Tempus: The Phoenix Man

by Matt Hilton

  ‘I don’t want to die,’ was all Fox said. But it was all that Semple needed to hear.

  He looked again at the computer monitor and the churning wave of destruction pouring across the wild Scottish landscape, and came to a decision.

  ‘Good. Keep me appraised as to the progress of the breach, George,’ he said, then walked away, seeking the MoD man, Sterling, concocting a report in which it was no fault that his project had gone so supremely wrong. Until now he’d managed to keep the correlation of the transvections and the subsequent formation of the breaches out of any discussions with the prime minister, but it was only a matter of time before the connection was made. Once Drake got wind that the Tempus Project was behind the destruction he’d have it shut down, and military men under other command than Major Coombs would ensure that there was no further usage of the machine. Semple couldn’t allow such to happen.

  If Rembrandt’s mission to avert the nuclear war didn’t work, then he’d decided on how he was going to get out of this untouched. He’d told Fox that Rembrandt’s team was expendable. Well, for that matter, so was everyone else in the damn laboratory, and this version of the earth if it came to it. Only one person’s life meant anything to him, and it was his own, yet he needed his allies. Fox for his expertise in using the Tempus chamber, Coombs for his muscle should any of the others prove troublesome.

  Chapter 23

  January 28th 1988

  Piccadilly, London

  Looking pretty in a pale lilac coloured blouse, tucked into a straight black skirt that ended just below her knees, Crystal Kwolek sat at a table in a recess opposite the bar in a pub on Piccadilly. On the table was a lunch of breaded chicken breast oozing garlic butter and herbs, steak cut chips and garden peas, as well as a glass of beer shandy. Her meal was largely untouched. A similar plate of food sat opposite her, but Chief Rembrandt had got up to walk the length of the public bar, using a trip to the jukebox as an excuse to check out the other patrons.

  Kwolek smiled faintly as she heard Rembrandt’s first selection pulse from the jukebox’s speakers: a Kylie Minogue track popular from earlier in the year. She glanced away from the man she’d been surreptitiously watching to check out the chief as he made the slow walk back from the jukebox. He looked strong and fit, and she liked the new short hairstyle he’d adopted, which made his face look less wolfish than it had when surrounded by coarse, unkempt hair. In the past couple of days since their arrival in London, they’d been blessed by good weather, and Rembrandt had gained a little colour in his cheeks. It set off the deep green of his eyes. He was more handsome than she’d ever noticed before. ‘I should be so lucky,’ she whispered along with Kylie.

  Rembrandt caught her looking, and his eyelids narrowed perceptively. Kwolek quickly averted her gaze, checking on the man at the bar. As Rembrandt sat opposite her, offering his body as a shield between him and their target, Kwolek shifted slightly so that she could watch the man’s offset reflection in a mirror behind the bar. Briefly the man’s gaze seemed to meet her’s in reflection, but he was quick to look away, raising his hand to a young barman who approached him.

  ‘He’s ordering another drink,’ Kwolek reported to Rembrandt.

  ‘That’s his third,’ Rembrandt said as he picked up his own glass of beer and sipped. ‘We might be here for the duration if he keeps this up.’

  ‘I’ve noticed him checking his watch. He’s on a timescale. I’m sure he’ll make his move once he’s finished his latest glass of wine.’

  ‘Hope so,’ Rembrandt muttered. ‘I feel very conspicuous sat here like this. Is it me or am I totally underdressed for this place?’ Rembrandt was clothed in a denim sports jacket over white shirt and black slacks. Most of the other male patrons wore full business suits, buttoned down shirt collars and ties, Crombie overcoats, highly polished Brogues: businessmen taking a liquid lunch. The women too wore power suits defined by padded shoulders and nipped in waistlines, big hair.

  ‘You look just fine to me,’ Kwolek said meeting his gaze. Then she dipped her chin, suddenly interested in what choice morsels remained on her plate, but Rembrandt saw her face flush, the redness extending to the tips of her ears. Surprisingly Rembrandt felt warmth trickle through his own features, and he coughed slightly, placing down his beer as if it was the cause for the sudden catch in his throat. Kwolek glanced up, but leaned slightly, so she could return her attention on their mark in the mirror. She watched as the balding man mopped at his face with a handkerchief, before draining a large mouthful of Sauvignon Blanc in one continuous gulp.

