The Master of Time: Roads to Moscow: Book Three

by David Wingrove

  And then there’s me.

  Gods, I look so Russian in that shot, dressed in my white full-length linen Tolstovka shirt, my features hidden behind a full growth of beard, my skin burned dark by the sun.

  I sigh, moved deeply by the sight. I have no memory of that day. For all I know that day is yet to come, and that thought ought to bring me joy, only …

  Only I can’t believe it. If the loop is broken, will all of this be gone?

  I turn the page.

  And there we are again, inside this time, hand in hand as ever, our fingers interlocked, Razumovsky – my darling’s father – sat in a chair, tankard in hand, beer froth on his beard, laughing, drunk no doubt, as we lean towards him, glasses raised, celebrating.

  Celebrating what? A good harvest? A birthday? A new child?

  Again, this is yet to come. Is in some other life. A life I’ve yet to live. Only is that really so?

  Seeing these images ought to bring me comfort. Ought to make me feel that Fate is on my side. On my team. Only there’s Kolya, and we have died once already at his hands. So who’s to say?

  Unravel one tiny part of it and what follows? Will it all come undone? Will these images fade on the page? Will they simply vanish, along with us? Or are they locked in tight?

  I close the book.

  This scares me. Is this some game of his to destabilise me? To kick my legs away from under me and make me fall? Are these images designed to trouble me? Because there are more questions than answers here. I mean, why not be more direct? Why this?

  Yes, and who took these? Who, out of all of those we knew, could have got this close to us, this intimate, yet not been seen? Not anyone from the thirteenth century, that’s for certain. The technology alone says no. So who?

  My mind casts about for answers, only there are none.

  Mischief … it’s all mischief.

  Which, on the surface of it, seems like one of Reichenau’s japes. The man loves to be cruel, and what better way of being so than to show us what he plans to take away? Our lives, our love, and all that we hold dear.

  I summon Svetov and ask him if any among the Russians know how the album got there. If one of them found it maybe and brought it back to Yastryeb. He takes it from me a moment, flicking through, amazed by it as much as I, then hands it back.

  ‘I’ll see what I can find out.’

  He leaves, and is back in moments. ‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘No one’s got a clue how it got there. Yastryeb himself must have found it.’

  I thank him and, once he’s gone, settle with the book, working through the photos methodically. There are a quite a few I can put a place and time to, especially those set in Cherdiechnost, of which there are many, but there are half a dozen or more that I can’t place. And as for the final picture, that is strange indeed, for it shows Katerina in militaristic garb, standing before an ancient schloss, a massive needle-gun clutched to her chest.

  I don’t recognise the background, but then that is what my experts are good at – Russian and German – and, making a copy of the picture, I get them to work on locating just where and when it was taken.

  And in the meantime I decide to go in after Kolya.

  395

  Saratov comes to see me at my summons. He listens while I spell out what I want, then beams a smile back at me. ‘I’ve just the team.’

  And within half an hour they’re there, stood in Yastryeb’s old rooms, attendant to my every word.

  Five young Russians, all of them women, all of them totally unknown to me before that moment. But Saratov promises that they’re the best. And so he introduces them – Izolda, who is lean and tall with ash-blonde hair; Darya, who is small and dark with arms like a wrestler; Klara, who blushes when I give her my hand; Anzhelika, who could quite easily be Izolda’s sister; and Sofia, clearly the eldest of them and the leader, for it’s she the others look to. All five wear furs and carry heavy weaponry. They’re not, any of them, the world’s most beautiful women. No, they’re peasant stock to the bone, and, like their menfolk, they seem unfazed by whatever lies ahead. Volunteers, Saratov confides, speaking quietly to my ear. Volunteers and utterly reliable.

  ‘Where have you been serving?’ I ask, looking to Sofia.

  ‘Here and there,’ she says vaguely, her face set like stone. ‘Why? Where do you plan to go?’

  I like that. Like her defiant spirit. ‘Mantua,’ I answer.

  ‘Why Mantua? And when?’

