The Empire of Time (35 page)

He’s not in his room, nor has he left a message. But just as I begin to lose patience, he returns.

‘This is …’

‘A friend?’ I stare at the man. To my eyes he looks identical to the two goons Werner brought along with him. He’s the very same type. There’s probably a name for it, but I don’t ask Burckel right then. My priority is to dig Burckel out of the mess he’s got himself into.

‘You wanted help,’ the newcomer says. Statement, not question. I look to Burckel, but he’s just grinning again, like he knows something I don’t.

‘It depends what you mean …’ I begin, then understand just why Burckel’s grinning. This is his contact. His man on the inside. The one he made the call to.

He looks to Burckel. ‘Is the room clean?’

‘It was when I left.’

‘Not good enough,’ he says. So we leave the room and ascend, taking the stairs this time, avoiding people, until we’re standing on that great ledge once again, staring out across the misted dark towards the fortress.

‘So what can you tell me?’ I ask, now that he’s free to speak openly.

‘Tell me first why you want to know?’

It seems a fair request, so I tell him. ‘Albrecht and I … we’re
Undrehungar
. We want to overthrow those fuckers.’

‘
Undrehungar
…’ He clearly likes the word.
Revolutionaries.
He says it a second time, then laughs.

‘Albrecht I trust, but why you? How do I know …?’

‘That I’m
genuine
?’ I shrug. ‘You don’t. You’ll just have to take my word.’

‘I don’t have to.’

‘No. But someone will
. Someone
will give me the information that I need.’

‘Not everybody knows it.’

But he doesn’t seem smug about it. Once more it’s a statement of fact, and I begin to like our new friend.

‘What’s your name?’

He laughs, and I realise I’m not going to get a name. A name is something that could be tortured out of me, and then maybe
he’d
find himself in the chair, being tortured.

‘Okay,’ I say finally. ‘Your choice. But I tell you this. There are other forces at work here. They want to preserve things as they are. They don’t want to see this regime fall. They want to prop it up until it decays from within.’

‘And who are these people?’

‘The Russians.’

He laughs, and doesn’t stop chuckling for quite some while, as if it really was amusing. And finally, when he has his voice back, he asks me why the Russians – our deadly enemies – should want to do that.

‘Because they view things in the longer term.’

‘Really? Then watch …’

And, as if on cue, there are a series of blue flashes on the horizon, far to our right, at the eastern edge of the great sprawl of Berlin. I’m puzzled at first, but then our friend hands me a VEU – a visual enhancement unit – and, slipping it over my eyes, I see just what those tiny blue flashes are, and understand. They’re missiles. I see the bright detonations, hear – a moment later – the dull concussions. I watch for some while, seeing how they move oddly, erratically, with a kind of predatory malice, as if they’re looking down at the streets below, searching out specific targets.

‘See how they do that?’ the stranger says. ‘The idea is to terrify the populace. Bigger, faster missiles would be more effective, but those things do far more psychological harm.’

We watch as a swarm of cruisers launch from the fortress, swooping out like great winged insects, heading east over the city to engage the enemy missiles. It’s quite a sight, and we’re not alone on the rooftops as the battle commences. Two of the big lasers open up from the fortress, sending fierce beams of searing light flashing out into the darkness, the after-image so bright it seems scorched upon the retina. The air is sharp with the burning smell of ozone.

And then, with a suddenness that seems almost anti-climactic, it’s over.

I turn and look at him. ‘How often do they do that?’

‘Attack us? Oh, most nights. Sometimes three, even four times. It’s like they want to remind us that it’s not all being fought out on Tri-Vee.’

Burckel, who has been silent all this time, now clears his throat. ‘Well?’ he asks. ‘Will you help us?’

The stranger stares at me, his dark eyes considering, then turns away. ‘We’ll meet tomorrow. I’ll give you a decision then.’

Why not now?
I want to ask. But I can guess the answer. Our friend is not working alone. He wants to consult someone. A committee, maybe.
Undrehungar
– real revolutionaries – not fakes like us.

‘All right,’ I say, keeping my impatience in check. ‘And if there’s anything we can do for you …’

‘
You
?’ He laughs once more, as if what I’ve said is just the funniest thing he’s heard in years. And, as he walks away, I hear him say a single word, the irony heavy in his voice.

