The Master of Time: Roads to Moscow: Book Three

by David Wingrove

  Part Eleven

  Exiles

  ‘It would be funny, he thought, if it were happening to someone else. But it’s happening to me. No, it’s not funny either way. Because there is real suffering and real death passing the time of the day in the wings. Ready to come on any minute.’

  – Philip K. Dick, Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said

  319

  For a time I just lie there on the bed, facing the wall, the tears trickling slowly down my face. The hurt is simply too much, the pain too fierce. I try to fight it, to be ‘manly’, only I keep seeing their faces, their eyes wide with fear, pleading with me – Katerina and my brave Natalya, young Irina and Anna, and Martha and my darling little Zarah – and an overwhelming sense of hopelessness, of sheer, soul-numbing impotence, stops me dead.

  How can I live without them?

  I can’t. But giving up will not save them. Only by living can I help. Only by forgetting the hurt and setting it aside. But it’s hard. Perhaps the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

  I sit up and look about me, trying to think, trying to function like the time agent I am. I used to be good at this – at living off my wits – but it seems I’ve grown soft.

  I know two conflicting things for certain. First, I am trapped in some cul-de-sac of Time; trapped and unable to escape. Second, I can’t possibly be trapped, because I’m still in the loop. How, for instance, can my children have been stolen from me when they do not yet exist? For surely, unless I escape from here and conceive them, they cannot come into being?

  Or am I missing something? Has Kolya, perhaps, robbed me even of that?

  I stand unsteadily, then begin my explorations. First I must know where I am and when. The newspaper on the floor – a New York Times – suggests I’m in that city in November 1984, but is that so, or is it a false clue left by Kolya?

  Yes, and why here? Why now? Or was this hastily contrived?

  I think not. I don’t think Kolya does anything hastily or without a reason. At least, that’s my experience so far. He’s a control freak. Perhaps the ultimate control freak. A control freak with the ability to travel in Time.

  I walk across and try the left-hand door. It’s locked. I put my ear to it and listen, and sure enough I hear movement out there.

  Turning, I walk over to the other door and try it. It opens. Beyond it is a short passageway with rooms off: a bathroom, a kitchen and a lounge. Four rooms, then. And not a hotel by the look of it. An apartment. But whose?

  Not knowing when someone will return, I decide to search the lounge. There’s a TV and a big leather sofa – an old white thing, well kept and relatively unscuffed – only what interests me most is the standing shelves.

  Whoever this guy is – and I’m almost certain from the décor that it’s a male – he’s heavily into his military history, though there’s a smattering of books about various media and sports personalities, as well as politicians. The few novels are cheap thrillers of the kind you’d buy in airport lounges. Well-thumbed paperbacks.

  What else? The carpet’s wine red, the curtains the same. There are no pictures on the walls, and no photographs on display. Not anywhere. It’s neat rather than fashionable and suggests our tenant is single. A very organised man.

  I walk through to the kitchen. Again it’s neat, everything in its place. But what stands out? A coffee grinder and, nearby, an espresso machine. One of those expensive, Italian jobs. Three big mugs hang from hooks below one of the wall units. The bowl in the sink is empty and there’s no washing up on the drainer. I turn, looking 360 about me. No. There’s nothing here that gives him away. Nothing except the coffee machine, which suggests expensive tastes.

  The bathroom is a surprise. Marble. Real marble, not fake, and a top-of-the-range shower unit with one of those variable heads. This guy likes to shower. It’s the nicest room in the apartment, and speaks volumes about his habits.

  I look in the little wall unit over the sink. There’s a shaving kit here, but it looks like a spare. I’d guess he has his best kit with him, wherever he is. And no sign of colognes or aftershave. Even the soap is unscented.

  I nod to myself then move quickly on, returning to the bedroom.

  It’s hard to see this room without thinking of Kolya’s presence. He jumped in here with me, so he knew this room. He’d been here before. So what’s the connection? Does he know the tenant? Or is this one of his apartments?

