The Master of Time: Roads to Moscow: Book Three

by David Wingrove

  ‘Okay. That’s great. But what use is it?’

  It’s young Moseley who answers. ‘We’re working on special antibodies. What you might term bacteriological toxins. Things that are harmless to us, but would be deadly to him.’

  ‘And how do we pass these on?’

  Ernst smiles. ‘That’s where you come in, Otto. We’re sending you to Krasnogorsk, Otto. All you have to do is breathe on him.’

  Only I know, instinctively, that it’s never going to be that easy.

  438

  While they’re busy preparing things, I see my girls who are ‘camped out’ in the care-room where baby Zarah is being kept.

  The ‘room’ is kept isolated from the rest of Moscow Central, two full-sized air-locks making sure that no harmful bacteria spread through the nichtraum.

  Inside is a room I know well. I have been here often, over the years. It is always as big as it needs to be: never too large, never too small, constantly adapting to its usage.

  Urte is in charge of the nurses, and I see at a glance that she’s set up a big king-sized double bed for Katerina and the girls, right up alongside Zarah’s cot.

  They don’t notice me at first, but then Anna does. She squeals with excitement. ‘Daddy!’

  It’s the signal for the three girls to rush across and cling on to me, giving me hugs and kisses, encouraging each other in their enthusiasm. I laugh, delighted, and look past them towards Katerina, who looks on, a loving kindness in her eyes.

  Despite showering and their new clothes, my girls look a ragamuffin crew, far too thin, all of them hardened by their experiences. Changed.

  A regular wolf pack, they’ve become. Fierce and wild.

  The three of them clinging to me, I carry them across and plump myself down on the bed beside Katerina, my arm about her shoulders, kissing her tenderly, even as the girls cling ever closer to the two of us.

  ‘How is she?’ I ask.

  ‘Okay … they say she’ll live.’

  Young Zarah looks deathly pale still, lying there in her cot. For now they are keeping her in an induced coma until the toxins have cleared themselves from her system, which could be days yet.

  As if on cue, Consultant Bauer comes over. He’s a tall, studious-looking man of fifty-plus years, with a patch over his left eye. It’s something he could easily have repaired, but he’s rather proud of it.

  Standing beside the cot, he puts a hand down to feel young Zarah’s brow.

  I know Kurt Bauer well. He was a good time agent in his day, and an even better surgeon. He has brought me back from the dead three times, not to speak of the dozen or so times he has put me back together again.

  ‘She’s doing very well, considering,’ he says, smiling down at the pale shape of my daughter. ‘She was very weak. I don’t think she was fed for six or seven days, not to speak of the scars.’

  ‘Scars?’ I look to Katerina, who looks down, then back to Bauer.

  ‘I’d not say this, Otto, not in front of the girls, but they already know. It was Natalya who noticed it first.’ He pauses, then, ‘She was tortured, Otto. Things separate from the severed hand … oh, and we can grow that back, don’t worry.’

  ‘Tortured?’ He nods, the smile gone. ‘Burns and cuts. Small things but … well, I should imagine it was terrifying. That man …’

  I nod. But I am shocked by this latest news. Tortured. How the fuck could you torture a child of three?

  I turn to face my girls, and now that I look at them I see how different they are. Very different. Now, when I look in their eyes, I see shadows there, shadows and scars.

  Katerina leans forward. ‘Girls? Go and get something to eat. Consultant Bauer will take you. I … I need to speak with your father.’

  I wait until they’re gone, then turn to face her, taking both of her hands in mine.

  ‘So?’

  ‘You need to know,’ she says. ‘The things that happened to them. That were done to them. We’ve been talking about it. As far as we could, anyway.’

  I stare at her, astonished, wanting both to know and not to know.

  ‘Irina started it. Last night. She had been dreaming. Having nightmares. She woke the others and they woke me. And then we talked. Reluctantly, at first, but then …’

  Katerina takes a long, shuddering breath, then begins, and by the time she’s done I am gripping her fingers tightly in my own. My darlings. My poor, poor darlings.

  ‘And that’s it,’ she says.