  ‘It looks as if we might be moving,’ she whispered.

  ‘Shame.’ Rembrandt paused momentarily, and the silence felt very suggestive of words unsaid to Kwolek. She looked at him, and he offered a lopsided smile. ‘I just fed the jukebox a handful of coins; we’re going to miss out on more from Miss Minogue and some other poppet called Tiffany.’

  Kwolek chuckled, then made a last jab at her Chicken Kiev, forking pinkish flesh into her mouth. She placed her cutlery alongside her plate, watching as Barry Miller got up from his barstool and wobbled uncertainly for the exit. He dabbed again at his face with his handkerchief, pausing as he stood in the doorway to survey the first spatters of a rain shower. He shrugged deeper into his wool overcoat, pulling up his collar, and then stepped briskly into the mass of hurrying pedestrians on the pavement outside. The brief spatter of rain had dried up.

  Rembrandt and Kwolek stood, Kwolek picking up a few chips and feeding them into her mouth, looking exactly like a worker who just realised her lunch break should have ended minutes ago, and the two of them headed for the exit door. Kwolek pulled on a nylon jacket and zipped it up. They didn’t hurry for fear of losing track of Miller, as Jamal Dhand was in position across the street. As they exited the pub, Rembrandt checked for their friend and saw him lounging beneath the awning outside Fortnum and Mason. Jamal gave a subtle nod, directing Rembrandt’s gaze at Miller who jogged between the traffic to reach the opposite side, waving an apologetic hand at an annoyed taxi driver who laid his hand heavily on his horn. Miller tripped, almost fell up the kerb before righting himself and heading within a few feet of Jamal. He didn’t notice the Asian’s scrutiny as he passed. Jamal moved in pursuit while Rembrandt and Kwolek mirrored him from the other side of the street.

  The rain returned, this time as an icy drizzle that came in oily gusts to coat everything in its glistening embrace. Kwolek considered taking the fold-up umbrella out of her handbag, but decided against it. The black and white spotted design was too distinct for a surveillance operation like this. She noted that the shoulders of Rembrandt’s denim coat had darkened already, and she suspected he’d be soaked through in no time. Rembrandt didn’t seem to notice, or if he did he didn’t care: being wet was bare pittance compared to the discomforts they’d all put up with during their previous lives. She’d endure the water dripping from her nose tip without complaint too.

  Barry Miller looked a little fraught as he struggled to pull up his collar, and his back hunched against the rain. He appeared to be watching where he placed his feet, and Kwolek wasn’t sure that it was all to do with avoiding puddles. He was meek and worn down. He looked the type of man who often kept his head lowered, and she couldn’t believe that he had the fortitude in him to launch the suicide attack on the American president that was on the cards. But “history” or “future history” if she ignored the contradiction in terms proved otherwise.

  Earlier they’d tracked Miller from his office building in Westminster to an underground car park and it appeared that Miller was heading back to his Jaguar judging by the way he ducked into Duke Street, a narrow road leading onto Jermyn Street. Kwolek took a cellular phone from her pocket and pulled out the long aerial. She pressed buttons and waited while a connection was made – compared to the mobiles she’d seen in 2018 the technology in her hand was little more effective than two tin cans strung together on a length of string. She had to talk loudly, while feeding a fingertip into
her opposite ear, in order to hold a short conversation with Harry Bowlam. ‘He’s coming your way, Harry. Do you still have eyes on his Jag?’

  ‘Got it,’ Harry replied, his voice thin and barely decipherable over a sound like rushing wind. ‘Brent’s outside. He’s on two wheels, and in position to follow as he leaves. I’ll tuck in behind.’

  ‘Roger,’ Kwolek said, and rang off. She dabbed in a new number. ‘Benny? Benny? Can you hear me?’

  ‘I hear you, Crystal,’ Oxford replied after a beat.

  ‘Do you see us?’

  ‘Yeah, I see you.’

  ‘OK. Come and pick us up.’

  ‘What about Jamal?’

  ‘He’s following on foot. Harry will pick him up, you bring the van for me and the chief.’

  ‘Coming up on you now, Crys.’

