‘I couldn’t,’ I say. ‘The rain …’
‘Have you had breakfast?’
‘No.’
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Famished.’
‘Then come. I’ll cook you a breakfast you’ll never forget.’
I wonder where they’ve been and what they’ve been doing, but there’s something else I want to raise.
‘I had a dream,’ I say as we walk back, ‘just before I woke. It was about Reichenau. You know, our two-headed friend.’
Hecht turns and looks at me. ‘Go on.’
‘In my dream he was speaking Russian. Fluent Russian. With a Suzdal accent.’
Hecht laughs. ‘Suzdal, eh? So he’s a Moscow boy, perhaps?’
‘It wasn’t just that. In my dream he was fishing …’
‘Fishing?’
‘Yes … sitting there on the bank of a river, on a lazy summer’s day, just fishing. I was on a boat, you see, drifting downstream, the faintest breeze in the sail, and there he was, on the bank, as casual as could be. He looked up and spoke to me, just as if he’d been expecting me.’
‘In Russian?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what did he say?’
I smile. ‘I can’t remember. It’s like the words themselves didn’t matter. It’s what lay behind them.’
‘And what was behind them?’
‘I’m not sure. Only it got me thinking. Why did he tell Manfred that he knew me? Was he trying to get me into trouble? Or what was he trying to do? It just seems strange that he even mentioned me.’
‘Maybe Manfred asked him about you. Directly, I mean. Maybe he showed him a holo-image.’
‘Maybe …’ Only I don’t think that. In fact, I’m pretty sure that Manfred implied that Reichenau raised the subject.
Hecht’s silent, then he turns and looks at me again. ‘So you think Reichenau’s a Russian agent?’
‘I don’t know. In my dreams …’
He stops, and Albrecht and I stop too. ‘Do you trust your dreams, Otto?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that maybe they tell us the truth sometimes. Truths that we’d otherwise never come upon?’
‘I don’t know. They’re only dreams, after all.’
‘And yet you trust to your instincts. How do they differ from your dreams? In what fashion?’
I stare at Hecht, surprised. Maybe it’s being back here that makes him so, but he seems very different right now.
He smiles. ‘Maybe he’s the key. Not Gudrun, nor Gehlen, nor Manfred, but Reichenau. Maybe he’s the one you need to go back and see.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Why should I be? It’s the one place we haven’t been. Not in the last few days of it, anyway.’
‘I don’t know. The map he gave me …’
‘Wasn’t of the Konigsturm, I know. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t locate where the source is. You just have to find out where that building is.’
‘And how do I do that?’
Albrecht laughs. ‘By asking Reichenau?’
‘You think he’d answer me?’
‘Not if he is a Russian agent,’ Hecht says. ‘But we don’t know that yet. Besides, why give it to you unless it means something?’
‘To waste my time?’
‘There are other ways of doing that. No. I think the map is genuine.’
That puzzles me – why should Hecht think that? – but I let it pass.
We are still standing there, in the rain, the cabin fifty yards away, waiting, it seems, for Hecht to say something, or do something. But all he does is smile, then turn and walk on. As if, in that moment, he has seen it all clearly.
132
I never get that promised breakfast. The decision made, Hecht wants to act on it at once. He has Albrecht compile a dossier of all we know on Reichenau – not a lot, as it turns out – then has me study it.
I don’t learn a lot that I didn’t already know, only a few incidentals about his past, gleaned from the state records. His ‘daughter’, so-called, is no relation at all. Nor could she have been, now that I think of it. Doppelgehirn aren’t born that way, after all – they’re manufactured: their two brains sewn into a single skull. What surprises me is that he should make that claim. As if he needed family.
‘Maybe it makes him feel less of a freak,’ Albrecht says, speaking bluntly.
‘Or maybe he’s just a liar.’
Hecht looks to me and smiles. ‘Well, there’s only one way to find out …’
Which is why, a mere half hour later, I am back in that tiny cabin, perched high above the vast metallic floor of Werkstätt 9, awaiting Reichenau’s return.
