Time Leap

by Steve Howrie

  Somehow, I felt guilty about sending Kim Jong-un to an atomic war future not of his making. Yes, Kim had defied many United Nations ultimatums en route to developing nuclear weapons and long–range missiles; but he himself was not the one who would ultimately press the button and launch the World into an atomic war – one which looked like it would bring about the end of humanity. That was, it seemed, the destiny of his son. Eventually I said, “No, we can’t leave him there.”

  “Joe’s right,” agreed Mike, understanding my meaning. “If we leave Kim in the future, then his son Kim Jong-hui will not be born in our time zone. Which means that World War Three is unlikely to happen in our lifetime – so we’re not actually sending him to a terrible future after all. Instead, he could father a son in his new time zone, and all we would be doing is delaying the big war. So if we are going to take the Korean leader to the future, we need to kill him too.

  The four of us sat together in this small coffee shop, ourselves and our future selves, drinking coffee and deliberating on the future of mankind and how we could use the power of time–travel to avert the future self–destruction of human–kind – not to mention the planet. Why was it so difficult?

  “I think the main problem is that none of us actually wants to pull the trigger.” Yoyo said at last. “We can’t bring ourselves to end one life to save millions – even though we know it’s the right thing.” We nodded in quiet agreement. Then Niki suddenly said.

  “We need a hit–man.”

  “I like that!” Yoyo smiled.

  “A contract killer?” I queried. “Are you serious?”

  “Why not? A professional killer would have no problem with this. It’s his job – he gets paid for it – and we’ve certainly got the money.”

  “The girl’s are right,” Mike said. “When it comes down to it, none of us wants to pull the trigger. I like Niki’s idea.”

  “You can’t all be serious!” I said.

  “I think we should give it a try,” Mike replied. “It would solve a lot of problems.”

  “And create a whole load more!” I observed. “For one thing, we’d have to share our secret with a killer!”

  “At least one of you would have to accompany the assassin, of course,” Mike continued.

  “And you couldn’t give the killer your phone,” added Yoyo.

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Everyone except me thought this was a good idea.

  “But what if he causes trouble? What if he turns the gun on one of us?”

  “Then you’ll have to choose your killer very, very carefully,” said Mike.

  ***

  Twenty

  His name was Smirnoff. Not his real name, of course, but one we both liked. He was big with an unshaven look – about a week’s stubble I reckon. He dressed well enough, but wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. He sported a good quality black leather jacket (no doubt his favourite) with a white patterned shirt and light blue jeans, supported by a wide dark brown belt. His hair was thick, black, uncombed and would have been fashionable in the late 1970’s. He was around forty–five, we guessed.

  The three of us were sitting on an old wooden bench, sheltered by sycamore trees in a small park, not far from the British Museum in the Bloomsbury district of London. It was a quiet time of day, and few people frequented the park at this hour (we’d checked). It seemed a good place to meet a killer. Niki sat next to Smirnoff, and I sat next to her.

  “Have you done this sort of thing before?” I asked, suddenly realising what a stupid question this was.

  “No, it’s my first time,” he replied with a thick Russian accent, and a smile. The smile and sense of humour clearly won Niki over.

  “What we need you to do here is a little… different,” Niki stated.

  Smirnoff shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve done it all,” he said. “What’s new?”

  “How about ‘Time travel?’” I suggested.

  He nodded his head, taking out a packet of expensive–looking Russian cigarettes. “Now, that would be different.” He opened the box and offered the contents. “Smoke?”

  “No thanks,” I said, waving them away. “I gave up when I was three…true story: my dad stuck a fag in my mouth when I was three years old – both my mum and dad were trying to give up at the time and wanted to dissuade me… it worked.

  “Good choice… they can kill, you know.” That smile again, plus a twinkle in the eye. “Maybe you should give cigarettes to your clients,” he continued. “You wouldn’t need me then.” He put a filter–tipped cigarette in his mouth and lit it with the gold–plated lighter from his pocket. “Anyway, you were saying… Time travel?”

