This Time of Night

by Jon F. Merz

  I dropped most of my kit after that except for rations, water and ammunition. And this notebook and pen I carry all over with me. I had to get this information down, straightaway. I jotted stuff down after I’d tabbed a kilometer away from the last sighting of that thing.

  The radio’s dead. Another victim of flying shrapnel. I’ve no way of calling in for another pick-up. Not sure’s they’d send one anyway. Perhaps it’s for the best.

  It’s windy tonight. I haven’t seen the creature since it grabbed the Huey. Maybe it’s dead.

  I’ve no idea what it was. Perhaps some giant lizard poisoned by the chemicals the Iraqis are supposedly manufacturing. Perhaps it’s something else altogether. After all, it was a biological weapons plant we were supposed to destroy. Who the hell knows what the Iraqis were working on?

  The Saudi border is eighty kilometers away. It’s a fearsome tab.

  But I don’t think I’ll make it, trained and fit though I am.

  You see, the ground’s just shifted below me...

  Night of Reckoning

  Often the worst monsters are the ones we create ourselves. The supposed solutions sometimes become even bigger problems. This spin on the Jack the Ripper legend was published in the debut issue of “Dark Annie Magazine” in May of 1998.

  London - Winter, 1920

  "It's good of you to come on such short notice."

  The man seated in the chestnut leather wing chair before the blazing fireplace nodded. "You said it was urgent. I came as soon as I could."

  Outside, the wind batted the misshapen branches of the linden trees against the glass panes. The man standing sighed. "I chose you for a reason, you know that, Mr. Harlan?"

  "Chose me? What on earth are you talking of, Blake? I'm merely a reporter for the Times. That's all."

  Blake packed another wad of tobacco into the opal colored pipe and nodded. "Yes, but you keep yourself out of the public eye. You report the news and that's all. I've never even seen you at public functions."

  "They don't interest me. But your story does. You said it concerns the Ripper, isn't that so?"

  Blake lit the pipe and inhaled for a long time before finally relinquishing his hold on the cloud of smoke. It streamed out of his mouth, hung about his head for a short time and then rose lazily to the ceiling.

  "I created him."

  Harlan leaned forward. "What do you mean, 'created him?' I must caution you against trying to con me, Mr. Blake. I'm a relentless pursuer of veracity in my stories. I haven't the time for anything resembling the likes of Mary Shelley and her Frankenstein monster."

  "I don't mean created in the sense of building him from scratch. I mean he was the byproduct of something far more sinister and criminal than the likes of his actions alone. At least at the start."

  Harlan frowned. "Are we speaking of conspiracy here?"

  Blake took another drag on his pipe. "We are indeed."

  "Then go on, man, pray tell me all."

  Blake sighed and watched the rain beat a pattern across the windows in his study before regarding Harlan again. "In the winter of '87 I was in the employ of His Majesty's Secret Intelligence Service."

  "You were a spy."

  "Not quite. I was employed by the SIS more along the lines of a problem solver. And the problem that was occupying our minds in the late eighties was the penetration of our national defense forces and government organs by the NKVD."

  "NKVD?"

  "The Russian Secret Police. Our equivalent, so to speak. The agents of the Czar had worked extremely hard to insert operatives into our ranks in order to keep tabs on our foreign policy and military innovations. At that time of course, we had normal diplomatic relations with Moscow, but under the surface, a storm was brewing. A bad one at that."

  "And confronting Moscow was out of the question?"

  Blake smiled. "Naturally. With our superficial relations at good standing, we didn't want to jeopardize them in any way. But we needed to disrupt the networks of the NKVD. And we needed to get rid of the agents."

  "So, what did you propose?"

  "An assassin," said Blake. He smiled. "Of course, we used a euphemism for it. We called it 'rubbish removal.'"

  "That doesn't negate the truth of the move," said Harlan.

  Blake frowned. "Mr. Harlan, I'm not here to discuss the morality of our decision with you. I've asked you here to record it as matter of course. It needs to be revealed."