‘
Undrehungar
…’

Burckel is angry with me. He thinks I was heavy-handed. And maybe I was. Only I’m far more angry with him, even if I don’t show it.

‘You don’t know just how long I’ve cultivated my contacts here,’ he says, pacing the floor, the glow globe in the corner illuminating his angry face. ‘You come along here and think in one day you know it all, but you fucking well don’t! You don’t know the first fucking thing about what’s going on!’

I’m sitting on the bed, watching him pace. ‘Have you considered the possibility that they’re spies, or Russians even?’

He stops and stares at me. ‘Of course I’ve fucking thought of it. I’m not stupid. Hecht didn’t pick me for my stupidity.’

That’s true. Only something might have happened. A blow to the head. Some drug slipped into his drink. Anything, in fact. And the result? One ineffective agent who only
thinks
he’s in control.

But that’s the danger with ‘sitters’. I meet his eyes and give a tired smile. ‘I’m sorry. We seem to have got off on the wrong foot. It’s just … I’m worried. About Ernst.’

That’s also true, but it’s not the whole truth. I’m worried about Katerina. About leaving that situation for too long. For while I could, theoretically, jump back there any time I wanted, I’m still uneasy. Uneasy, yes, and missing her. Missing her badly.

‘So what do you want to do?’ Burckel asks, happier now that I’ve apologised. ‘You know, before the meeting tomorrow. You want to see the city?’

I shake my head. ‘No. First I want to find out about the place Dankevich visited.’

‘Dankevich?’

‘Your friend Schmidt.’

‘Ah …’ He looks thoughtful. ‘You’re sure it was him – Dankevich?’

‘I’m certain of it. I killed the little fucker.’

‘Then …?’

‘Different part of the loop,’ I say. Even so, it’s disconcerting how often I’ve killed men, only for them to pop up once again. That’s the trouble with Time: it’s not sequential.

‘You want to do that first thing tomorrow?’

I stand and shake my head. ‘No. Let’s do it now. After all, who knows what mischief that little weasel is up to.’

It’s a little after two when we get back there. Von Richtofen Strasse is still busy, but there’s not the dense press of bodies there was earlier. Tomorrow’s a work day for most, and life can be hard in the eye of the fortress – even so, enough remain to make the night eventful.

‘Ignore the jags,’ Burckel says to me, steering me away from a group of young men who sway drunkenly together outside one of the bars. ‘We don’t want any trouble.’

‘
Jags?
’ But even as I say it, it comes back to me. It’s a catch-all phrase for drunks and lowlifes and addicts.

The side alley is empty. Telling Burckel to wait for me on the corner, I walk along until I’m facing the door Dankevich went into. There’s no sign, not a word to say what the place is, but I guess it must be some kind of club from the peephole in the door. And someone is clearly watching from the other side, for as I go to turn away, the door opens and a big man – he has to crouch to get out under the lintel – steps into the alley.

‘What do you want?’

It’s too late to say ‘nothing’. He’s seen that I’m interested. But I don’t really want to go inside, not if Dankevich is still there. I just want to know what the place is.

‘A friend of mine said you were worth a visit.’ I hesitate, then, ‘I’m from the south …’

‘Ah …’ And he looks me up and down, then nods to himself. These Berliners think they’re a good ten IQ points above their southern German cousins, and have done since time immemorial.

‘Your friend … did he have a name?’

I’m tempted to say Schmidt, but if Dankevich
is
inside …

‘Look, if I’m not welcome …’

There’s a moment’s calculation in his face and then he stands aside. It’s not an easy thing for such a big man to do in such a small alley, but now I can’t back out. I could walk away, only that would just draw attention, and I’m pretty sure they’ve got me on camera. And if they
are
Russians …

As the door closes behind me, I stand there in that tiny anteroom, conscious of his sheer size, his bulk and height. I’m a tall man myself, but this brute’s a good foot and a half taller than me. Not only that, but he has hands the size of dinner plates. And they look incredibly strong.

There’s another door directly in front of us, and while we wait for it to open, I feel intensely claustrophobic standing beside the big man. He seems to loom over me – to fill the room about me. I can smell the brutish perfume of the man – his
scent
. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, and I wonder again just what I’ve got myself into.