It is the evening of the bombing in the Konigsturm – only an hour before Manfred turns everything upside down in his quest for vengeance. A poised moment. And Reichenau is out there somewhere, involved somehow, while his ‘daughter’ serves me tea and makes small talk. Or so it is at first. But then it changes.
‘Your friend, Burckel …’
I look to her and smile. ‘Yes?’
‘Do you trust him?’
It’s a strange question. ‘Why?’
‘It’s nothing.’
Only it clearly is. She has a reason for mentioning it. ‘Burckel’s a dear friend,’ I say, remembering what happened. ‘I’d trust him with my life.’
‘And yet he’s not what he seems. You can see it at a glance.’
I don’t answer, but it tends to confirm what I’ve been thinking – that these are Russian agents. If so, they would know about Burckel. But then, why mention it now?
She looks at me, then shrugs. ‘It’s true what my father says. You’re not from here. You have an aura.’
‘An aura?’ I almost laugh. It’s the strangest thing anyone has ever said to me. ‘You mean I glow or something?’
‘Or something.’
That’s much too cryptic for my liking. I pause, reassessing things. She’s far from stupid, and she’s not saying these things merely to break the silence. They have a purpose. But what?
‘What do you see?’
She hesitates, then says, ‘Burckel watches you, did you know that? Like he’s waiting for the outer shell to crack open and some stranger to step out. But he’s not wrong, is he? That’s how you are. I can see it for myself.’
‘Yes, but …?’
‘What do I see?’ Her eyes in that strangely broad face stare back at me with a real intensity. ‘I see a man walking in a maze, not knowing who he really is. A man cut off from the true meaning of his actions. A man …’
She stops, then walks over to the shelves and pulls something down. It’s an old leather-covered photo album.
‘There,’ she says, and hands it to me.
I open it and catch my breath. The first photo, the print almost the size of the page, is of me, standing at Nevsky’s side beside a stream in northern Russia. And there, in the background, is Ernst.
I go to speak, but there are heavy footsteps on the metal walkway outside, and then the door creaks open.
It’s Reichenau. He takes me in at a glance – sees what I’m holding – and gives a knowing smile. Then, as if nothing’s happened, he takes off his jacket and throws it down, then pours himself a big tumbler of the clear liquor that we shared last time I was here. He takes a sip, then turns to face me, using his ‘reasonable’ voice – the ‘pleasant uncle’ voice of his controlling half.
‘Herr Behr. I wondered when …’
He knows my name, and has an album of photographs which – I turn the pages one by one – seem to be all of me.
‘It’s begun,’ he says to her, and she nods. ‘Where’s Heinrich?’
‘Gone,’ she says. ‘I sent him south with Karl and Gustav.’
‘What is this?’ I ask, holding the album out to him.
‘I had you checked out,’ he says. ‘I had to be sure who you were.’
‘Yes, but why?’
‘To make sure you weren
’t a threat to me.’
‘A threat?’
‘You’ve got the map. What more do you want?’
‘I want to know where it’s for.’
He laughs. ‘I thought you knew.’
‘Are you Russian?’
It’s not what I meant to ask, but this is all so strange.
‘No,’ he says. ‘I’m German. Doubly so.’ And he laughs.
‘But you can’t be.’
‘No? Why not?’
‘Because I know all our agents.’
‘Like Hecht’s brother, I suppose.’
That stops me dead. Just what is going on? Is this some strange reality shift? I mean, the album … it must have taken a great deal of effort to compile it, and for what purpose? And then there’s his last comment.
I feel a small frisson of fear. I have never felt so cut adrift, so far from understanding what’s going on.
‘You’re near the hub here,’ he says, as if he reads my mind. ‘Where things are at their most chaotic. Step back a little – a day or two – and it becomes much simpler, but the further in you go, the closer you get. Well, I think you understand, eh, Otto?’
