The Empire of Time (32 page)

But Hecht isn’t too busy. He would have come before, only Zarah didn’t inform him that I was back, let alone that I’d been beaten up. He stands at the end of my bed and studies me.

‘Nice bruises, Otto. They go with the scar you got last time.’

I’d forgotten that, but now my fingers find and trace the three-inch scar on the right side of my neck.

‘Kravchuk again,’ I say. ‘Or his friends, should I say.’

And I tell Hecht the story. Or some of it, anyway. Nothing about Katerina.

‘The problem is,’ I conclude, ‘that if I let Kravchuk live, he always – and I mean always – seems to get the drop on me. Yet if I don’t …’

‘The map turns red.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Then become Kravchuk.’

I stare at Hecht then laugh. But it’s a brilliant idea. I could go back, find out where and when he first made contact with the Mongols, eliminate him, and set myself up as their agent in his place. That way there’s never a conflict. That way I can kill Kravchuk, marry Katerina and keep the map from turning red, all at the same time.

The only trouble is that it’s going to take time to set up. Maybe more than I can afford. After all, I’ve Frederick to look after. And it’s clear Hecht thinks so too, for after pondering a moment, he says: ‘Maybe someone else should take this on, Otto. Someone with some background on the Horde.’

Normally I’d not argue. It makes complete sense, after all. But I’m not in my senses. Not where Katerina’s concerned.

‘It won’t take me long,’ I say. ‘I’ve some background already. And I’m the only one who knows who our contacts are in Novgorod now Ernst is missing. I know what’s going on there. A new agent, well, they’d have to start again, from scratch. Besides, I know Kravchuk. Know his weaknesses.’

It’s enough. Hecht nods. ‘Okay. But first you get some rest. I’ll bring you whatever you need on the Horde and their social organisations. Who’s who, where they’re based.’

He stops, then smiles. ‘You know what?’

‘What?’

‘I think we’re doing this the hard way, Otto. We want to find out Kravchuk’s movements, right? Where he went? Who he met?’

‘Right.’

‘Then let’s not bother following him around. Let’s take the bastard prisoner, pump him full of drugs and let him sing.’

I smile. ‘Okay. I’m game. I’ll make a list of things I’ll need to ask.’

‘Good. And one other thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘Try not to get in trouble this time, Otto. It’s upsetting the women.’

I’m all ready to go, when I have an idea … about Ernst and what happened to him.

That’s the beauty of having to rest up. Because while the body’s relaxing, the mind goes into overdrive.

I go to Hecht and ask him to send me back to precisely the point where Ernst disappeared, only fifteen minutes before he ‘arrived’. And before I go, I visit Hans Luwer in his workshop.

As I enter, all nine of Hans look up and, lifting their spectacles from their noses in an identical manner, say:

‘Ah, Otto …’

There is only one Hans, of course, but the man has much to do and this is how he copes, jumping back and forth through Time. Multi-tasking.

‘Here,’ says the third of him, seated slightly down the work bench from where I’m standing. ‘I finished it an hour back.’ And he hands me the camera I’m about to ask him for.

‘Thanks,’ I say, and then, because I must – to complete the loop – I hand him the rough sketch I’ve made for him and he stands and nods and wanders off, heading for the platform.

‘So what’s happening in the world?’ Hans asks, his eight mouths working as one.

‘Ernst Kollwitz is missing, and I’m trying to find out where he’s gone. He disappeared.’

‘Ah …’ And again the sound is echoed from eight mouths, as Hans looks to himself, as if, between his selves, he might come up with an answer.

I stay and talk a while, then head back to the platform. Zarah is there, still angry, and she glares at me as I climb up. Even so, she cannot help but wish me luck, as she checks the readings.

And then I’m there, in the clearing in the forest, where Ernst and I have come so many times.

In roughly five minutes Hecht will come through, and I don’t want him to see me there, mainly because he didn’t. Then, ten minutes later, Ernst will come through. Or rather, he won’t.

I move into the trees, setting my camera up well back, out of sight, but with a clear view of the centre of the clearing.

Minutes pass, and then the air in the clearing shimmers and Hecht steps through. He looks about him then, like a thief, moves stealthily into the trees on the far side.

