The Master of Time: Roads to Moscow: Book Three

by David Wingrove

  Da Vinci looks eternal.

  Seeing me, noting how the others look to me, saluting me with the slightest bowing of the head, da Vinci meets my eyes.

  ‘Are you their prince?’ he asks, the fifteenth-century Italian followed an instant later by the translated words.

  ‘Their master,’ I say and smile, for I have never felt so undeserving of the title.

  ‘And this is?’ He gestures to the room about him. A very Italian gesture, part shrug, part expression of his contempt.

  ‘A room,’ I answer, and realise how inadequate that sounds. ‘A room existent in the future.’

  And he laughs, as if he’s in a conversation with a madman. A madman who amuses him. ‘And you can prove that?’

  ‘Do I need to?’

  He’s silent a moment, then changes the subject. ‘Why exactly am I here? You want me to work for you? Is that it?’

  ‘In a fashion …’

  And surely the fact that we are talking – that our words are being translated even as we utter them, forming a whisper in the air – ought to convince him that something’s happening, something very odd indeed. But the Great Man plays it all very cool.

  I note that Old Schnorr has followed me into the room, and turn and take his slate from him, then hand it to da Vinci.

  ‘Here,’ I say. ‘Just touch the surface.’

  He takes it. Touches. Then studies it a while, a sudden intensity to him that was not there just an instant before. And then he looks to me again.

  ‘A room … in the future, yes?’

  I nod.

  ‘How far into the future?’

  ‘Fifteen hundred years.’

  If I expect him to be surprised, I’m disappointed. He considers it a moment, then looks back at the slate, touching it gently, then looking to me.

  ‘You draw it across with your fingertips,’ I say, and, taking the slate from him, show him.

  ‘Ah …’ he says, then, for the next ten minutes, he is silent, his hand moving over the surface of the lit-up screen, summoning things then sending them away. Getting it immediately.

  ‘Interesting,’ he says, handing it back.

  ‘This is Pauli,’ I say, introducing his companion. ‘Wolfgang Pauli. He was a great scientist in his time.’ Only I can see the word means nothing to da Vinci.

  Pauli smiles uncertainly, then nods to me in gratitude for making the attempt.

  ‘Can I try one of those things?’ he asks, putting out a hand.

  I give him the slate, then watch as he too toys with it a while. And then he looks up at me and grins.

  ‘The future, huh?’

  ‘And we’re fighting a war,’ I say. ‘In Time. And we need your help …’

  And I see how both men look to me, taking that in, before turning to meet each other’s eyes.

  ‘A war, eh?’ da Vinci says, and nods as if he suddenly understands. ‘A war against whom?’

  355

  All of this, I’ll admit, has taken my mind off other things. Tracking down Reichenau is my number one priority, and the veche have given me – their Master, summoned to attend their meeting again – permission to go back to 2343 and pursue him at any cost.

  But there’s one thing I need to do before I leave. I have to go and see Gehlen again. To try to persuade him – against his wishes – to cut Moseley from the list.

  And so I go, back to that room with its gaseous presence. Back among the living dead.

  ‘No,’ Gehlen says as I step inside, the cold air wreathing me, making me shiver.

  ‘No?’ For, of course, he has access to every small exchange throughout Four-Oh. ‘But Master Schnorr says …’

  ‘Bugger Master Schnorr,’ he says. ‘I need every name on that list. And six more …’

  ‘Six more!’

  ‘Yes, and especially Moseley. Oh, and tell Master Schnorr that we’ve resources enough, and that far from stretching us thin, this will make us much stronger, much more capable of carrying out our campaign against that abomination, the doppelgehirn.’

  I make to open my mouth to speak, but he makes a tutting sound, like I should know better.

  ‘Enough, Otto. Now go and do something useful, like sending out agents to bring back the new additions. And Moseley. Make sure you get Moseley.’

  And that’s it. I am dismissed.

  Back in Hecht’s rooms, I summon Ernst and Master Schnorr, and tell them what Gehlen said. How insistent he was. Only when I come to the question of additions, they are up in arms.

