed. He sent me in to sort this mess out.’ I pause, then say, ‘You want to know how it ends?’
‘Tell me.’
‘You kill each other.’
‘We …’ He falls silent, shocked by that. ‘Shit! How do we …?’
‘A duel. You both are hit, and die.’
‘Urd protect us!’ He looks down a moment, then. ‘You’ve seen this?’
‘Freisler did.’
He lets out a long breath. ‘And Lothar, does he know?’
‘No. And I’d rather he didn’t.’
Koeler fastens the last button then turns to me. ‘Okay. I’ll back off. But have a word. He’s getting too involved with the woman. And what is she? A common tart, who’ll do a trick with anyone for the right fee. What kind of woman is that to fall in love with?’
I can see, both from his words and from his face, that he has lost all respect for his partner, and that too is dangerous.
‘What exactly are you doing here?’ I ask.
‘We’re pursuing someone. Lothar thinks he’s one of their agents, but it’s odd.’
‘Odd?’
‘I can’t make out what he’s up to, or why. The Russians … usually you can tell what they’re up to. But this one …’
‘You’re sure he’s one of theirs?’
‘We’ve seen him vanish, then reappear. And he’s not one of ours, so …’
‘Where is he now?’
Koeler smiles. ‘I’ll take you there. It’s where I’m heading myself. But be careful. These Cossacks can be touchy people. One wrong word …’
I’m not sure what he means, but I throw on my coat and go along with him, heading out into the night once more.
241
There’s a big open space – used as a marketplace during the day – between the river and Baturin’s main gate, and it’s there that they’ve gathered in their thousands, this fierce, bold tribe – if you can call this hotch-potch of unconnected peoples that – the men ruggedly handsome in their shaggy fur hats, their long, heavy-lined cloaks, their soft leather boots and cross-belt bandoliers, the women dark and defiant, in colourful long dresses and fur-lined cloaks. Huge braziers are burning brightly, throwing up sparks into the night. To one side are the tents of blacksmiths and armourers, and next to them a dozen and more merchants, selling their wares from carts. Vodka, of course, is in plentiful supply. Above all, there is the sound of balalaikas and from time to time a glimpse of shirt-sleeved men dancing the gopak, kicking out their legs to the whirling rhythm of the music. Everyone, it seems, is happy. You would not think this was a town under threat.
Koeler seems to know where he’s going and I follow him through the press of bodies until we come to the river. The boats of the Zaporozhian Cossacks are tied up here, and they’ve formed a small town of their own on the bank, their tents crowded together along the shore. But they’re not what we’ve come to see.
‘Look!’ Koeler says, gesturing towards the far corner of the square, where, visible now through the crowd, is a raised platform, upon which stands a massive fellow, a good seven feet tall if he’s an inch, his bared chest and arms rippling with muscles. On a pole at each corner of the platform is a blazing torch, the warm light glistening off the big man’s shaven skull. He’s barefoot, wearing only baggy Cossack trousers, but his face has the fierceness of a wild bird.
‘Is that him?’ I ask Koeler quietly.
‘Urd no. But our friend likes to come and watch him. Wait a while. He’ll be here. You never know, you might recognise him.’
And so I wait, watching as the big man takes on all-comers, one after another, some of them fighting to amuse their friends, others to try to win the purse, others simply from pride or an excess of vodka. But all of them suffer the same fate: lifted by the seat of their pants and thrown down into the dust beside the platform to the roared approval of the crowd.
I’ve almost forgotten why we’re there, when Koeler nudges me. ‘There,’ he whispers. ‘To your left, just behind the fat one in the red cloak.’
I look.
‘Well?’ Koeler asks. ‘Anyone you know?’
‘No.’
But that isn’t entirely true. I have seen our friend before, only I don’t know where or when. All I know is that – in profile, anyway – he looks familiar. Very familiar.
‘Shame,’ Koeler says quietly. ‘Still, there are other ways to find out who he is.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean to follow him this time. Find out where he goes, who he sees. I thought you might help me, seeing as you want to sort this out.’
But our friend doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. For the next hour and more he watches the platform, amused, even shouting out at times, as the big man continues to defeat every challenger.
I’m growing a little tired of the sport, when suddenly our friend makes off, as if at some signal, and, nudging me again, Koeler takes off after him, keeping back a little way. I follow, moving out left, but keeping the fellow in sight.
We move away, out of the crowd, into a long, dark alley that runs parallel to the river. I’ve almost caught Koeler up when, looking past him, I realise that our quarry has vanished.