  "Forgive me, sir. Please continue."

  "We couldn't use one of our own. It would have been a liability. If it was discovered by the Russians, we could have gone to war. We needed an outsider. Someone who wasn't tied to us in any way. There would be one point of contact with the SIS, his handler, so to speak, and that would be it. The termination orders would come down from the handler to the assassin."

  "Who did you choose?"

  Blake smiled. "Naturally, we couldn't very well run an advertisement seeking someone with the skills we needed. We needed someone competent at killing." He paused. "Or someone who could learn."

  Harlan stopped writing on his pad of paper. "Learn?"

  Blake nodded. "I told you at the start this wouldn't be a pretty discourse of events, Mr. Harlan. Consider our position: we couldn't use someone tested without revealing our intentions. We needed someone who had the potential to become a skilled killer. Someone who could be tutored in the art of dealing death."

  "Good Lord. Those prostitutes-"

  "Yes. We found a willing student in a Russian émigré named Milos Krischkov. He'd been wandering through the lower slums of London for the better part of a year when we located him. It wasn't hard tempting a man in such dire straits that he could do a service to his new country and at the same time make a rather decent salary."

  "Did you tell him at the start that he'd be killing his former countrymen?"

  "No. We needed him involved to the point that he wouldn't be able to back out of our arrangement without endangering his own life. If he tried to renege we would have simply let his name slip to the NKVD. They would have molested him fiercely before finally killing him. And by the time Krischkov knew this, it was far too late."

  "How-how did you start?"

  Blake sat down on the sofa across from Harlan. "We brought Krischkov to an estate outside of London and trained him in the use of knives and pistols. He was told, though, that as much as possible, his killing method was to be silent. Therefore, the use of the knife was emphasized more than firearms."

  "And was he adept?"

  "Frighteningly so," said Blake. "Krischkov took to the knife unlike anyone else the instructor had ever seen. He was ambidextrous, able to use the blade with either hand with astounding results. He could throw it, stab or slash with such dexterity, the instructor recommended he assume his role when he retired."

  "Impressive," said Harlan.

  "Yes. It was. Unfortunately."

  "Why so?"

  Blake looked at Harlan. "I would have thought that was obvious. The killings in Whitechapel."

  "What was the logic behind that?"

  Blake shrugged. "We needed solid proof that Krischkov was capable of killing. That he wouldn't freeze when it came time to drive the knife home. Or go into hysterics at the sight of blood."

  "Well, he certainly proved himself capable."

  "Indeed he did," said Blake. "But the extent of his first handiwork came as a shock to even the most jaded agents at SIS."

  "But you were his handler," said Harlan. "Couldn't you have stopped him?"

  "I arranged a rendezvous with him two days after the first killing. My orders were to get him on his way dealing with the NKVD agents we'd targeted."

  "What happened?"

  "Krischkov sat through the entire meeting with a smile fixed firmly in place. He said little. But his eyes said enough. It occurred to me suddenly the extreme prudence of my choice in meeting locations. I'd chosen a small cafe outside Picadilly. I've often wondered whether I would have survived that meeting had
I been alone with him."

  "You knew he'd become unstable at that point?"

  "Suspected," said Blake. "I guess my experience was telling me I had a rogue on my hands-"

  "'Rogue'?"

  "Sorry, that's the term we use to designate agent who goes astray, so to speak."

  "Well," said Harlan. "Your man Krischkov couldn't have strayed any farther from you had he tried."

  "True," said Blake. "And I made the recommendation we shut down the project immediately. I also advised my superiors that Krischkov had demonstrated a psychological imbalance that could endanger our plans and the safety of any number of civilians in London."

  "Did they listen?"

  Blake shook his head. "Of course not. According to them, anyone who would voluntarily kill must have had a problem to begin with. That was their reasoning of course. They also told me that Krischkov was not to be impeded. That I was to give him his orders as usual."

  "And you did?"

  "I tried. I cannot tell you to what extent I tried to do just that. But by that time, there had been other murders and it became apparent that Krischkov had developed such an insatiable lust for killing, he would no longer respond to my commands or even communicate with me."