  “Take my hand,” said Niki, suddenly standing up. It took him by surprise, and he hesitated for a moment. “I won’t bite,” she added.

  “Ok… where are we going?” he asked.

  “We’re going to visit an old friend of yours.”

  We had pre–planned this, naturally. Catapulting Smirnoff back in time would convince him of our ability far more than any words could ever do – well, that’s what we thought. After Smirnoff took Niki’s right hand, I took hers and simultaneously changed the date on my phone to 1st September 1902. The park ‘wobbled’.

  “This way,” Niki smiled at the Russian. He must have noticed the change in the look of the park after we jumped, but he showed little indication of that. Around us, the trees were a lot smaller and the pathways different, but not a lot else. What I noticed most was the atmosphere. The smell of coal burning fires predominated, and it was difficult to stop myself coughing. But outside the park was the real eye–opener.

  “What in the name of…?” Smirnoff could not contain his amazement as we gazed along the narrow road with horse–drawn carriages. “Where are we? Is this a movie set?”

  A man in a bowler hat, turned up collar and waistcoat (complete with a watch chain) walked by, docking his hat to Niki as he passed. Across the road, two elderly women dressed in long skirts down to their ankles, frilly blouses and large brimmed flowery hats gazed at us. Niki had made sure she was dressed in keeping with the times (as far as possible), though she couldn’t hide the fact that she was Chinese of course. I donned the cloth cap I’d been keeping in my pocket to look as inconspicuous as possible. It was a good match for the grandfather shirt and trouser braces I was wearing.

  “Sorry, no movie set – this is for real,” I replied.

  A London double–decker bus of the time turned the corner and headed down the street. It was one of the recently introduced open–topped motor buses, and passengers couldn’t help noticing the big Russian standing with a Chinese lady. A young lad on the top deck nudged his friends and pointed towards us. Niki and I smiled and waved, and began walking towards the Museum with Smirnoff.

  “I don’t know how you’ve done this… how have you done this?”

  “Time travel,” Yoyo and I chorused matter–of–factly. Niki smiled at the Russian.

  “Time travel?” he muttered to himself as he accompanied us down the street shaking his head.

  From the outside, the British Museum seemed to have changed little from the one we knew and loved in our day. Or, I should say, our museum has changed little since 1902. On the inside, it looked very different – with exhibits in other places from what we were used to. What we were really interested in, however, was not the exhibits – it was the Reading Room. This was constructed in the previously empty central courtyard of the Museum. It was, in effect, a library, with plenty of spaces for reading, study and research. Anyone wishing to use the Reading Room had to apply in writing for a readers’ ticket. Among those granted a ticket were novelists Bram Stoker (author of Dracula), Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (who penned Sherlock Holmes, of course), and the person we wanted Smirnoff to meet.

  We stood at the entrance to the Reading room. We weren’t allowed in without a ticket, but we could look through the glass windows of the double doors. There, studying the volume of a large book, seated alone
on one side of the large, circular room was a familiar–looking figure.

  “Smirnoff,” I whispered to the big man, “see that gentleman over there – the small guy with the receding hair and pointed beard… does he seem familiar to you?” The Russian squinted through the glass.

  “I don’t know… it could be anybody. I know who he looks like… but that’s not possible.”

  Just then, a large clock struck twelve o’clock, and several people – including the man under our surveillance – packed their things and moved towards the entrance to the room, where we were standing. As the small, dark haired man exited, Niki approached him.

  “Excuse me, Mr Richter – I wonder if you have time for a few words with one of your countrymen?”

  The man was a little startled at first. He stopped and looked closely at Niki and then at Smirnoff. “And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?” he smiled courteously at Niki.

  “My name is Niki Ling, sir, and this is Mr Smirnoff from Russia.”

  The short man kissed Niki’s hand, and shook Smirnoff’s hand warmly. Then he spoke to Smirnoff in Russian:

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, comrade.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, sir.”