  ‘Why? Because he’s there. Or was. As to when … sometime in the early fifteenth century. You know the place?’

  I see how they look to each other, then all shake their heads. A team. Clearly a long-established team.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I quickly say. ‘We’re going to go in beforehand. Get acclimatised. But discreetly. We don’t want to tip him off.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then we kill him. If we can.’

  ‘Him?’

  ‘Kolya.’ And I hand her the drawing I’ve made of the man and see how they pass it, one to another, then look to me again.

  ‘What did he do?’ Klara asks.

  ‘The bastard killed me. Me and Katerina.’

  396

  Mantua, before the great war that destroyed it all, was a small north Italian town, east of Milan and west of Venice, and, at the time we’re talking of, it was ruled by a single family, the Gonzagas. In 1459, Pope Pius the Second convened the Council of Mantua where he proclaimed a new crusade against the Turks. It’s at this time that Kolya was there – or rather, one of his ‘brothers’. From what we know, he’s there as part of the Pope’s entourage, but with Kolya the detail is always vague. Look too closely and the man tends to vanish, along with anyone related to him.

  We jump in, one after another, after dark, meeting up to the south of the town, on the far side of the three lakes that form Mantua’s defences. Built in the twelfth century, they’re Mantua’s special feature, but they’re not going to stop us. We wait there while Darya inflates the raft, looking across at the town, which, reflected in the water, is more beautiful than ever. We’re dressed for the age, in woollen knee-length tunics. The women, having had their hair cut short, ape the look of men, of common peasants from this age. It’s a style that has changed little since the late Roman era and it’s easy to blend into the background, but we’re taking no chances.

  The raft inflated, we climb in and paddle slowly, silently across the Lago di Mezzo, disembarking on the far shore, beneath the high wall.

  ‘Okay,’ I say quietly. ‘You all know what to do, yes?’

  There are nods. We’ve rehearsed this several times in the past two weeks, but this is the first live run; the first time we’ve been here, in Mantua itself.

  ‘Okay,’ I say again. ‘Then let’s have a look about. If you’re challenged, come away at once, and if you really, really have to, jump out of there. Otherwise, the point is to acclimatise. To get us used to Mantua. And to try and find out where that bastard’s holed up. Because next time we’re here …’

  Only I don’t have to say. They know. Next time out it’ll be kill or be killed.

  As it is, they’re carrying weapons. Just in case. Crossbows and swords and daggers. Things that don’t make a noise. That won’t start alarm bells sounding in Kolya’s camp – wherever that might be.

  I watch them turn away and vanish, blending into the night. It’s dark – moonless – but that doesn’t matter. We’re all wearing adaptable night-sight lenses.

  I stand there a moment longer, wondering where the bastard is, what he’s doing at that moment, and whether they are here with him. Prisoners. Chained to some dank wall in a lightless dungeon.

  Just the thought of it’s too much. For a moment I stand there, swaying. Then, knowing what I must do, I move on, heading after them, down through the narrow backstreets of this ancient, medieval town, looking for the man who holds my future happiness in his hands, knowing that if we meet it will be he or I.

  397

>   I stand, in the entrance to the great square, looking across at the Palazzo Ducale. Even this late there are still stalls out and people, drinking and talking and laughing. I look across and see Sofia and Izolda on the far side of that great, cobbled space, watching as they slip inside the palace building, Sofia taking one last glance around before she’s gone.

  Klara and Anzhelika are over to my left, in the far corner. Like the others, their shadowed forms are marked with a glowing circle that only we can see. A precaution, just so that we don’t shoot our own.

  And Darya is …

  I look about me, trying to locate her. Only there’s no sign. Has she been delayed somehow? Has some over-zealous guard stopped her?

  Only there’s no way I can communicate with her. For these live runs we’re ‘radio silent’, and have to be. What’s more likely to tip Kolya off, after all, than to have the medieval airwaves filled with communications chatter?

  I head towards where she is supposed to be, hurrying now, then slow as she emerges from one of the side-alleys, two men – locals, presumably – following her a step or two, gesturing threateningly, then falling back as they see me approach.

