The Empire of Time (27 page)

‘You’re sure it’s him?’

He stops and looks at me, then pulls on his right boot. ‘Who the fuck else would it be? No one says it’s him, of course, but what other reason can there be? I kick the fucker out of my house and
this
happens!’

Razumovsky’s not stupid, nor is he mistaken. This stinks of Kravchuk. But why is he doing this if he wants to be reconciled to Razumovksy? To show his power? To bring Razumovsky to his senses? If so, he’s read the man completely wrong, for even I can see that all this has done is to enrage him.

‘Listen, Mikhail,’ I say, as I watch him pull on his other boot then stand, preparing to leave. ‘I have to talk to you.’

But Razumovsky’s barely listening. ‘Not now,’ he says, then turns and looks at me. Relenting, he reaches across and pats my shoulder with his massive hand. ‘Make yourself at home, Otto. We’ll talk when I get back.’

I watch him go, then slump on to a bench, relieved as much as dismayed by this turn of events. I sit there for a long time, trying to sort things out in my head, but nothing’s resolved. What’s more, this business with Kravchuk grows more mysterious by the moment. I had no idea he had such influence. But Kravchuk seems to be pulling the strings, and important men are dancing to his beck and call.

I walk over to the window and, lifting the thick cloth covering, stare out into the yard. It’s strangely silent in the house. Outside the morning sunlight glistens on the snow. I take a long, calming breath, then turn, hearing the soft swish of cloth.

Katerina is standing there, on the far side of the room; her dress is the purest blue, her top a brilliant carmine red, with threads of bright yellow and green and blue sewn in. Her long, dark hair is braided in the old style, tied with tiny blue ribbons, and a silver necklace of tiny carved animals hangs about her pale white neck.

She is all I remember and more. For in the sunlight from the window she seems to glow, as if lit from within, and as I step towards her now, she smiles, and her eyes, which are the windows to her soul, seem to open to me, as wide as eternity itself.

‘
Katerina
…’

She hushes me, then quickly steps across to where I stand. I make to speak, but she silences me with a kiss.

And such a kiss. Our mouths as they touch seem to melt, and as we embrace, my hands at her neck, her arms locked about my back, so it seems that we have always kissed this way, since the first hour of the very first day of the world. And when our lips part, there is wonder in both our eyes.

To feel her pressed against me inflames me. Never have I felt this way with a woman, and I know, as I look at her, that she wants me. She stares into my eyes and speaks, her voice the softest lilt.

‘I knew you’d come.’

She sighs, and my heart is moved so much by it, that I put my fingers gently to her brow, as if to calm a child.

She smiles, and then a cloud appears. She looks at me directly. ‘What’s happening to us, Otto? What strange enchantment is this?’

And again I want to tell her. Tell her that I have stepped from the air itself to come to her. But the truth is stranger than any enchantment, for I am unborn these many centuries, while she, in my time, lies in the earth, long dead, her bones turned to dust.

And yet we kiss and stare and touch, as if Time itself did not exist.

Oh, this is alchemy of sorts, but no words can encompass how I feel, standing there, holding her, looking back into those eyes. And so I kiss her once again, and the kiss becomes a flame, igniting us, and our mouths, which were so soft, press now with a hard and sudden longing that we can no longer deny.

But Fate denies us yet. There is a hammering at the outer gate, then shouts and voices arguing. She breaks from me, a sudden fear in her eyes, then turns and hurries from the room. I am left there, staring at the empty doorway, willing her back in my arms, but servants are everywhere suddenly, hurrying here and there, as men invade the inner courtyard, their voices raised.

‘Where is he?’ someone bellows. ‘Where is the murdering bastard?’

And suddenly he’s there, pushing his way through, beating off the hands that seek to grab him. As Razumovsky turns and looks to me, I see there’s a dagger in his hand, slicked red with blood, and I know whose blood it is.

‘Mikhail! Why, in God’s name?
Why?’

But I know why. And as he casts the knife aside, I put my hand up to my chest.

And vanish from the air.

Hecht stretches and draws his fingers through his stubble-short silver hair, then sits forward again, looking from Ernst to me.

‘I must consider this,’ he says. ‘For now, do nothing. Carry on with your duties here. When I’ve thought this through, we’ll reconvene, and …’

I go to speak, to interrupt him, but he stares me into silence. I bow my head, and he continues.