Hecht called it a maze. A maze I’ve failed to navigate no less than thirteen times now – one that’s left me dead on more than one occasion. And maybe this, strange as it is, is part of it. Only … how do I make sense of it?
Is Reichenau friend or foe?
I watch him change his shirt, and then he turns to me.
‘You want a lift?’
It’s so unexpected, I laugh. ‘A lift?’
‘To Gehlen’s. I can drop you there if you want.’
‘You’ll take me?’
‘If it’s the only way.’
The only way to what? ‘I don’t understand …’
It’s an admission of weakness, of … well, of ignorance, I guess. Only I need to know what’s going on, before I go even further out on a limb.
‘Come,’ he says simply. ‘We’ll talk as we go.’
133
The flyer is a bright red Angestellte – an ‘Executive’ – which is ironic considering that Reichenau is supposed to be a revolutionary. It’s a regular tank of a machine, stately yet brutal, the very type that ‘executives’ seem to like, and Reichenau handles it like it’s a sports model.
Oh, and there’s one other thing I note as I slide in beside him. There is a sticker on the passenger window, like one of those jokey things you often see, only this one reads ‘standig Verandern’ – ‘perpetual change’.
‘Why doesn’t Hecht know more about you?’ I ask, without preamble.
‘Because I’ve kept myself to myself. Until now.’
‘Okay. So what’s changed?’
He glances at me, then returns his gaze to the packed traffic channel, easing the flyer into a faster stream.
‘It seemed to me that you needed help.’
‘Help?’
‘To complete the circle. To close the loop. We none of us exist without that.’
I stare at him, astonished. ‘But—’
‘I’ve been waiting for you to come to me a second time.’ He pauses, then – ‘It was fore-ordained.’
Nonsense, I think. Then again, this tiny sector of Time seems dense with loops; as if everyone’s been trying to change it subtly without altering the major currents.
Which is probably the truth.
Only I’ve still no handle on Reichenau, and the fact is I still don’t trust him.
‘You know Gehlen?’
‘For some years. I helped him once.’
This isn’t in the histories. ‘Helped him? In what way?’
‘He killed a man, in a bar-room brawl when he was much younger. I went back and changed things.’
‘And he knew about all this?’
‘Of course not. He mustn’t know. It doesn’t work like that.’
‘Then …?’
‘I befriended him … before the brawl, that is. Bought him a drink and talked with him. Got him home in one piece. He was grateful. We became friends.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
He laughs. ‘Fine. Don’t believe me. But you’ll see.’
134
He’s right. I do see. Because Gehlen greets him at the barrier like a brother, hugging him close and patting his back, not put off by that awful, overlarge head of his. Maybe he feels that they’re both freaks – one physical, one mental – but whatever it is, the connection seems genuine.
We are in the stacks of Hellersdorf, in sprawling East Berlin, at the gates of a ‘secure’ enclave, a drop of a mile and a half beneath the semi-circular platform on which we stand.
Gehlen steps back from Reichenau and looks at me coldly. ‘Who’s this?’
‘This is Otto,’ Reichenau says. ‘Otto Behr. He wants to speak with you.’
Hearing my name, Gehlen starts. ‘Behr? B. E. H. R. Behr?’
I nod. ‘Yes, why?’
‘That’s strange. Very strange. There’s a package, you see. It was delivered to my assistant two days back …’
‘There,’ Reichenau says. ‘Loops.’
Gehlen looks to the Dopplegehirn. ‘Sorry?’
But Reichenau just smiles and shrugs. ‘It’s nothing. But I have to go now. I’m expected at the Gefangnis …’
Again, the way he casually drops that in makes me feel he knows much more than he’s telling me. Even so, I’m here, with Gehlen, and there’s a package.
‘Has he …?’ Gehlen begins.
‘Here,’ Reichenau says, and hands Gehlen a security pass, made out in my ‘official’ name and with my holo-image on it.