  ‘Like whom?’ Ernst asks.

  And, reading from Gehlen’s new list, I answer. ‘Max Planck … and Thomas Edison … and Aristotle …’

  At which both men look to each other and make a face as if to imply Gehlen must have taken leave of his senses.

  ‘Aristotle?’

  ‘Yes. And Moseley …’

  That draws a complete blank.

  ‘Henry Moseley,’ I say, meaning to look him up at some point.

  ‘Ah …’

  There’s an awkward pause, then:

  ‘Newton arrived, while you were gone,’ Ernst says. ‘And Rutherford’s next to be extracted. Urd preserve us, Otto, there won’t be a single bona fide genius left in the timestream if this goes on!’

  ‘No.’ And the thought of it amazes and amuses me. Simply to see who works best with whom, what friendships will be formed, and what this group of exceptional men will come up with. Maybe Gehlen was right after all. And besides, if he said we had sufficient resources, who was I to challenge that? Who knew better than Gehlen?

  I look to Old Schnorr. ‘Do whatever’s necessary to make them comfortable. Never mind the resources.’

  And I turn to Ernst. ‘You’ve heard, yes? About 2343. About us going in again. The veche have agreed it.’

  ‘Yes?’ But I can see he is unhappy about this. He fears I’ll be out of my depth, going in among the Mechanists. More than that, he fears for my life.

  ‘I’m to leave within the hour,’ I say. ‘Just as soon as I’ve got my stuff ready.’

  ‘Otto?’

  ‘Yes, Ernst?’

  ‘Don’t let what you feel lead you to make mistakes.’

  356

  And so I jump back to 2343, into the toilet compartment of a high-speed monorail, heading east toward Neu Berlin.

  Outside, the rain is falling heavily. I stand there a moment, hands pressed against the cold glass, feeling the powerful movement of the train, looking out at the long chain of gun-emplacements that shadow the track and, further off, a kilometre or so to the north, the redoubts – black anti-missile silos – which form a defensive ‘wall’, symbols of a deeply paranoid age. Here and there their line is broken by massive factories, their chimneys piercing the clouds, their energy-taps deep-rooted in the earth, dark smoke and blood-red flame giving them a satanic look.

  The papers in my document case say that I’m a senior geneticist from the institute in Cologne, and as I go back out to the carriage, so one of the do-hu – the domesticated humans – helps me find a seat and stow my case.

  I smile at the three men seated about the table, then sit, knowing better than to introduce myself. This time I am thoroughly prepared. Unlike the last time I visited the Akademie, on this visit I am to go to the very heart of things. In my jacket pocket is a letter inviting me to a special gathering of all the leading geneticists, in the Reichstag. The event is to be hosted by the president himself. It is, as I know all too well, a critical conference. Laws will be discussed here; laws that, in the coming years, will be passed – laws that have their basis in this grand meeting of geneticists.

  My real purpose, however, is to meet some of these men – the leading experimental geneticists of this age. To get as close as I can to them. For one of them, I’m sure, will know about Reichenau. Why, they might even have operated on him and made him into the doppelgehirn he became. And this conference – the most famous of its time – is my best chance of getting that information.

 
Nor is my presence – on this train, at this table, in this carriage – un-planned, for sharing this table are three others who are going to that conference, including one of my prime targets, Theoretician Fischer.

  Fischer sits across from me now, his eyes closed, listening to the plug-in that coils from out of his neck and re-enters his head just behind his left ear. In his seventies now, his great shock of grey hair swept back neatly, he looks serene, controlled. But while he is possessed of a vast intellect, he is also a somewhat pompous man.

  More Leibniz than Galileo.

  That said, like almost everyone in a senior position in this future state, Fischer is a fanatical adherent of genetics. A member of the Weimar Institute – the leading academic and experimental college of its time – Fischer has made numerous trips to the Akademie to give lectures, and it is quite likely that he was involved in the doppelgehirn experiments. I say quite likely, for while we have sent back agents to watch him, it hasn’t been possible to ascertain exactly what he was involved in on the numerous times he was here. Whatever was done was done within a veil of strict secrecy, and so his participation in such experiments remains conjecture.