I wait, looking at the timer on my wrist, and as the fifteen minutes pass, so I see the slightest ripple in the air …

And nothing. No sign of Ernst at all. Only the vacant air.

I watch Hecht step out and look about him. He crouches, studying the ground, then, frowning, puts his hand to his chest and disappears.

But I already know I have the answer, and, picking up the camera, I walk out into that space and, touching my chest, jump back.

Only three of the thirty frames catch it, but it’s clear. Ernst did appear in the clearing. But just as quickly he vanished, into another dimension.

The question is how?

Hecht’s puzzled, staring at the prints.

‘It’s some kind of trap, set off when he jumps through. The question is how did they know when and where he’d come through?’

‘They didn’t.’

Hecht looks at me. ‘What?’

‘They didn’t have to. I reckon he had it on him, like some kind of mine. They must have made it of his DNA. It would be easy enough to take a sample from him. Some special device, triggered only when you jump back through time.’

Hecht considers that, then nods. ‘Okay. So where is he?’

I look about me. ‘Some place like this, I reckon. A no-space place.’

‘Then how …?’ But Hecht sees how. He smiles, and stands and says, ‘We’ll get a team on to it straight away.’

And I know that Ernst will be okay. But meanwhile I’ve got to go and see Kravchuk and ask him a few questions.

Kravchuk shrieks when he next sees me, and tries to run. Only there’s nowhere to run. The door to his room is locked and he’ll need to get past me if he wants to unlock it.

I raise the gun and fire, then watch as he tries to pluck the dart out of his neck. He struggles for a time, then his hand falls away and he slumps on to the pallet bed. I kneel beside him.

‘Oleg … Oleg, can you hear me?’

He rolls over, on to his back, and smiles up at me, his eyes unfocused.

‘Oleg, I’ve some questions I want to ask you. About your visit to the Great Khan.’

And so I learn it all. How, as a young boy, his father and his uncles took him to Samarkand where he first set eyes upon the Mongol Horde, and how those ferocious warriors had fired his imagination. Kravchuk’s father was a Bulgar, who traded in furs, which the Mongols loved to have. He was a particular friend of the Mongol leader, Subodei, who, though born a mere blacksmith’s son, had risen under Temuchin to become the commander of a ‘Thousand’, a Mongol army.

He had spent the next two decades among the Mongols, learning the Uighur language of the conquered Naimans, which Temuchin – Genghis Khan – had adopted for his people, and subsequently served as a
bichechi –
a secretary – to General Subodei.

I listened, fascinated, as he spoke of the great
khuriltai
of 1228, held at the thousand-tent encampment on the Kerulen River, deep in the heart of Mongolia itself. It was there, as I knew, that the
Mangqolun ninca tobchan
– the ‘Secret History of the Mongols’ – had its origins, and it was there that he saw, for the first time, all of the great names from Temuchin’s campaigns – veterans now, their teeth black, their hair grey – as each evening they stood up and, in the flickering blaze of an open fire, recounted their tales of battles they had won and brave deeds they had witnessed or enacted.

And strangely, as he spoke I came to understand how this man might have been won to their cause, how, listening to those old men, he might have longed to be a part of it, however small, and how, when the chance came to serve his master, Subodei, and even the Khan, Batu himself, Kravchuk had leapt at it, eager to prove himself.

‘I went to Karakorum,’ he says, a glow of wonder in his face, ‘to Ogodei’s great palace, and saw the silver tree. Oh, it was beautiful. And the women …’ He laughs. ‘But things were changing. They were growing soft. You could see it. All those riches they had won for themselves. Once they used to wear the skins of dogs and were a fierce, proud race, but now … now they wear silks and furs and carry pockets full of jewels, and they grow fat and dull.’

‘Then why serve them still?’

‘For what they were. And what they yet might be.’

It is a good answer. It is why I serve
my
people. But there is something else I need to know before the drug wears off, and I ask it now.

‘So, now that I am out of the way … will you marry Razumovsky’s daughter?’

Again he laughs. ‘The deed is done. Or good as. He’s promised me her hand – once the annulment’s passed by the church elders.’