Gehlen frowns. ‘Manninger?’
‘It’s what the authorities know him as. But Otto’s fine. You can trust him.’
The words send a little tingle down my spine. You can trust him. Why? What does he know that I don’t?
I watch him climb back into the flyer, then turn to see Gehlen watching me. He says nothing, just turns and heads towards the gate, leaving me to follow.
135
I am here for one reason only – to locate the far end of the time-anchor so that we can free Ernst. Nothing else matters. But this business with Reichenau has thrown me. As I follow Gehlen down a long corridor and up a narrow flight of stairs, I ask myself a few questions.
If Reichenau is one of our agents, then why have we never seen him at the platform? Is it because – as he seems to imply – he’s kept himself to himself, further up the line, or is it because he’s Russian, and thus wouldn’t pass through the screens without self-destructing?
But if he’s Russian, why is he helping me? Why did he give me the map? Why also did he deliver me to Gehlen?
After all, the Russians have tried their best to kill me almost every time I’ve come here bar the last, and that was only because I jumped out early.
And then there’s the photo album – where does that fit?
In fact, none of it quite fits. All of the pieces seem to come from different puzzles.
Or different realities?
I think about what Reichenau said – about things growing more chaotic the closer you get to the hub of things – and wonder if that might not be true. Maybe that’s why I keep failing.
Gehlen stops and turns to me. He’s standing before a plain black door. ‘This is it.’
I look about me, surprised by just how nondescript the place is, considering. You’d think a man of Gehlen’s stature would live in something more luxurious than this.
Not that this isn’t expensive.
We go inside. A child is crying somewhere off to the left, and as I step through into the main living room, a small, blonde-haired woman – tired-looking, dressed in a pale blue one-piece – comes out of the state-of-the-art kitchen on the far side.
‘Hans, I—’
She stops, surprised to see me there.
‘This is Otto,’ Gehlen says. ‘He’s a friend of Reichenau.’
The mention of Reichenau cle
arly doesn’t please her. In fact, from her reaction, I’d judge she doesn’t like the man. And me from association …
‘Hi,’ I say, but she doesn’t answer. She looks to Gehlen again.
‘Meister Lofthaus was on while you were up at the gate. He says we have to go to the safe haven. The King himself has ordered it.’ She pauses, then: ‘I’ve sent the servants home already.’
Gehlen sighs. ‘Then we’d better pack.’ He looks to me. ‘Forgive me. It seems you’ve made a wasted journey.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ I say. ‘We can talk on the way.’
Gehlen looks at me oddly, then shrugs. He crosses the room, then takes down a small trunk – the very same that still exists, up the line at Four-Oh – and places it on the low coffee table in the centre of the room.
‘What do you want to know?’
I wonder how direct I can be, and whether he’d answer me. Probably not. This too is probably being watched.
‘I’ve heard rumours,’ I say, remembering the last time I said this to him, in the flyer back from Gudrun’s palace, ‘that things have become … unstable.’
He glances at me, then continues packing. ‘What did Reichenau mean by loops?’
‘I don’t know.’
But I can see he doesn’t believe me.
‘Things are fine,’ he says, after a moment. ‘The rumours are wrong.’
I take a pen and notepad from my pocket and write down the equations – memorised earlier – then tear off the top sheet and hand it to him. He reads it almost carelessly, then double-takes. ‘Thor’s teeth!’
Straightening, he looks directly at me – for the first time the whole of him there in his gaze; an intense, powerful gaze that, for the first time, reveals his true intelligence.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘It’s right, isn’t it? The equations go off to infinity, which indicates that the laws of physics are breaking down.’
‘It isn’t right. It can’t be right.’
‘But it is.’
He nods.
‘Drainage.’
‘Impossible,’ he answers, and again I get a strong feeling of déjà vu.
‘The discontinuities,’ I say. ‘They have to mean something.’
The Empire of Time Page 40