  But if I can get close to the man – if I can win his confidence and his trust – then maybe I might coax it from him in casual conversation.

  It’s a long shot, but worth trying.

  Time passes, and then the old man opens his eyes. He catches me staring at him and – somewhat annoyed at being exposed to my eyes – stares directly and disdainfully past me, as if dismissing me.

  It’s a bad start, I realise, and there’s only one way to put it right.

  I lower my head and avert my eyes, then utter an apology.

  ‘Forgive me, Theoretician Fischer. I was lost in my thoughts just then. I didn’t mean …’

  He raises a hand to curtail me.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he says, though I can see it’s not.

  I say no more. Make no attempt to communicate further with the man. I’ve blown the one chance I had of gaining his trust, maybe his friendship. Oh, I could jump back in and start again, only that might draw attention from just those we don’t want attending.

  I sigh, and for a moment there is only the smooth, powerful movement of the train, that and the distant murmur of conversation from further down the carriage.

  ‘You are?’

  I look up, surprised to find Fischer addressing me.

  I give him the fake name I’ve adopted for this incursion, then take the falsified letter from my jacket pocket and hand it across.

  ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘I see …’ And hands it back. ‘I’ve never heard of you before, Meister Kroos. What’s your specialty?’

  I make to answer him, noting the hardness behind his smile. He doesn’t like me. Has still not forgiven me for finding him so open. So this sudden interest in me is … what? Political, I’d say. An exercise in making good. In not creating potential enemies. Which, until he knows more about me, I clearly am.

  His pleasantry is a pretence. But then, so is mine.

  ‘My work has none of the grand sweep of your own, Theoretician,’ I say, making no attempt to be subtle in my flattery. ‘It is, I’d argue, of the very narrowest range.’

  ‘Go on …’

  I glance at the fellow seated at Fischer’s side, then meet Fischer’s eyes once more.

  ‘My work is on the hox genes. On the ramifications of making slight adjustments to their function.’

  ‘The hox genes, eh?’ And Fischer unexpectedly laughs. ‘It could not be narrower, neh? And that is your … area of study?’

  I smile. ‘It could not, and yes it is.’

  Fischer laughs again. ‘And you are to give a paper on this … expertise?’

  ‘I am.’

  That is, if I have to. If they ask me. But I hope they don’t, because what I know about the hox genes is as basic as it comes. Nor does it take too long before I find myself at the very edge of my knowledge, left staring over the abyss as Fischer asks me about ‘transcription factor cascade’.

  I hesitate, then sigh with relief as a steward approaches us, to ask what we would like to eat. I smile as Fischer takes the menu from the man and scans it, his recent presbyopia suddenly revealed by the way he holds it slightly away from him.

  Which is interesting, because it would be very easy to correct his eyesight, and yet he hasn’t had it done.

  Meaning?

  I’m not sure what it means. Whether he’s afraid to have surgery, maybe?

  ‘The pork dish,’ he says to the steward, and hands the menu to me. Then, lowering his voice. ‘Did you know that Hausmann is giving a speech at the conference? Nothing official, and by invitation only, but … you know Hausmann?’

  The fact is, I do, but I am shocked to learn this. It isn’t in the history books. Yet it explains a lot. Particularly his spectacular rise to power in the late 2340s. If he had the ear of such influential men as Fischer …

  ‘The pork for me, too,’ I say, handing the menu on to the fellow next to me.

  Turning to Fischer again, I smile. ‘I read his Against Random Chance just a month back. The man expresses himself well.’

  ‘Doesn’t he.’ And this time the warmth in Fischer’s eyes is genuine. ‘You would like to come, then?’

  I feign delight, but the truth is, I am more than happy at the way this has suddenly developed. Germany in the Mechanist Age is a crypto-fascist state, but Hausmann would take things even further. He is the leading exponent of what he calls a ‘sculpted society’ – the results of which can be seen in Manfred’s Germany, several centuries on. His theory of ‘social health’ is nothing less than a ‘purification’ programme, a cleverly worded justification for taking whatever actions he might deem necessary to take. That, or an advanced and extreme form of eugenics. To hear the man in person and possibly even speak to him, that would be an insight into what’s happening here. Only … it’s not why I’m here. I’m here to find Reichenau. To track him down through one of these men.