  ‘You okay?’ I ask in a whisper.

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

  We hurry on, counting the entrances to our left before ducking quickly inside, into the musty, lamp-lit corridors of the Gonzagas’ palace.

  There are guards everywhere, but this late they’re inattentive, or simply dozing. Mantua is sleepy, its guardians – at least on this lowest level – less than watchful. Even so, we need to take care.

  Upstairs, behind locked doors, is the Gonzaga family’s wealth. Paintings mainly, but gold, too, and jewels. But we’re not interested in any of that. We’re looking for the Pope’s guest suite.

  We have ten minutes to locate it, and then we’re out of here, hopefully unseen.

  We stop at a kind of crossroads, one broad corridor leading away, another leading on. There are voices up ahead and drunken, raucous laughter. I send Darya on, then follow at a small distance, knife drawn, but the revellers, sat about a table in the room to our left, pay no attention.

  ‘Mantuans,’ Darya says, when I’ve caught up with her again.

  I nod and hurry on, hearing her steady breathing behind me, then slow. There are guards, at the next turn of the corridor. Two men in papal silks.

  I look to Darya and nod. This is one way in. Only as we turn to leave, one of the men steps forward and calls out to us.

  ‘You … What are you doing here?’

  I step forward, my body folded into a cringing bow, answering him in the local dialect of Italian I have practised. ‘Master, forgive me, but we were sent for.’

  ‘Sent for?’

  My eyes study the man. There’s no trace of Kolya in this one. No resemblance whatsoever.

  ‘We were told there was an accident. Some plates …’

  ‘Come here,’ he says. ‘Beneath the lamp where I can see you properly.’

  I do as I’m told, my right hand on the hilt of my knife as the guard thrusts his face into my own. ‘Peasants,’ he says, turning away and waving us through dismissively.

  We bow once more, then hurry on. There are stairs, at the top of which are more guards, and this time …

  There’s a bright flash, and the smell of burning ozone fills the air. Darya cries out and stumbles forward, then vanishes.

  I turn, seeing the figure on the turn of the stairs, behind the carved marble of the balustrade. A tall, gaunt figure, his left hand raised, holding a needle-gun.

  Fuck!

  The two guards on my level are shrieking now, terrified, certain that they’re witnessing some major sorcery, but I’m not waiting for the bastard to fire again. I’m out of there …

  And back in an instant, wearing a laser-shield, a heavy duty laser aimed at where Kolya’s ‘brother’ was only a moment before. Only he’s gone.

  Klara jumps in, then Sofia, and suddenly there are a group of agents up above us on the turn of the stairs, firing down at us, even as we fill the air with burning threads.

  Fuck!

  There’s an awful smell of burning flesh, and shrieks and—

  ‘Out of here!’ I yell. And just like that we’re back, in Moscow Central.

  Or four of us are.

  I look to Saratov. Dead, he mouths. And even as he says it, so I see our agents jumping back, to bring the bodies home.

  Darya, I realise. And who else? Klara is here and Sofia and …

  Anzhelika …

  I groan, seeing the sorrow in those young women’s eyes. It was just a dry-run. Things weren’t supposed to kick off in that fashion. And how did that fucker know? Because he was on to us immediately, like we’d tripped some kind of alarm.

  How does the bastard do it? How is it that he’s always a step ahead?

  We send a team back to Mantua the day before the firefight and find it changed, the Pope and his entourage nowhere to be seen. Kolya and his brothers gone.

  And it’s not just Mantua. Wherever there’s been a trace of Kolya – wherever he’s set up his defenders to protect the genetic line – there’s now no sign of him. As if he’s been erased from history. Only I’m pretty sure that isn’t so.

  Master Schnorr reports to me, only hours later, to tell me that gaps have begun to appear in his record of Kolya’s ancestry. Kolya, it seems, is moving his ancestors about, resettling them in new towns, making it harder to trace them and track them down.

  Or at least, that’s what Old Schnorr thinks he’s doing.