Koeler has stopped, waiting for me. ‘There,’ he says in a whisper. ‘That building to the right. That’s where he went. You climb up, I’ll go round the back.’
It’s a small, two-storey building with a surrounding wall. The shutters are closed, but there’s a chink of light from one of the rooms at the top
‘Well?’ Koeler asks.
I could argue, but I don’t. The adrenalin is pumping and I want to find out what our friend is up to as much as Koele
r does. If he is a Russian and he is meddling …
And then I see him vividly in my mind, running towards me, dagger drawn, meaning to stab me.
Only that was a dream, because there never was a Lishka, and even if there was, Katerina and Lishka and I were never attacked.
So why do you remember it so clearly if it never happened? And why is he – the assailant from the dream – here now?
As Koeler slips away round the back of the building, I climb up on to the top of the surrounding wall, then haul myself up on to the flat roof, dropping down on to the terrace. Voices drift up from the room below. And I almost let it wash over me, only I realise suddenly that they’re speaking German – Mechanist German.
I kneel, then put my ear to the ground, listening.
Two voices, one of them – again – familiar, only I can’t place it. And then a third, much deeper, with no trace of Mechanist jargon in it, speaking a stilted, awkward form of German, as if it isn’t their natural tongue. What they’re saying makes little sense: something about a meeting, but so unspecific as to be useless as information.
I straighten up and look about me. There’s a raised hatch on the far side of the roof, leading down, I hope, into the room behind where our friends are. Quickly, quietly I make my way across, then lean out over the back of the roof. Koeler’s down there, by the back door. He looks up at me and gives the coded signal to go in, which I return, only I’m hoping he’s got something better than the knife I’m carrying. But I’m going in anyway, even if I have to jump straight out, because I want to know now who’s down there and what they’re up to, because none of this feels right.
This isn’t the way the Russians usually operate. And besides … why are they speaking German?
Is this something Hecht’s not told me about …
As I pull the hatch open and slip into the darkness, I feel the faintest glimmer of anger at Hecht for not confiding in me more. For not trusting me. I thought I was his Eizelkind. That it was I who was being groomed to replace him. Only now I’m being shut out. Denied information. Made to go in blind, as now.
I cross the room in darkness, the door. just ahead of me, faintly rimmed with light. I stand before it, listening, but there’s only silence, and when I throw the door wide open, I find an empty room.
I step inside. There’s the stub of a cigar still smouldering in a shell-like metallic ashtray on the low table to my left. There are three chairs, and on the other side of the room, a sturdy wooden bureau on which a book lies open.
I am about to step across and see what it is, when the air between me and the bureau shimmers faintly and a figure materialises.
The figure has its back to me so that I cannot see its face, but I know who it is without needing him to turn. It’s Reichenau. That awful, double-skull of his gives it away. Shocked by his sudden appearance, I hesitate a moment too long, and he is gone again, the faintest scent of ozone in the air.
I walk across and look down at the bureau. The book is gone. I’ll never know now what it was or what significance it had. That is, unless I jump back into the room when all of them are there.
The idea tempts me, but just then Koeler comes into the room, his gun drawn.
‘Gone?’ he asks.
‘Gone. Three of them. German-speakers.’ But I don’t say anything about Reichenau. That nugget I’m keeping for Hecht. Because this is my proof, if I needed it, that Reichenau’s involved somehow.
Yes, but why here, in Baturin? What could he possibly want in a dump like this?
It needs an answer, but not just yet. Instead I make another decision.
‘We’re pulling out,’ I say. ‘You, me and Rieber.’
‘What, now?’ And he looks horrified at the suggestion, like I’m being totally unreasonable.
‘Just as soon as we find Rieber.’
He stares at me, then, thrusting his gun into his belt, turns away. ‘Shit!’
I could, of course, jump out there and then, and get Zarah to activate the platform and bring the two of them back automatically, only I don’t know what Rieber is doing right now, and if he’s in company, then I don’t want him just disappearing. That would get back to Reichenau.
‘Where would he be right now?’ I ask.
‘With his whore, I should think.’
‘Where else?’
Koeler glances back at me, still angry. ‘How should I know? I’m not his keeper!’
Only he is. For that’s how we operate in Time. And that, for me, is as good a reason as any to get these two out of here at once. Things have gone badly with this operation, which is, after all, only designed to keep history on track. These two are minders, not makers of new historic pathways, but they’ve fucked up, and it’s all to do with their inability to get on.
Maybe Reichenau found that out. Maybe that’s why he’s here, where we’re weak. Only how did he do that? How exactly is he monitoring our operations, if that is what he’s doing?