  “And what brings you to London?”

  “I am here with my good English friends. They asked for my help, and I never refuse to help friends who need me.”

  “That is wonderful. I hope that you and I can help to make the World a better place for all honest, hard–working people. Enjoy your stay in London.”

  “You too.”

  Smirnoff watched the other Russian disappear out of the museum, and then turned to us with a thoughtful expression.

  “Well?” I said. “What did you think of Mr Richter?” Smirnoff turned and walked towards the exit with us trailing behind.

  “Richter? I don’t know anyone called Richter,” he replied. Then he stopped and turned to face us. “But I do know Vladimir Ilyich Lenin when I see him.”

  Twenty–One

  After returning Smirnoff to the twenty–first century, we told him we’d be in touch and said our goodbyes. We continued on to a local tea shop, where we stopped to discuss our potential assassin.

  “Well?” I said, once we’d settled ourselves close to a window, far enough out of earshot of anyone else.

  “Well what?”

  “Is he what you’re looking for?”

  “He seemed really nice,” she replied.

  “Nice? He’s a professional killer! He’d knock off your grandmother if you paid him enough.”

  “I don’t think you know people, Joe. You’re not really a good judge of character.”

  “Oh really? Well, perhaps I made a mistake with you then? Maybe I should have been more picky?”

  “You’ll find out, one day,” she smiled over her cup of Earl Gray.

  “Okay, seriously, about Smirnoff… I have to admit he’s easy to get along with – and that’s very important if we’re going to have an ‘arrangement’ with him. Also, he seems very professional and I think he’ll do a good job,” I said.

  “Do you think we can trust him?” Niki asked.

  “Yes, I think we can. It’s a business deal for him; if he lets us down, it’s not good for his ‘career’… if killing can be regarded as a career.”

  “Your cousin seems to think so,” Niki responded.

  Cousin Jim had – surprisingly – joined the army. During a conversation over a few beers a few months ago, he told me he quite enjoyed the idea of killing bad guys as a career, and was thinking about a bit of mercenary work when he leaves the forces – helping to overthrow some tin–pot dictator in Africa, or something like that. It seemed quite appealing to him. So I suppose, in one sense, the difference between Smirnoff and Jim was essentially… not much.

  “There’s also the fact that he has to be wary of us,” I pointed out. “For all he knows, we could be working for the Special Branch or Interpol – not his best friends, I would think. He has to be very careful about who he works for.”

  “He was highly recommended by Uncle Ding,” Niki reminded me.

  “Ah yes, Uncle Ding,” I said, thinking back to our trip to Shanghai last Chinese New Year. I remember feeling for Ding when his work partner was attacked and raped in Guangzhou. She was in hospital for a long time after that, and never went back to work. Her assailant was caught on CCTV cameras, but the Police could never track him down. Then, about six months after the attack, he was found mysteriously hanging from a tree in a park in neighbouring Shenzhen – dead. Everyone concluded it was suicide at the time, but the evidence was never conclusive. I only recently found out from Niki that this was Smirnoff’s handiwork.

  “So what do you think Joe?”

  “Think about what?” I’d gone off on a day–dream about China and men hanging from trees for a moment.

  “Should we go with Smirnoff?”

  “Yes – he’s got my vote. If anyone’s going to do it, he’s the man.”

  *

  The next evening, Niki got in contact with our hit–man and arranged a meeting on Hampstead Heath. It was almost dark when we got to the park, and at first we didn’t recognize the jogger who ran past us. He was wearing a dark–coloured hoodie, black tracksuit bottoms and white trainers. He indicated a place to stop and talk, and we followed him over to a spot next to a large tree.

  “I have to be honest, until you showed up tonight I thought I’d been dreaming everything that happened yesterday. But here you are! Which means, I guess, that we really did go back in time yesterday… and I met Mr Lenin.

  “Time travel,” I said.