  "You told your superiors of course."

  "Naturally. But again, I was told to continue my attempts. Finally, after the fourth killing, the details of which found their way up the ladder, I was ordered to find Krischkov and decommission him."

  Harlan frowned. "Another euphemism?"

  Blake smiled. "Yes. Krischkov was slated for execution."

  "Why not simply tell the NKVD? Let them handle him."

  "We couldn't risk the possibility that Krischkov would talk first especially if he suspected we'd handed him over. The danger was too great. I had to neutralize Krischkov before he became an even greater liability."

  Harlan shook his head and sighed. "Those poor women..."

  "It was never our intention that so many should die-"

  "Oh, spare me your useless sentiment, Blake. You've got to accept responsibility for your actions. You helped create one of the most notorious killers the world has ever known. You lived with that knowledge for almost forty years. Surely, you can't pretend to be so removed from the guilt you feel."

  Blake stared into the fireplace. "No," he said slowly. "No, I suppose I can't."

  "Good God man, it's why you contacted me, isn't it? To try to resolve some of this. It must haunt you endlessly."

  "Not nearly as much as Krischkov has."

  "What?"

  Blake refilled his pipe and lit it. "Once it became apparent that Krischkov had to be killed, I was dispatched to do the job. I looked for him everywhere, but he was nowhere. Krischkov had the ability to blend into crowds. It was one of the reasons we'd approached him in the first place. His looks were very ambiguous. He could appear taller than normal or shorter. We learned through the course of normal events that his father and mother had been actors in Russia. That may have explained his uncanny abilities with the knife. Perhaps he'd grown up in some sort of circus, I can't be sure."

  "You didn't find him," said Harlan.

  Blake shook his head. "No. Not only did Krischkov speak flawless English, but as I said his ability to blend in was extraordinary. He must have sensed he was being hunted though, because he started leaving messages for me."

  "Messages?"

  "Taunting notes in my flower pots outside. Said he knew I was searching for him. Knew I was suppose to kill him. He laughed at me in those notes. He welcomed the challenge, he said. After all, if London's bobbies couldn't catch him, how could one lone member of the SIS ever hope to?"

  Harlan exhaled. "That would have frightened me silly."

  "Don't think I wasn't," said Blake. "I kept a loaded revolver with me at all times. Even by my bedside. But then the murders stopped. Jack the Ripper, Milos Krischkov, disappeared."

  "And you went back to work at SIS?"

  "We accepted the fact that Krischkov must have fallen victim to some untimely death, or had simply vanished from London and gone on to live elsewhere, perhaps continuing his new hobby. The memory of his smiling face that meeting after his first murder never left me, though. Sometimes at night, I wake up in a cold sweat, imagining him leaning over me, ready to go to work with those awful knives of his. It terrifies me."

  "So why now? Why all of a sudden come to me and reveal all of this? Surely this hasn't been deemed acceptable by your superiors?"

  Blake shook his head. "Of course not. But then, it's not their decision to make any more. My sanity is worth the price of their wrath."

  "You feel it's in jeopardy?"

  "I'm absolutely certain of it," said Blake. "These past years have seen me at my worst. I won't even leave the house after dark. I don't know why. There hasn't been an instance of Krischkov in almost forty years, yet he still haunts me. It's an awful yoke to bear."

  "I'm sure," said Harlan. "And you hope my writing this piece will allow you some semblance of freedom from the oppression of your nightmares?"

  "It is my hope," said Blake. "Yes."

  Harlan stood. "Very well, then, sir. I will write the story. I will try to convey the same sense of events as you have conveyed them to me. I can promise you nothing but my best attempts to do your story justice."

  "That's all I'd ever ask of the Times' star reporter," said Blake.

  "Star reporter?" Harlan smiled. "Sir, you flatter me."

  Blake shook his head. "Absolutely not. I'm quite convinced of your skill. I've been watching you for some time, you see."

  "Have you?"