  Somehow what I’ve seen doesn’t fit with Kolya’s ‘profile’. I can’t see him being obsessed with showering, for a start.

  I walk over to the bed and, crouching, drag the case out from underneath. It’s locked, but that doesn’t trouble me. As I click the locks open and push the lid back, I frown. It’s full of old newspapers, some of them going back to the fifties. If they belong to our tenant, then that puts him, I’d say, somewhere in his forties.

  Without studying them in depth, I can’t see any obvious connection between them. They come from all over the USA, and the dates seem random, though I’m sure they’re not.

  Closing the case, I return it to under the bed, then go over to the desk, flicking through the papers there. And get myself a name.

  DeSario, Joseph P.

  It’s there, on three of the bills, and on two of the letters.

  Not only that, but there’s an address – presumably the address of the apartment where I am right now.

  Apartment 8D, 357, 75th Street, New York.

  The desk has three drawers on the right-hand side. I try the top drawer first, and find it full of the usual kind of stuff – paperclips, biros, scraps of writing paper and a packet of gum. There’s a stapler, too, and in the corner at the back a small glasses case.

  I take the last item out and open it. The glasses look ordinary enough, only when I try them on, I realise that they’re not spectacles at all. The glass is plain, the lenses perfectly flat.

  I put them back, then try the middle drawer. Empty.

  I slide it closed and, not expecting anything, pull the bottom drawer out.

  And almost smile.

  There’s a handgun. A .357 Magnum, if I’m not mistaken. And beside it a box of bullets. I open it and, sure enough, they’re .357s. Live ammunition, not blanks. Careful not to touch the gun, I ease the drawer right out, peering into the back of it, and am rewarded with the sight of something else.

  A small diary with a black leather cover.

  I reach in and take it out. But there is no revelation to be found within its pages. The diary is mainly blank. There are barely any entries at all, only hand-drawn lines linking blocks of three, four or five days, with the word ‘OUT’ at the start and ‘BACK’ at the end. Business journeys, presumably. But doing what? The bills give me no clues, nor do the letters. Only I know now when our friend, DeSario, will be back. Three days from now, if the newspaper is accurate, on the eleventh of November.

  And then I think about that. According to the diary he was ‘OUT’ on the eighth, so he probably left the newspaper on that day. Which would make it …

  I go through to the lounge and switch the TV on, changing channels until I find a news programme, and there – beneath the headline – is the date. The tenth of November, 1984.

  Back tomorrow, then.

  I’m about to switch it off and go back through, when I realise what I’m watching. It’s a state funeral. There’s a gun carriage, pulled by two black horses, and on it is a coffin draped with an American flag. There are lots of troops and important-looking men in sombre coats, and there, walking just behind the coffin, next to a small, slim woman in her late middle-age, his head bare, his whole demeanour immensely sad, is Phil.

  I stare and stare, beginning to understand, beginning to remember what I know about this period. The guy in the coffin … Reagan … in our timestream he went on to win a second term, his running mate – Bush, was it? – following him as president. But in this timeline Reagan has died somehow, and instead of Bush for a running mate, he had Phil.

&nb
sp; The idea is so preposterous that for a moment I entertain the idea that I’ve been drugged. Reagan, if I remember rightly, was a Republican. And remembering Phil … well, I don’t know what his politics were, really, but they certainly weren’t Republican. He hated all that authority stuff.

  I’m still watching as something flutters into camera view and lands on Phil’s shoulder, perching there, preening itself even as he walks on, his step unchecked, behind the gun carriage.

  An owl. A snowy owl.

  I switch it off then hurry back to the bedroom. Picking up the New York Times, I flick through it until I come to a full-page article that fills me in with some of what’s been going on.

  The man in the coffin was indeed Reagan – Ronald Reagan, the thirty-ninth President of the United States of America – and the woman walking beside Phil, following the carriage, was his widow, Nancy.

  Having survived one assassination attempt just two months into his first spell as president, Reagan was shot a second time while touring Wisconsin, only weeks before a poll that, most commentators agreed, would have seen him re-elected with a landslide victory over his Democrat opponent, Walter Mondale.