  A faded red Ford Transit van pulled alongside them, and Kwolek noticed that the big driver still held the matching phone to hers to his ear, speaking into it. ‘You ready to get in?’ Oxford asked. Kwolek heard his voice in stereo before she frowned and rang off, pushing the house brick-sized phone into her coat pocket. Rembrandt opened the passenger door for her and she stepped up into the van. She shuffled her backside across the bench seat as Rembrandt clambered in beside her and pulled the door shut.

  ‘You’d better turn around, Ox,’ Rembrandt said. ‘I’m guessing that Miller is heading back to work and I doubt he’ll come this direction. Kwolek, maybe you’d best stay on the phone with Bowlam in case we lose sight of them.’

  ‘The poor reception we’re getting might be a problem, Chief.’ Despite her words, Kwolek dialled Bowlam’s phone.

  Oxford drove the van into Albany Courtyard opposite Fortnum and Mason, and completed a quick turn, watched by uniformed greeters on a side door of an emporium of designer chocolates. He waved an apology at their frowns and then nosed out onto Piccadilly once more, but didn’t pull out into the traffic. He waited while Kwolek listened to her phone. By the time that Harry Bowlam reported that Miller was in his car and on the move, the van had drawn the attention of a traffic warden, who began a solid march towards them, waving his arm at Oxford to get moving.

  ‘Better do as he says, Ox,’ Rembrandt said, ‘we don’t want to draw any attention.’

  Oxford waited for a break in the traffic and pulled out, driving onto Piccadilly, albeit taking it slowly. But the traffic warden seemed satisfied that they were on the move and went back to his dry place under the awning of the chocolate shop.

  ‘He’s coming out onto Piccadilly ahead of us,’ Kwolek announced, even as she checked ahead for the black Jaguar car. Miller pulled into the flow of traffic heading away from them, followed a moment later by Brent Walker who’d found himself a 250cc motorbike and full-face visor.

  Oxford slowed to allow Harry Bowlam to pull out in a grey Ford Granada, a huge car that easily accommodated him and Jamal Dhand who’d slipped into the front passenger seat. They followed in convoy past Green Park and took a left onto Grosvenor Place.

  ‘OK, heads up. We know from the subsequent reports that Barry Miller’s Jag was found abandoned on Victoria Street, so it’s a probability that something important is about to happen. Keep your eyes peeled for anything unusual.’ Rembrandt nodded at Kwolek to relay the message to Bowlam and Dhand – there was nothing any of them could do to alert Brent Walker who had pulled past Miller’s Jag, and progressed down the street towards the junction with Bressenden Place.

  ‘Does a police vehicle count as unusual?’ Oxford asked with a glance in his mirrors.

  Rembrandt checked the wing mirror on his side and saw a marked police van moving in their wake. His first concern was that the traffic warden had called up police back-up, deeming their presence in Albany Court suspicious, but he relaxed marginally when he saw the police van move out so that the driver could see past them and further towards the upcoming junction.

  ‘Shit!’ Kwolek hissed. Her words brought Rembrandt’s attention to the front and he saw Miller jump the amber light and the jag collide with the rear wheel of a courier’s moped. Thankfully there wasn’t enough of a collision to knock the rider from his bike, and the courier flipped Miller the ‘V’ sign and sped off.

  Within seconds there was a bleat of a siren and the police van manoeuvred around the Ford Transit and gave chase to Miller’s Jag, passing Bowlam and Dhand who’d been halted by the red light. The police van’s lights flashed blue and the siren howled briefly.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Kwolek groaned. She didn’t expect the idiot to get himself pulled over by the police. It explained why his Jag was abandoned here: after the way he was downing all that wine it was little wonder. It looked as if Barry Miller was about to get himself lifted for drink driving.

  ‘Hold on,’ Rembrandt growled, ‘this doesn’t feel right to me.’

  A big uniformed cop had got out of the van and approached Miller’s Jag, speaking with him through his open window. Routine procedure as far as Kwolek could tell.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Kwolek ventured. ‘They saw the near miss he just had and have pulled him over.’

  ‘They were watching him long before he almost hit that courier’s bike,’ Rembrandt said.