  "Indeed," said Blake. "And there's only one recorded instance of you ever having been photographed. Something I find incredibly curious."

  "I don't care for publicity. It impedes my work at the paper. As an agent of the SIS, I'm certain you can appreciate the need to stay concealed as much as possible."

  "Absolutely. But surely you'd enjoy the popularity your job brings you?"

  "No," said Harlan. "I don't like being noticed."

  Blake nodded. "No. I don't suppose you would. After all, being noticed makes it difficult to move undetected in a crowd, doesn't it?"

  "Are you driving at something here, Blake? If you are, I'd prefer you just come right out with it already."

  Blake stood and walked to the mantle. "When did you start work at the Times, Mr. Harlan?"

  "In 1902."

  "How old were you at that time?"

  Harlan sighed. "Good Lord. I was just back from overseas. I was nearing forty. I'd resigned from my earlier jobs as an importer of Eastern European goods. Decided to try my hand at writing."

  "And now, we're both closing in on sixty," said Blake. "Amazing isn't it?"

  "Been a good life all in all," said Harlan. "I'm not complaining."

  "Well, how could you," said Blake. "What with your career at an all-time peak."

  Harlan eyed him. "And you-do you still work for SIS?"

  Blake smiled. "Once a part of that organization, my dear sir, you are always a part of it. I'm not all that active now, but I still enjoy serving in a small role."

  "And what role is that?"

  Blake shrugged. "I tie up loose ends."

  The ringing telephone interrupted them and Blake smiled suddenly. "Excuse me."

  Harlan watched him walk over to the cherry desk and lift the receiver. He said nothing, only listened for thirty seconds before replacing the receiver and walking back to Harlan.

  "I'm sorry to have kept you for so long, my dear sir. You should be going. The storm outside shows little sign of letting up and I'd hate for you to catch your death on such a night."

  Harlan smiled. "You're right, I suppose. It's been a most interesting evening, though, Mr. Blake."

  Blake handed Harlan his overcoat and then frowned. "What did you say you did before joining the Times?"

  "Imports."

  "From where?"

  "Poland. Germany. Various other countries."


  Blake nodded. "It's fascinating you know, that phone call I received just now. One of my associates working late. He's something of a research hound. Really enjoys getting into his work and seeing things through before calling it quits. You know those types, don't you, Mr. Harlan?"

  "Absolutely. There are quite a few at the paper."

  "MacBailley-he's the chap who just called-he's been researching some interesting things himself lately."

  "Has he?"

  Blake smiled. "Indeed. Specifically the rather gruesome series of events happening on the continent over the span of the last thirty-five years."

  "What events?"

  Blake cocked an eyebrow. "The deaths of prostitutes in Poland, Germany and various other countries."

  Harlan smiled. "The Ripper?"

  "Oh, I think so," said Blake. "In fact, I'm quite sure of it. I'm also aware of the fact that you never really gave up your import business when you joined the Times, did you? After all, it was the one thing that allowed you to continue killing."

  Harlan said nothing. Blake walked over to the sofa.

  "It became clear to us that after you disappeared, we wouldn't be able to track you through ordinary means. We had to give the illusion of losing interest in you. Give the impression we didn't care. In fact, we did. Very much. Me, especially."

  "You're mad," said Harlan. "I'm not the Ripper."

  "But you are," said Blake. I knew you'd never be able to resist the primal killing lust we'd unleashed within you. You'd die before giving it up. So, we did the only thing we could do: watch the events in other countries using our resources abroad. It took a while. But then you resurfaced, burdened by the demon we'd given you. You killed with such pure abandon, it never ceased to amaze me.

  "I knew you'd never let us win, you were too driven by pride to admit defeat. That meant you'd still live here, in London, right under our very noses. It was the best way to get your vengeance. By the same token, you'd still need to feed your hunger. You'd still need to kill. It became necessary, therefore, to pay very close attention to the comings and goings of residents of London. It seemed an insurmountable task at first, until we eliminated all the women and children and married men. Then it became rather easy. We've been watching you for years."