Even so, I have an answer. The club is called
Das Rothaarige
– ‘The Red-Haired One’. The two words are on a plaque beside the inner door, beneath a cameo of a long-haired man.

Red hair. It makes me think. Of Barbarossa, the red-bearded king of early Germany, and of Hitler’s Russian campaign, named after him. Yes, and of the Rus’, themselves, named after the band of red-haired Scandinavians who formed Kievan Rus’, back in the middle of the tenth century.

The door doesn’t open. Beside me the big man grows restless. I turn, meaning to ask him what the problem is, and see he has one of those massive hands to his ear, listening to something in his head. He nods silently, then turns to face the outer door, speaking to me as he does.

‘It seems your friend wants to come in too.’

‘My friend?’ But then I see what he means and I almost groan. Why can’t Burckel leave things be?

The door swings open.

‘Otto, I—’

The big man grabs him, pulls him inside, then slams the door shut.

Almost at once the inner door opens, to the smell of cigar smoke and cologne and the soft murmur of conversation, interlaced with electronic music. Nothing loud or intrusive, the kind of thing that you might expect in such a club at any time, in any century. Stockhausen’s
Licht
, if I’m not mistaken.

It’s a gambling club, I see that at once, nor is it very big. I turn to thank the big man, but he’s gone. In his place stands another man: small, almost arrow-thin, a polite, yet genuinely friendly smile on his face. He would seem ordinary, but for his flame-red shoulder-length hair.

‘Herren …’

I return his bow, then note how he glances at Burckel.

‘You should have said,’ he says, returning his gaze to me.

‘Said?’

‘That you were Herr Burckel’s cousin.’

Again, my heart sinks. Is there not one place that Burckel hasn’t made waves?

‘I wondered about the name …’

Rothaarige smiles, then reaches up to touch the loose-hanging ends of his hair. ‘It’s not hair,’ he explains. ‘Not real hair, anyway.’

I wait for something more, but it seems that’s all he has to say on the subject. ‘You’d like to play, Herren?’

I turn and look around the tables. There are six big, hexagonal tables with blue electrostatic tops. They’re crowded, a dozen or more players – well-dressed men, mainly – standing about them, but there’s no sign of Dankevich, nor can I see any other familiar faces.

I feel in my pocket then shrug. ‘My money, I—’

Rothaarige smiles. ‘Herr Burckel’s credit is good. What would you like? A thousand marks?’

It’s more than a month’s wages in this world, but the players in here don’t look like working men.

‘Okay. But that’s all.’

He laughs. ‘I’d heard you
suden Deutsch
were cautious.’

If it’s meant to goad me, it doesn’t work. Cautious is good. I only wish Burckel was showing more caution.

The truth is, I hate gambling and I want to get out of there as soon as possible, but leaving isn’t an option. Not yet. I really need to know why our friend Dankevich frequents this place. Is
he
a gambler? If so, how can I use that?

But underlying all my thoughts is the feeling that I have made a mistake by coming here. Maybe a big mistake.

A young man appears at my side and hands me what appear to be ten six-inch iron-black plastic spikes. They’re pointed at one end, flattened at the other, like ancient nails. Indeed, the similarity is so striking that I stare at them in my hand, until Rothaarige laughs.

‘You’ve not gambled before, Herr …’

He’s fishing for my second name, but I ignore him. ‘One hundred each?’ I ask, and he nods, then ushers us over to the nearest table. The crowd move aside, allowing us a place, and, glancing down, I see that the blue glow of the table is an illusion. Marked out within the great hexagon is something I recognise instantly.

At the centre of the table are two diagrams, each circle in each diagram the size of a large coin. Some are brightly lit, some grey. The top one is the chemical diagram for the adenine-thymine base pair, white lines linking the represented atoms, while beneath it is that of the guanine-cytosine bases. Between them they make up the constituents of DNA and thus of life itself.
All
life. And there, surrounding them, forming a great circle at the edge of the table, is the double helix spiral itself.

Again, some parts of that great circle are lit, while others are dull, and even as I watch, one of the circles – representing a carbon atom – comes alive suddenly, and I feel excitement grow about the table.