His answer chills me. I had thought for a moment that I might let him live. But now …

I have all the answers that I need. All that remains is to kill the man. But still I hesitate. I do not like to kill in cold blood, nor is there any honour in cutting the throat of a drugged man. But if I leave him be, he’ll marry Katerina, and that can never be. I have seen him slit her throat with not a flicker of remorse in the bastard’s eyes. So now I steel myself, and draw my knife, remembering that.

Then jump, before the image of him smiling, his blood pooling beneath his head, haunts my nights.

And jump back, three nights later, outside the Razumovsky house.

Hecht’s working on my list; sending in researchers to find out where and when’s the best time to slip into Kravchuk’s skin. Subodei is a problem, naturally, because he knew Kravchuk for so long, and he’d notice straight away if it was me pretending to be Kravchuk. So we need to find some point at which I can become him, and such things take time. So here I am, at Razumovsky’s once again, less than a week after my wedding supper and the events that followed.

I ignore the gate. There’s no chance that Razumovsky will invite me back with open arms, not after what I’ve done. Like all of them now, he thinks me some kind of enchanter – a man who can cast a spell and step out of the air. The truth, of course, is far stranger. But right now I’m not interested in Razumovsky. I need to see her. To let her know that I’m not what they say I am. And to let her know that I still love her and will come for her.

Only I’ve got to find a way inside.

It’s dark. Only the faintest sliver of moon shows through the thick cloud cover. I climb in over the back of the stockade, then crawl up one of the roofs and drop down into the narrow space between two buildings. It’s pitch black down there, but there’s a door at the end, and it’s unlocked, so I listen a moment, then slip inside.

And stop, getting my bearings clear in my head before I proceed. If I remember rightly, she’s to my right and up a floor, but where precisely I’m not sure.

It’s late, but there are still noises in the house: voices; the creak of a door being opened somewhere to my left. Fortunately there are no dogs. Razumovsky hates dogs, and I am grateful to him for once, for the last thing I want is to set a dog barking.

A sturdy set of wooden steps – more ladder than stairs – leads up, and I climb them quickly, then turn and stop, feeling with my hands.

Bare wooden planks give way to a door frame. I find the latch, and slowly, very slowly, push back the door. In the faint light from the window I can make out the bed, a big, carved, wooden bed, and in it Razumovsky and his wife, their snores filling the room, bass and treble.

I close the door silently, then move on down the corridor. She’s here. I know she’s here. Unless, of course, they’ve sent her away.

The thought stops me dead. What if they have? What if she isn’t here at all?

I tiptoe on, searching the walls with my hands until I come to another door. I open it, and there, like heaven itself, she lies, her cloth-shrouded figure picked out in silver by the crescent moon which now shines forth from between the parted clouds.

I close the door behind me, then walk across, looking down at her from the foot of her narrow bed.

My wife. My Katerina.

And yet I fear to wake her – fear to see not love but horror of me in those eyes – and yet I must, and so I gently sit beside her and, reaching out, brush her forehead gently with my fingertips.

She moans, a soft, sweet moan, then turns the slightest bit, the cloth moving down to expose her perfect breasts. And now I am enchanted, for there’s true magic in what is between two lovers. Magic beyond all Time. And I ache to kiss each sweet, soft bud and make her cry out once again as she did in the night beneath me, but I know this is neither the time nor place for that, and so I cover her and, brushing her forehead gently once again, softly call her name.

‘
Katerina, Ka-ter-i-na
…’

Slowly she wakes, and as her eyes adjust so she sees me. She smiles, but then, as she remembers what has passed, her eyes fly open.

‘Otto … what …?’

She sits up, reaching out to me, barely conscious of her nakedness beneath the cloth. There’s fear in her eyes, true, but I see it’s fear
for
me, that
I
might be discovered.

‘I must go,’ I whisper, thrilled by the touch of her hands against my upper arms, the womanly scent of her, her very closeness. ‘But I had to see you. Had to let you know I’d come for you.’

Her eyes search mine a moment, looking for the truth of that, and, satisfied, she smiles. But then, once more, a sudden seriousness grips her, and she looks away.

‘Did you …?’

‘Kill Kravchuk, yes? It was he who did it. Who came between us.’

She looks at me, then nods, no blame in her eyes. ‘Otto?’

‘Yes, my love?’