‘And
then
we’ll make a decision.’ He looks to me, a certain sympathy in his cool, grey eyes. ‘I know how frustrating all of this is. But Kravchuk’s an unknown quantity. He could be a Russian agent.’

‘Then why don’t we find that out?’

‘Otto. Be patient. This is unlike you. We have time. All the time we need. But we need to think it through. We can’t afford to lose another one.’

This is true. Recently the Russians have pressed us on every side. And it would be nice to turn the tables on them. But that’s not what’s bothering me. I need to see her; to hold her once again and kiss her. Right now, every moment spent apart from her seems a moment of purest torment. But I can’t say that. I can only argue necessity. Can only twist what I know to somehow get me there again, beside her.

If this were my project it would be easy, only it’s not. This is Ernst’s. When it comes down to it, he calls the shots, not me. Or, in this case, Hecht. I’m a mere foot soldier.

Hecht reaches into one of his drawers and brings out a chart. He studies it a moment, then looks to me again. ‘I see you’re down to teach, Otto.’

‘Tomorrow,’ I say, frowning, wondering if, in the confusion, I’ve got it wrong.

He consults the chart again, then nods. ‘Ah, yes. Well, you could bring the session forward if you like. Leave you more time later on to help Ernst … when we’ve come to a decision, that is. In fact, there are other duties you could bring forward. You might as well free up the week.’

My mouth goes dry. I know what he’s referring to and, yet again, I wonder if Hecht can read my mind. It’s Zarah’s turn next, you see. But that’s three days away.

Unless I bring it forward.

‘I’ll think about it,’ I say. ‘I—’

‘Yes, Otto?’

I nod, then stand. ‘I’ll think about it.’

But back in my room, I find myself restless, unable to settle to anything. I ought to be working – researching my period, or preparing my lesson for later on – but I can’t do anything but think of her. My body tingles, just thinking of her.

I close my eyes, knowing that she’s out there, a billion separate references on the grid. I could go to the platform now and jump to her, wherever in Time she is. Only I can’t. Hecht won’t let me. And so I pace my room like a caged animal, until Ernst’s soft
suden Deutsch
voice breaches the silence.

‘Otto. Come to the Map Room. Something’s happening.’

I stare at it in wonder, then shake my head. When did it change? And why did I feel nothing? Or did I, and have I just forgotten the moment?

For the map now is almost purest red. Red from left to right, from top to bottom. Only in one small place is it black. Berlin alone remains.

I look to Hecht for explanations, and he shrugs. ‘We don’t know,’ he says. ‘Not all of it, anyway, but it looks as if it originates in the thirteenth century – at the time of the Horde.’

Or 1240. Which is precisely where we’ve just come from.

It’s too much of a coincidence.

‘You’ve got to send us back,’ I say, and for once Ernst agrees. But Hecht’s still looking thoughtful.

‘It’s something we missed. Something obvious.’

Ernst shakes his head. ‘We took it all into account. You know we did. Fifteen years, I spent, checking out details. This …’

But he can’t say what ‘this’ is. None of us can. So we are going to
have
to go back.

‘I just can’t see how,’ Hecht says, puzzled. ‘I mean, how do you stop the Horde?’

‘Assassinate Genghis Khan?’

‘The Russians tried,’ he answers. ‘We outmanoeuvred them. But even those times they succeeded, they couldn’t stop what he’d set in motion. The Horde succeeds, and so keeps Russia in check for the next two hundred and forty years. Without that …’

He stops, as if he’s stumbled on to the answer, and then he sighs. ‘No, I just can’t see it …’

Which leaves only one thing.

We are back in Novgorod, Ernst and I, in the summer of 1237. That fateful summer, before I first met her. Only we’re not here to make contact with Razumovsky this time. We’re here to find Kravchuk. Because that’s the only factor that changed. Kravchuk died and the map went red. But why? After all, history doesn’t even mention Kravchuk.

Which, for Hecht, is reason enough.

‘Not everyone who shapes history leaves a mark,’ Hecht said before we left. ‘And maybe Kravchuk is one such.’ But I can’t imagine how such a weasel of a man could possibly have made such an impact.