  I read down the page, looking for details, then find what I’m looking for. According to this, Reagan was in a coma for the best part of six days before he died, while his running mate, the senator for California, Philip K. Dick, took over the campaign, choosing a relative unknown, the Governor of Texas, George Bush, as the new prospective vice-president.

  The sympathy vote was huge. Dick, seen by many as a strange choice for running mate, representing, as he did, the softer side of Republicanism, had carried the day, not only riding the tide of Reagan’s popularity, but coming into his own with his dignity of bearing and his clear, straight-spoken manner.

  I close the paper and sit back, trying to think this through. If I’m to get out of here, I’ve got to find out just how far back the changes go, because that’s where I’ll find my way out of here. That’ll be the point – the one and only point, in fact – where I can jump back to Four-Oh, back to the main trunk of the Tree.

  Only there are two problems. One – I don’t know enough about the specific history of this time and place to make that judgement and isolate that point where the changes began. And two – even if I did, how in Urd’s name would I get back there?

  I go over to the door again and rattle it, hoping maybe that the lock will prove weak enough to give, only it doesn’t. It feels good and solid and secure.

  And there’s no way I can use the windows. There’s a straight drop of eight floors to the sidewalk.

  I walk back through to the kitchen and check the fridge. There are one or two bits of food, but barely enough to feed me for a day. Searching the wall units I come across a few cans and various packets, but again there’s not much. If DeSario doesn’t come back tomorrow, then I’m going to have to try to break out of here, if only to feed myself.

  I go back into the lounge and stand in front of the bookshelves again, staring at them, as if the answer’s there. Then, some kind of instinct driving me, I go over and start pulling books out and looking behind them. It’s fairly random at first, but then I notice something. There’s a small section on the bottom shelf where the book spines seem pushed back a little in one place.

  I crouch and remove a couple of them, and there it is. A small wooden cigar box. And inside? I smile, knowing already that they’re going to fit. For it’s keys. A set of keys to this apartment.

  320

  I spend the next day and a half mainly on the sofa, the door open, giving me a clear view of the passageway and the front door, the TV on low, the .375 Magnum resting on my chest. Loaded, of course. Just in case.

  Because what’s a man doing with a ‘thirty-eight’ Magnum if he doesn’t intend to use it?

  I’ve tried the keys and they work. Not that I intend to go anywhere just yet. Not until DeSario returns.

  And if he doesn’t?

  Then I’ll go out. See what’s to be seen. Buy myself a steak dinner, maybe.

  Because I’ve got cash now. Over eight thousand dollars. Money that was in the box where I found the key, in a sealed envelope marked ‘expenses’.

  I don’t intend to steal it. Just borrow it for a while.

  For a while I channel surf, getting a feeling of this age through its images and idioms. It’s very different from the fifties, and not just in its degree of sophistication. This is an age that has recently discovered sex, and in what I see and hear there’s a constant battle raging between those who think things have gone too far and those who don’t think things have gone far enough.

  I stop at a music channel – MTV, it’s called – and watch for a while. The music’s bland to my ear, the beat repetitive, the tunes insipid. Even jazz, I think, is better. But what do I know? Besides, at the volume I’ve got the TV, who can tell what the dynamics of the music are?

  Only I’ve sat in the same room as Beethoven and seen him play piano, like a man possessed, and know what I’m seeing on the screen before me is not the best humanity can do.

  I wait all of that day, and all of that evening, too, and still he doesn’t come. DeSario is late. Either that, or he doesn’t actually exist. Maybe this is all a construct, created by Kolya to keep me occupied. But why would he do that?

  Is he watching me? Is that what this is? A controlled environment?

  I decide to risk going outside, onto the streets. I’ve money and a key, and a gun. What harm can come to me? And if this is a construct, I’ll find out quick enough. Kolya doesn’t have the resources to people a whole city for my benefit.