  But meeting Hausmann in camera, so to speak … that might be one way in.

  ‘I’d be most grateful,’ I say. ‘Most grateful indeed, Theoretician.’ And bow my head, as the monorail powers its way on to Neu Berlin.

  357

  We part company at the Potsdamer Bahnhof, Theoretician Fischer whipped off in a limousine to attend some important function while I seek out a cab to take me to the Akademie. But even as I try and locate the taxi rank, so I find myself aware that I’m being shadowed. Or think I am. Then I glimpse one of our agents and, finding an empty stall in the public toilets, leave my case, jumping right out of there, back to Four-Oh.

  Svetov and Ernst are there at the platform when I come through, both men looking somewhat sheepish. They are contrite, but I’m really angry.

  ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Even if the enemy weren’t looking for me, surrounding me with half a dozen of our agents would alert them, don’t you think?’

  ‘We thought …’ Ernst begins, but I shut him up.

  ‘Well don’t! I’ve made a really good contact with Theoretician Fischer, and I don’t want that spoiled. So call off the bodyguards. If I’m in trouble, I’ll jump straight out of there. Otherwise leave me to do what I’m good at. Okay?’

  The two of them look to each other, unhappy, then Svetov shrugs. ‘Okay. But don’t take any unnecessary chances—’

  Only I barely hear them. I’m out of there, back to the cubicle in Potsdamer Bahnhof.

  358

  Where, gathering up my case, I leave the toilets …

  … and walk straight into two security guards, dressed head to toe in black leather. They grab hold of me and arrest me on the spot, on suspicion of being a spy.

  I can’t imagine how they got on to me so quickly, but I have to go along with them. Despite what I said to Ernst and Svetov, I can’t just jump out of there – not in so public a fashion – because that would blow the whole operation.

  I’m taken
to the police fortress in Potsdam, a very different Potsdam from the one I knew back in the eighteenth century, all high rises and soaring towers. There, beneath the arc lights, in an unfurnished cell, a senior member of the Schutzstaffel, Ulrich Gress, greets me cordially.

  ‘Meister Kroos …’

  Gress is a pleasant, well-mannered man, who apologises profusely for having arrested me, but says that there’s been a tip-off and that they simply have to make sure.

  As I sit there, facing him across the desk, he studies my ID – again, a perfect fake – then hands it back to me, telling me he needs to make some calls.

  He leaves, but he’s back in minutes, apologising once more for my inconvenience.

  ‘I’m sorry, Meister. It’s not how we’d like it, but we can’t afford to ignore anything these days. Why, there was an attempt on the president’s life, only two nights back.’

  That much I knew, it was in my briefing, but I act as if I’m shocked, and who knows whether he’s fooled or not, but he tells me I’m free to leave, and that he will fly me to the Akademie if that helps.

  I’d be churlish, of course, to refuse, but all the way across he subtly questions me, under the guise of being interested in who I am and what I’m doing here.

  I play along with his little game. Only something about the man makes me suspicious in a different way.

  What if he’s one of Reichenau’s men?

  It’s unlikely. Then again, what better guise could he have than as an SS officer? What better way of having constant access to me and my doings here?

  As we’re flying, I try to glimpse whether Gress has a pendant about his neck, but it’s impossible to see beneath the collar of his uniform.

  ‘If you need anything,’ he says, as I make to disembark in the forecourt of the Gast Gebaud, the ‘Guest Building’. And he hands me a slip of plastic which holds all his details.

  ‘Thank you, Oberlieutenant.’

  And in a moment he is gone, leaving me alone.

  I turn full circle, taking it all in. Other fliers are descending onto the massive pad, dropping like great black lozenges through the darkness between the monolithic buildings, their lamps cutting great swathes of light through that blackness. I move away, heading towards the brightly lit entrance to the Gast Gebaud.