We arrive back in May, after the thaw, and begin at once, trying to track him down. We go to his house, only it isn’t. It belongs to a man named Vyshinski, who has never heard of Kravchuk. Further investigations reveal that he’s not alone. Not a single person we ask has ever heard of our friend. It’s like he doesn’t exist.

Only he does. And he’s going to marry Katerina.

We jump forward a month, to a time of heat and fires. I beg Ernst to be allowed to call on Razumovsky, but he’s against the idea.

‘Not until we’ve tracked down our man,’ he says, and I’m forced to rein back. Only it’s three days subjective now since I last saw her and held her in my arms, and I’m going slowly mad. Or so it feels, for I want her like my lungs want oxygen. Like …

But there are no ‘likes’ in love. It is itself. Pure. Perhaps the purest force there is.

Two days later and we’ve located Kravchuk in an inn to the south of the city, in an area dominated by craftsmen from Kiev and Vladimir, Pereiaslavl and Riazan.

We try to be discreet, not to draw attention to our interest in him, but somehow he gets to know, and so, on our third evening in town, he comes to us.

It’s late evening and we are sitting at a trestle table in the corner of the smoky, barn-like inn, when Kravchuk enters.

‘Kollwitz? I hear you’ve been looking for me.’

Ernst is seated across from me. As I look up, Kravchuk is just behind him. Ernst turns, to find a knife at his throat.

‘So? What do you want?’

His accent is strange, like he’s been away for a long time and is only now getting used to speaking Russian again.

I stand. Or try to. Strong hands hold me down. And now I notice them, standing in the shadows just beyond Kravchuk. Two men in strange, oriental attire.

Mongols.

I half turn my head and see another of them – the biggest of the three – just behind me. They are his hands on my shoulders.

‘I want to trade,’ Ernst says, as calmly as he can. ‘I hear you have goods you might wish to sell.’

‘Then you heard wrong. You think me a common trader,
Nemets
?’ And there’s a sneer in Kravchuk’s voice as well as his face. But he puts the knife away, his point made.

He sits down beside Ernst on the bench and stares at me a moment, his eyes narrowed.

‘Do I know you?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘We’ve never met.’

But it’s not true. I
do
know him. Know him for the sadistic little slug that he is. Only there’s something more to him, I realise now, and his companions are the clue. They shouldn’t even be here. Not for another year, at least. But they are. So what does that mean?

‘So …’ Kravchuk begins, looking from one of us to the other. ‘Who gave you my name?’

‘A friend,’ I say, nodding to Ernst who was about to speak. ‘A certain Alexander Iaroslavich.’

There’s a moment’s reassessment in Kravchuk’s face, then he laughs and shakes his head.

‘You
know
the Prince?’

I nod, but I can see that Kravchuk’s not convinced. What’s more, Ernst is looking at me with a puzzled expression.

I lean towards Kravchuk, lowering my voice. ‘So just what is the deal?’

Kravchuk stares back at me, stone-faced. ‘
Deal
? Who said there was a deal?’

‘But your masters …’

There’s a sudden, tense stillness about the table, and I know I’ve said the wrong thing. This is a secret mission, and we seem to know too much. Kravchuk stands, then draws a finger across his throat. And as he does, I jump …

I’m bleeding badly. There’s a three-inch gash on the right side of my throat and I’m conscious that if I’d left it another second I’d be dead. Ernst is untouched but he’s angry and very confused. As Urte sees to me, sealing the wound with plasflesh, he stands over me, his hands on his hips, shouting down at me.

‘What the fuck were you doing, Otto? You almost got us killed!’

‘The Mongols,’ I say, wincing as Urte presses down on the gash. ‘The little fucker’s working for the Mongols!’

‘I don’t care who he’s working for, when you’re back there you shut the fuck up! It’s my project and the sooner you realise that, the better!’

I stare at him, shocked, then look away. Was I
that
out of order back there?

‘Look, Ernst,’ I begin, ‘I’m sorry, but—’

But he’s not listening to my apologies; not this time.

‘You’re out, you understand me, Otto?
Out!
You’re a bloody wild card, and I can’t afford you. I don’t know what the problem is, and I don’t want to know, but I won’t have my project endangered by you.’

Everyone’s gone still around the platform, listening, and though I know I ought to leave this and take it up again when Ernst is in a better mood, I’m stupid enough to fight him there and then.