The Kremlin Phoenix (24 page)

Zikky opened his mouth to speak,
then sighed. “I think I need another yeast extracted donut!”

“There must be a difference
between our memories and our reality,” Mariena said. “We know we’re causing tiny
resets of the timeline, because we can see what happened to Craig Balard, and
our tachyon sensors detected the temporal tremors. But we might also be causing
partial resets of ourselves – of our memories – without ever realizing it. 
Just enough to keep the universe rational.”

“No way,” Zikky said. “I remember
sending the messages to Balard, before the resets.”

“Yes, you need those memories for
a rational understanding of where we are and what we’re doing,” she said. “But
what happens when we trigger a reset that doesn’t require those memories? Or
worse, that demands we don’t have them?”

Zikky swallowed. “You’re saying
our memories could go the same way as the station’s memory core?”

“I don’t know, but I think we’ll
have to rerun every search,” Mariena said, “through every language dataset,
from the very beginning, starting with Russian. Treat it like we’re dealing
with a completely new dataset – because we are!”

“But I’ve almost finished doing
that!”

“No, you haven’t. You’ve barely started
– in this timeline. The tachyon sensor detected a timeline reset, right?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So, we’re in a new timeline,”
she explained. “That means the dataset in the station’s memory core is different
now, to the dataset you spent four years searching in the previous timeline.”

Zikky winced. “Oh no. Do I have
to re-upload everything again?”

Mariena fell silent, trying to
untangle the increasingly complex causality paradox they were creating. “No,
because you’ve already done it. You must have. Craig Balard’s actions occurred in
our past, before you uploaded the Russian dataset in this new timeline. The
Russian police report never existed, because the reset wiped it out, however, you
uploaded all the Russian data that belongs in this timeline, whether you know
it or not.”

Zikky laughed. “Are you serious?
I did two uploads, but only remember one?”

“I think you did one upload per
timeline, but your memory isn’t quite as precise about what was in the data as
the station’s memory core. For time to be linear, you can only remember one of
the uploads, but you also retain enough memory of the previous timelines for
the universe to be rational. Maybe it’s what is required to keep the arrow of
time pointing in one direction – into the future.”

“Assuming time is linear,” Zikky
said. “But I’m starting to think it’s a pretzel.”

“We’ve only slightly bent the
timeline. The resets are so tiny, we can barely detect them, and none of them
directly affect any of us. The real question is, what would happen if we
smashed the timeline to pieces? Would it force the arrow of time to double back
– if that’s even possible?”

“That’d cause the mother of all
resets!” Zikky said.

“If you search all the datasets
now and find nothing new, then I must be wrong, and the universe isn’t as
rational as I hope it is. If it’s pretzel time, then we’ll have to re-upload
everything again. I just hope I’m right, to save us a whole lot of work.”

“No,” Captain Wilkins said. “I
hope you’re right, because if you are, we can erase the war and save the
Earth!”

Present Day

Shortly before sunset, a Mi-8 Hip
transport helicopter swept low over Moscow’s Presnensky District, pitching up
at the last minute as it approached the block-like structure of the US Embassy
building. The chopper maneuvered briefly to avoid a cluster of electronic
surveillance aerials before landing on the eastern side of the roof. As soon as
it touched down, Louis Rogers carrying a black brief case, followed by Alexander
Karmanov and Bill Corman, hurried across to the helo and climbed in.

They barely had time to strap in
before the Mi-8 took off and flew fast and low towards the city, taking care to
avoid street corners guarded by armored personnel carriers. The streets were mostly
quiet, although large crowds were gathering outside several key government
buildings and on university campuses, where protesters even dared to show placards
protesting the imposition of martial law.

The helo banked as it approached
Politsiya Headquarters in Okhotny Ryad. Iron girders and scaffolding from local
construction sites were being welded to overturned buses, trucks and cars, forming
a barrier blocking access to the district. Beyond the barriers, regular army
troops and tanks stood quietly watching, while inside the makeshift
fortification, blue uniformed police officers cordoned off the approaches to
their headquarters, ensuring the chopper had room to land.

As soon as it touched down,
Karmanov led Corman and Rogers into the main building. They passed soldiers
from the Paratroop Division who’d established sandbagged defensive positions at
key points to ensure storming police headquarters would be a costly
undertaking. They hurried up stairs, past a conference room that had been
transformed into a command center for the government in exile, to an antechamber
where Karmanov spoke briefly to several plain clothes police officers. A moment
later, they were ushered into the inner office of Prime Minister Maxim
Gundarovsky, who stood studying a wall map of Russia, flanked by a small group
of trusted advisers.

Gundarovsky turned to welcome
them, shaking Karmanov’s hand warmly. “Alexander, I hear you’ve been busy.”

“Not as busy as you, sir. That’s a
lot of resistance you’ve organized in a short time.”

Gundarovsky gave him a worried
look. “We are very weak. They’ve cut our communications, water and power. This building
has a backup generator, but only a few days of fuel. If they decide to attack, we
could hold out for an hour at most, even with General Zharkev’s troops here. It’s
the civilian casualties that are holding them back. The Emergency Committee don’t
want a blood bath – at least not yet.”

Karmanov turned and introduced
Corman and Rogers.

Gundarovsky shook their hands. “I
never expected to be glad to see the CIA!”

Corman smiled wryly. “Revolutions
make strange bedfellows, Mr Prime Minister.”

“Indeed. Is your companion
recovering?”

“He’s out of surgery. Detective
Harriman will be flying home soon.”

“Glad to hear it,” Gundarovsky
said with a warmth that immediately drew all manner of men to him. He noticed
the black case Rogers was carrying. “Is that it?”

“Yes sir,” Rogers replied. “Where
shall I set up?”