  ‘Maybe he’s a known drunk driver and they spotted his vehicle…it happens,’ Oxford said, and Kwolek squinted over at him. She wondered if Benny was speaking from experience from his life before the bombs fell. It would explain why she’d never seen him take as much as a sip of alcohol: was he a recovering alcoholic? That was a bit of a joke considering the other things that had been denied them all in Old City.

  The cop had ordered Miller out of his car. Miller complied, but he wasn’t happy as he was led back to the van. From their position there was no view of the side of the van, but it was evident from the way that the van rocked to and fro that they’d both climbed inside.

  ‘This is it,’ Rembrandt said. ‘The snatch.’

  ‘You’re sure, Chief?’ Kwolek asked, feeling adrenalin spurt through her veins.

  Down in his lap, Rembrandt checked the workings on a Glock automatic pistol. He racked the slide, placing a round in the breech.

  ‘We’re going to take Miller back? In full daylight with all of these witnesses?’ Kwolek’s voice came out as a high squeak. ‘We’re going to attack a police vehicle?’

  ‘What difference does it make? As soon as we get Miller out of their hands then the future is averted, and we only need to lay low until it’s time to be jumped out with him. But, no. We’re not going to take him back yet.’ Rembrandt narrowed his eyes, checking out the dozens of civilians in close proximity to the police vehicle. If they went in a shootout might be unavoidable, and despite the fact that these peoples days were numbered, Kwolek understood that Rembrandt had no wish to place them in harm’s way.

  Car horns beeped.

  ‘Lights have changed,’ Oxford said. ‘What do you want me to do, Chief?’

  On the opposite side of the junction, Brent Walker had turned his motorbike around and was watching the police van from the side of the road. Harry Bowlam was already moving the Granada forward through the junction and towards where the police van sat at the kerb.

  ‘Follow Harry and Jamal,’ Rembrandt said. ‘But go slow.’

  As Oxford drove the Transit across the intersection, Kwolek was one the phone to Harry. She informed him that they should hold back and follow the police vehicle if possible.

  ‘What if we lose them?’ Harry asked, and Kwolek relayed the question to Rembrandt.

  ‘Then we’ll have to take Miller out before he gets a shot off at Grosvenor Square.’ Rembrandt stirred in his seat. Miller was as much a victim in this plot as was Ronald Reagan, and Kwolek understood that the thought played heavily on Rembrandt that they might have to kill the man. It was one of those strange quirks associated with the entire time travel scenario: Miller was destined to die, either by being gunned down by an over-zealous cop, torn limb from limb by an angry crowd, or if by some miracle he survived, then he’d be
immolated along with everyone else when the nuclear missiles hit London. Yet, Rembrandt regretted having to kill Miller. Recently she’d witnessed him crush the throat of a cannibalistic rapist, and mow down scavengers with impunity, yet here was a different side to the Chief she’d never witnessed before: humanity. She was glad when he stowed his sidearm, because it told her that the rumours that he was as cold-blooded as a reptile simply weren’t true. There was much she’d grown to appreciate about Rembrandt since this crazy trip had begun.

  They were drawing even with the back end of the police van when its lights came on, and the indicator flasher demanded access into the traffic flow. Oxford stood on the brakes, like many would under the circumstances, and allowed the police van clear passage. Ahead of them Harry swung the Granada over to the kerb and also allowed the police van to pass. On the opposite side, Walker thumbed up the visor on his helmet, and - after a nod from Rembrandt to follow the van - he started up the motorbike and wrestled it around. Pedestrians had slowed on the pavements as they watched the entertainment, but now that it appeared that there was little more to be seen they began moving again. None of them had a clue as to the world-changing event they’d just paid witness to.

  Chapter 24

  January 28th 1988

  Clapham, London

  Barry Miller woke to a banging noise.

  He couldn’t make out the source of the racket, only hoped it would stop, because with each bang a sharp pain shot through his skull, setting off blinding magnesium flashes behind his eyelids. He moaned.

  ‘Hold still, or you’ll hurt yourself, you idiot.’ Hands were forced down on his shoulders, pressing him into the chair he was bound to.

  Barry fought to open his eyes, but his lids felt each as heavy as a mountain. He moaned, thrashed, and heard the bang, bang, bang again.

  ‘If you don’t stop fighting me, I’ll make you sorry.’ The voice was male, accented, but in his confusion Barry couldn’t make out its origin.