  I go to the window, to check out the weather, then return to the bedroom to search through DeSario’s wardrobe. Looking through his clothes, I note that he’s no style guru, but that doesn’t really matter. What does matter – and is it just coincidence? – is that he’s my size, right down to our matching shoe size.

  Slipping out of my old clothes I get dressed, then study myself in the bathroom mirror. It’s far from perfect – denim jeans, a black T-shirt and a pair of casual slip-ons – but it’ll do.

  Last of all, I look for a coat to wear against the weather. There’s one dark woollen jacket that’ll do me and I pull it on, noting how snugly it fits.

  I pocket one of the hundred-dollar bills, slip the gun into my jacket pocket, then pick up the key. I’m about to go out when I hear noises from outside, in the hallway.

  There’s a peephole in the door. I go to it, placing my eye against the glass.

  There, in that shadowed space between the apartments, two men are gesturing violently and shouting at a woman. It’s not a pretty sight. She has her arms up, as if to defend herself, and they keep leaning in to her threateningly, leaning in and shouting, until, finally, one of them shakes his fist at her and turns away, quickly followed by the other.

  I watch her watching them go, real fear in her eyes, then see how she slumps, one hand gripping the half-open door behind her, as if she’s about to collapse. There’s a part of me that wants to throw the door open and go out to help her, but I don’t know whether this isn’t yet another of Kolya’s little games.

  I step away, then turn, my back to the door, waiting, listening. And in a while I hear the door to her apartment slam shut.

  I give it a minute, then slip out, locking the door behind me. Whatever it was, it’d be best not to get involved. For all I knew she might have been at fault. Only I don’t think so.

  I make my way down the stairs and out onto the grey streets of New York City. It’s cold, a faint flurry of snow in the air. On the corner, just across from me, is a grocery store, its cluttered interior lit up against the encroaching darkness. I go across, buying myself groceries, a torch, a notepad and a packet of pens, the old guy on the till growling in his best New York fashion.

  ‘You not got something smaller, buddy?’

  I make an apologetic face. ‘Sorry, friend. It’s all I’ve got.’

  The old guy mak
es a face, then rummages through his till, hiding the hundred-dollar bill beneath the tray, before handing me my change.

  I was going to head straight back, settle in and make myself supper, only I notice a bar, a few shops further on. A cosy-looking place. The kind you find scattered all over New York in this place and time.

  Why not? I could have a steak and a beer, perhaps.

  Yeah … but what if DeSario turns up while you’re gone?

  That’s a risk I’m going to take. Besides, the mere thought of a steak is too much for me after all I’ve been through.

  Okay. Let me make this clear. There’s not a moment I’m not thinking of them. Agonising. Wondering how I can get out of there and rescue them. Only …

  Only a man has to eat. Whatever age he’s trapped in.

  I walk across. There’s a neon sign above the window. Joe’s Bar, it reads, as if it could be called anything else.

  I go inside.

  It’s small. One long room with a bar to the left and a row of tables and chairs to the right. It’s also unexpectedly empty. Or almost so. There’s a barman cleaning glasses, a small, stout, bald-headed man in his forties, and, sat on a stool at the far end of the bar, his one and only customer.

  My instinct is to turn about and leave. Only that would seem strange, impolite. Not that the barman seems to notice that I’m there. He doesn’t even look up, just continues to clean glasses, the clink of which is just about audible over the sound from the small TV screen that’s just behind the bar.

  Yes, and to add to my awkwardness, I’ve a heavy bag of shopping. I’ve only taken two steps towards the bar when I’m hailed. ‘Hey, buddy! Let me buy you a drink!’

  There’s a small part of me that’s deeply suspicious. I don’t know the fellow, after all, and what better way for Kolya to keep tabs on me than to have his men scattered all about the area? In bars and shops and on the streets nearby. Watching me. Keeping tabs.

  I go across. He’s younger than the barman. Mid-thirties at the most. A tall, rather handsome young man, in a dark grey suit, the jacket of which is laid over the back of the bar stool, a packet of Tareyton Long Lights – cigarettes, I’m guessing – on the counter next to his wallet.