  “This is the man we need you to deal with.” After talking with Mike and Yoyo about how, where and when we should bump off the Korean dictator, Niki had done a lot of preparation. She forthrightly handed over a folder containing photographs, maps and detailed information regarding the time and place of the planned assassination.

  “No no no!” exclaimed Smirnoff refusing the folder, “not like this! Maybe you got the idea from the movies – but that is not real life. If I even touch that paper, it’s got my fingerprints on it – so I’m dead. And if I take it, and someone finds me with it, I’m also dead. So just tell me – I’m a good listener, and I have an eidetic memory.”

  Niki went over our plan with Smirnoff, who listened intently. When she finished, he said, “Okay, I’ve got the picture. Now, the first thing is this: I do not take out such high profile people – it’s suicide. The government will hunt me down and never stop until they find me – I cannot do this, I’m sorry.” Niki looked understandably crestfallen at this point. But Smirnoff continued.

  “So what I suggest is this: forget about the president of North Korea. You want to prevent the son from becoming the next crazy Adolf Hitler – am I right?” We nodded. “Well first of all, there is no guarantee that taking out the son, the father or the Holy Ghost will make any difference whatsoever. There will always be another son, and another president, and who knows which one will be crazy enough to press the button – right?” We had to agree.

  “Now, from what you tell me, World War three happens because North Korea launches a missile at the USA, and the Americans respond – am I right again?” I confirmed that he was. “Good. Then what we have to find out is why. I don’t care how crazy this future president is, he is not going to begin a war with the USA. Think about Hitler, Saddam Hussein, Gaddafi… none of them started a war with the Americans – or the British – right?”

  “Right again,” I said.

  “So, what we need to find out is why the leader of North Korea, in forty–two years’ time, attacks America.”

  Niki and I looked at each other and nodded.

  “Okay, we’ll do that… and we’ll get back to you tomorrow,” I said. “Same place and time?”

  “No… never the same place or the same time – you need to learn this. Nikita can call me when you have the information. Ciao.”

  Smirn
off disappeared into the night, and we looked at each other.

  “Nikita?” I said.

  “Movie and TV series about a female killer.”

  “He’s smarter than we are,” I observed.

  “Speak for yourself,” replied Niki, walking off down the hill.

  ***

  Twenty–Two

  Yoyo and Mike had been staying with us whilst we looked for an assassin. By contacting Smirnoff, we had already affected their future in some way. To me, this was one of the most interesting things about what we did. Anything we did out of the ordinary would create a new future, and thereby change things for Mike and Yoyo when they returned. The next step was to fill them in on our meetings with the Russian.

  “He sounds cool!” observed Yoyo.

  “You’d better believe it!” replied Niki.

  “Okay okay… don’t forget what he is,” I said, “a paid killer.” A part of me couldn’t bear the two girls drooling over the Russian.

  “Sounds like just what we need,” added Mike. “And the meeting with Lenin was a great idea!”

  “Do you recall that Mike? I mean do you have Smirnoff in your conscious memory now?” We all stopped for a moment to look at Mike. Were we creating history in front of his eyes? I’d witnessed the way memories could be created or modified by changing the past. Niki still had difficulty coming to terms with the fact that the World Trade Center towers were destroyed in 2001 – in one version of reality - though her experiences since then had left her in no doubt that we can change the past, and therefore the future. Mike looked confused.

  “I… I… don’t know! It’s strange. On one hand, I have recollections of everything I did in the past – and therefore what you are doing now. But some things – like your conversations with Smirnoff – are totally new to me.”

  “It’s the same for me,” added Yoyo. “I should know what Smirnoff looks like without you telling us, but I just can’t picture him.”

  It was as if being in our time–frame meant that Yoyo and Mike experienced things as we saw them, not as a memory in their own time period. This made sense to me. I thought about the attack on the New York twin towers again. I had kept the pictures in my mind of the attacks, the airplanes flying into the buildings, the collapse and the aftermath – but Niki (who remained in her own time) lost all that as soon as I managed to stop it happening.