Or am I just being paranoid? Am I attributing the man with knowing too much?
One thing I do know. His presence just now in the room has thrown me badly. Has made me question everything about our operations.
I even think I know what the book was, though I can’t be sure – only that it looked the same size and colour and …
And there were pictures on each page. Large pictures that might have been photographs.
Like the book his so-called daughter handed me that time.
I go cold. I look to Koeler and he’s still simmering with anger.
‘Where will he be?’ I ask a second time. ‘Have you any idea?’
‘He has a room,’ Koeler says quietly.
‘What? Separate from you?’
Koeler nods.
‘Urd save us … Take me there, now.’
242
Cossacks. There’s nothing in Baturin in November 1708 but Cossacks. And not even any of the important ones. Mazeppa’s fled to Charles, along with most of his important hetmans.
So what in Urd’s name would Reichenau want in Baturin?
Dead men, maybe. Or men who would be dead, if he didn’t take them. Men who weren’t in the future genetic history of the world? Yes. But why?
What is he up to?
All this is going through my head as, silently, Koeler and I walk back through the dark and dirty streets of Baturin to where Lothar Rieber has his billet.
Koeler knows I’m annoyed with him, and he probably also knows that he’ll be in big trouble with Hecht when he gets back to Four-Oh, but he’s also angry with me, and as we arrive at the inn where Rieber’s staying, Koeler turns on me.
‘It’s Rieber who’s fucked up!’ he says angrily. ‘Rieber who should be sent back! If he’d not been so fucking stupid with the girl …’ He looks down, trying to control himself, then looks back at me, speaking more calmly. ‘Leave me here. Please, Otto. I know so much. I’m so close to finding out what’s going on. Take Rieber, sure, but send me in another partner. Someone more reliable. I’ll do the job. Hecht knows I’ll do it. Only don’t close this down. Not yet. Please.’
‘Okay,’ I say calmly. ‘I’ll think about it.’
Only I won’t. I’ve made my decision. Just as soon as I have the two of them alone, I’m jumping straight out of there and then getting Zarah to pull them back. I can’t trust either of them any more. They’ve lost it. I can see that now. And when agents lose it …
We go inside, through the packed bar and on up a set of stairs at the back of the big room.
Rieber’s not in his room, but I know he’ll return. There’s nowhere else to stay. And so Koeler and I settle down, he on the chair, I on the bed, waiting silently, each with our own thoughts.
And finally he comes.
‘Edmund?’ And then he sees me and his eyes widen. ‘Otto? Otto Behr?’
‘Lothar …’
And I jump. Back to Four-Oh. Back to Hecht, and Zarah, and trouble …
243
Hecht looks up at me fr
om behind his machine. ‘So?’ he asks.
‘He’s there,’ I say. ‘Reichenau. He was in the room in Baturin. I saw him.’
‘Did he see you?’
‘No. I was behind him. He took the book, then jumped.’
‘Book? Which book?’
‘I’m not sure. But it must have been important.’
Hecht looks past me at Freisler. ‘See if you can find out what it was.’
Freisler nods, but he doesn’t leave. He wants to hear what I’ve got to say.
‘They were speaking German,’ I say. ‘Mechanist German. Two of them, anyway. The third …’ But I don’t get to say what the third was speaking. Hecht lifts a hand.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘You’ve done well. You should rest now. Go and see Zarah. I understand she’s arranged something.’
A rest? I almost say something, but Hecht’s giving me that ‘don’t question it’ look, and I feel Freisler’s hand on my shoulder.
‘Come, Otto,’ Freisler says. ‘The Master needs to be left alone now.’
That’s strange, for I’ve hardly begun. But I’ve learned not to question things. Not openly, anyway.
Freisler comes with me, but before we get to the platform – while we’re still out in the connecting corridor – he turns to me. ‘You want to know what’s going on, don’t you?’
I laugh. ‘Of course I do. I’m rushed in to try to sort things out and then … nothing.’
‘That’s not entirely true. We sent you in again.’
‘You sent me in?’
‘You went and met Charles, in his tent, on the night before the battle, just as you were supposed to.’
‘And?’
‘It was a trap. You died. So we changed it. Made sure you didn’t go.’
‘How?’
‘We sent you somewhere else. Or, should I say, are sending you.’
‘Then Hecht knew about Reichenau already?’
‘Not until you told him. But that was last time. This is second time around.’
I see. Only I still feel a little angry at Hecht’s lack of confidence in me. Angry that he’s left it to Freisler to explain, as if I’m no longer in the loop.
The Ocean of Time Page 27