  For myself I think that maybe our tactics are beginning to work. With our recently combined forces of Russians and Germans I know we have a numerical superiority over Kolya, and that it’s only a question of time until we make that count. Only before I can go back in and make a new attempt to cut his ancestral lines, I get news from Svetov, about the photograph. The one of Katerina.

  They’ve traced the location and narrowed down the time to within fifteen years. The place? Wewelsburg, in old Westphalia. The time? Sometime in late 1942.

  ‘You want to go in?’ Svetov asks.

  Do I want to go in? I almost laugh, only my mouth is dry and my hands are trembling now.

  ‘Why so vague?’ I ask.

  ‘About the time?’ Svetov shrugs. ‘Because it’s her. Katerina. We felt, well, that you’d want to take the last few steps.’

  I nod. It’s sensitive on their part. ‘Organise it,’ I say, and Svetov nods, then leaves the room.

  398

  Waiting for my agents to come back with the precise timing of the photograph seems the longest time of my life.

  Why?

  I reason it thus. If I can only get to her I can find out where Kolya took her and then go back and rescue her. That is, unless the picture itself is faked. But then, why should it be? And if it is real, then I really do have a chance of finding and saving her.

  As I look back through the pages of the album, I realise that the pictures have been changing in subtle ways. Or is that my imagination? For a while I think that must be so, only then I see it. I actually see one of the images change, right before my eyes – not by much, admittedly, but enough to let me know I’d not imagined it.

  And then, finally, they come – to advise me that they have made a sighting of a woman approximating to Katerina’s description.

  ‘They couldn’t get close enough, but …’

  I go in. To Wewelsburg in April 1942, and find myself on a wooded hillside, watching as an assault is launched on the ancient schloss by a group of men and women dressed in black. Slipping among them, I finally confront her.

  Katerina. My love.

  She takes me aside, unsurprised to find me there, then tells me what I need to know.

  ‘Only you must be careful,’ she says. ‘Take one wrong step and it will all collapse. Act rashly and the loop will fold in upon itself.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ I ask, and she tells me to ask young Moseley.
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  ‘Moseley knows,’ she says. ‘He’s worked it all out. Or will do. They even have a diagram. But there are two paths and you must choose wisely. One leads here. The other …’

  And she smiles her beautiful smile and holds me briefly, letting me kiss her, the simple warmth of her – her scent – enough to drive me mad.

  ‘Now go,’ she says, her fingers lingering on my arm. ‘Find me. Save me. But be very careful. It’s all very fragile from this point on. Make no assumptions, Otto. It can jump either way. That’s the beauty of it. And the danger. But be of brave heart, my love, and I’ll see you here again. When it all comes round.’

  And she turns and is gone.

  399

  I jump back, then summon Moseley, who does explain it all. Time, it seems, operates much as the rest of the universe, only ‘with negative values’. Even so, it is ruled – like the smallest particles of the physical universe – by the uncertainty principle.

  ‘The loop you’re in, Otto, might indeed – as Katerina warned – collapse in upon itself, and everything dissolve like smoke. It is up to you now, by your actions, to make that loop real.’

  ‘Have you seen this?’ I ask, handing him the album. ‘It’s changing all the while.’

  ‘Changing?’ Only as he opens it, his eyes widen with delight. ‘Changing … ah …’

  ‘You’ll look at it, yes? See what sense you can make of it?’

  ‘I’ll try my best …’

  400

  And then it comes. A note, sent through time, from Katerina, telling me where she and my daughters are being held.

  It is in her writing, her hand, elseways I’d not believe it. And so the four of us – Ernst, Svetov, Urte and myself – jump back to see what we can find.

  It is late evening when we go in. The place? The Teutoburg Forest in northern Germany. The time? The late summer of AD 9. It is the day before the great battle in the forest between the German tribal leader Arminius and Publius Quinctilius Varus’ three great Roman legions – a battle which the Germans won, utterly destroying the pride of Rome’s army and ending the Emperor Augustus’ expansion into the northern wilderness.