“On the roof,” Gundarovsky said,
then led them towards the stairs.

By the time they emerged onto the
roof, the sky was darkening, although the stars were not yet visible. Karmanov
indicated a table and chairs that had been set up in anticipation of their
arrival. Rogers lay his case on the table, opened it and unfolded the
collapsible dish antennae. It took the computer only a few seconds to align
with the satellite lurking low on the horizon.

“What are you going to ask for?”
Corman asked.

Gundarovsky looked out over the
mass of people assembling around police headquarters. He knew similar
gatherings were spontaneously appearing in other less important centers. They
were even less well organized, but were a growing problem for the Emergency
Committee. “Economic sanctions, freezing of all assets in the West, suspension
of loans, and most important of all, recognition for us, not them.”

Shock waves were already reverberating
around the world at the prospect of a new totalitarian regime emerging in
Russia. Western countries had condemned the coup while China had remained
strangely silent and the rest of the world trembled at the prospect of a new
cold war.

Louis Rogers typed instructions
into the computer, establishing a direct link with Washington. He then handed
head phones fitted with a wrap around microphone to the Prime Minister, who
slipped into the chair in front of the satellite uplink.

 “Hello Mr President, this is
Maxim Gundarovsky speaking.”

* * * *

Fenenko blinked as the morning
sunlight streamed through the compartment window, waking him. The low peaks of
the Ural Mountains dividing Europe from Asia loomed ahead. He moved slowly,
stretching, until he noticed the cold erect figure of Tupitsyn sitting in the
far corner, wide awake, watching him. Tupitsyn had refused to enter into
conversation, preferring to remain aloof during the journey out of Moscow. He’d
hardly exchanged a dozen words during the meal in the restaurant car or in the
hours they’d spent in their compartment during the night. In all that time, the
case containing the KGB documents never left his side.

Tupitsyn inclined his head toward
the compartment door meaningfully. Fenenko gave him a puzzled look as Tupitsyn repeated
the gesture. Fenenko rose and slipped quietly out, past Craig and Valentina,
who were still fast asleep in their seats.

In the passageway, a man stood
smoking beside a window in the corridor, watching the countryside sliding by. He
glanced at Fenenko, and without a word, pointed his thumb over his shoulder at
the door behind him. Fenenko approached the compartment door, and entered
uncertainly. Three men slept sitting upright, another wore headphones and held
a small machine recording sound and pictures from the neighboring compartment. The
last man, sitting by the window, was Nogorev. He motioned for Fenenko to take the
seat opposite, then handed him a neatly typed document, signed by Defense
Minister Tarkovskoi, Chairman of the Emergency Committee.

“You are now formally under my
command,” Nogorev said.

“Yes sir. What are your orders?”

“Whenever you’re alone, use the
radio you took to check in. We’ll monitor the frequency constantly. Do nothing
to arouse the suspicions of Balard or the SK woman. Follow Tupitsyn’s lead in
convincing Balard of whatever is required to have him provide you with access
to his Swiss account. He must have a means of accessing it. Any questions?”

“Is the document in Tupitsyn’s brief
case genuine?”

“Yes,” Nogorev replied, “We did
not have time to falsify a dossier. Tupitsyn will allow Balard and the woman to
study it, if necessary.”

“What if the file were made
public? Something like that–”

“It will never be made public,”
Nogorev cut him off. “As soon as you have access to his account, you will
execute both of them.”

Fenenko was shocked. He was an
undercover agent, not an assassin. “Is it necessary to kill them?”

“No word of this can ever get out.”

“I understand,” Fenenko said with
a knot in his stomach. He glanced out the window at the Urals. “May I ask,
where are we going?”

“Balard needs proof. Something
irrefutable, something he will not question or doubt.”

“Where will he get that kind of
proof?”

Nogorev hesitated, deciding
Fenenko would find out soon enough. Better to prepare him now for a secret so
dangerous, those who knew of it feared even to whisper its name. “The American
Gulag.”

* * * *

The train pulled into Krasnoyarsk, the
third largest city in Siberia, shortly after 9 AM the following day. When it
came to a halt in front of the elegant cream colored station, Valentina, Fenenko
and Craig followed Tupitsyn across the concrete platform into the station,
where Tupitsyn arranged for a vehicle. He knew the only vehicle that would be
available was a minivan, hurriedly prepared for their arrival. It came complete
with satnav, eavesdropping equipment hidden throughout the cabin and a homing beacon
placed beneath the engine.

Once they were out of sight,
Nogorev and his team boarded a waiting refrigeration truck parked to the side
of the station. It appeared to be merely another hard worked vehicle that
delivered frozen food to outlying communities, but was actually fitted with
direction finding equipment, listening devices, and facilities for a
surveillance team on extended deployment. Within minutes of boarding, they were
tracking the minivan, waiting for it to begin moving.

Inside the station, Tupitsyn completed
the paperwork while Valentina and Craig loitered near a small cluster of shops.
They passed a newsstand offering a selection of newspapers, all of which were
now subject to strict censorship. Valentina read the headline above a black and
white photograph of burned out tanks.

“What does it say?” Craig
whispered.

She picked up the paper and read
quickly. “I don’t believe it! The air force bombed the main north south highway
between Moscow and Tula late yesterday afternoon. It says the Tula Tank
Division was trying to get into Moscow, to expand the reach of martial law in
the city. Air Force Marshal Vochenko ordered the tanks to return to their
barracks. When they refused, he bombed them south of Serpukhov. Seven tanks
were destroyed and two aircraft shot down. The bridge over the Oka River was destroyed,
stranding the tanks on the south side, but the army’s bringing up bridging
equipment and surface-to-air missile batteries.” She dropped the newspaper back
on the pile. “I have to get a message to Alexander.”