  But now that I know these things I cannot settle. I want to kill him, of course I do, but it’s much more than that. Once he’s dead there will be others. Similar-minded bastards who enjoy tormenting others. And am I to kill them all?

  ‘I was hoping to take them home, back to Cherdiechnost, but Ernst says they can’t guarantee our safety. Not while Kolya is still alive. So here we stay.’

  ‘It won’t be long,’ I say, trying to reassure her. But we’ve been fighting our corner of Time for near on three hundred years now, so who’s to say?

  ‘I need to go,’ I say, kissing her and holding her tight against me. ‘There are things to attend to. But I’ll be back. I promise you, my love.’

  And so I leave her there, in safe hands. Only as I make my way back to the platform, I wonder why it is that I feel quite so desolate. After all, I have five of my girls back. Five more than I had hoped for, and surely that’s something to thank the gods for? Only it isn’t. I want it all. I want my darling Martha back, and that not-knowing-where-she-is is like a small death. That’s why I’m going to do what I have to do. That’s why I need to summon the veche for a special meeting.

  Because I’m not fit to be Master. Not fit at all.

  439

  Dawn finds me pacing the deck outside the big farmhouse in Tannenberg, the great sloping field of waist-length grass running down to meet the darkness of the Prussian forest.

  It is from there – from the new platform we have built – that they will come.

  And when will this happen?

  I look about me, taking in the cloudless blue of the sky, the freshness of the day. It is the eighth of October, AD 783.

  Turning, I can smell the strong scent of paint and resin, of glue and freshly sawn wood, and that same faint, burning smell I loved as a youngster in ‘the Garden’. Everything freshly made, all of it built anew to try to throw that demon Kolya off our scent.

  And all of it planned, designed and constructed while I was gone, visiting my girls. All of it decided on without consultation. By the veche. Who now come at my bidding.

  If anything, that convinces me of my course.

  I am not needed here.

  Young Saratov comes first, whistling to himself as he makes his way up through the heavy swathe of grass, his hands pushing the weight of green away from him. Halfway up the slope he sees me and raises a hand in greeting. I raise mine back at him. Here, at least, is an ally. A man who would do my bidding without question.

  Only why should he? Those days are gone for ever, along with Hecht and Yastryeb and ‘the Game’. Nor can we return to them; not if we’re to organise things differently. Only … it annoys me. Irritates like an itch under the skin, where no scratching can locate it.

  As he comes closer, he calls to me.

  ‘Otto! How are the girls?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, trying to smile. Only Martha’s shadow lies over everything I say and do. Her absence shapes my mood. And my mood is very dark.

  ‘Good,’ he says, jumping up onto the deck, then coming over to embrace me. ‘It must be good to have them back.’

  ‘It is. It really is …’

  Only…

  Only I don’t say that. Instead I turn and, with my right arm, indicate the new building. ‘When was this decided?’

  ‘Two weeks from now. It was your idea, Otto. But I guess you’ve not come to that part yet.’

  I search his eyes briefly, then shake my head and smile. ‘And there was I thinking …’

  ‘That you
were left out of the decision-making?’ Saratov shakes his head. ‘Never. We would never allow that.’

  ‘And yet the veche is divided, no?’

  He hesitates then nods, his whole mood suddenly serious. ‘I’ll tell you everything later, Otto. But for now remember this. Everything you’re about to say this morning has already been said. Said and agreed upon. And tomorrow, back at Moscow Central, Old Schnorr will come to you to try to argue you out of it.

  ‘And what will I say to that?’

  ‘Oh, of that I’ve no idea. Only that he visits you. But hey … here are more of our guests. Alina is the one in the big bearskin, Vasilisa the smaller one, in the Mechanist overalls. She’s our best marksman. She can put a hole through a man’s eye from two hundred yards.’

  I watch them approach. I’ve met Alina several times now, but the other?

  I lean closer to Saratov, keeping my voice low. ‘I don’t understand. This Vasilisa. Has she been voted in to replace someone?’

  Saratov frowns. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The other one … Alina … I remember. She was sitting at the far end of the table. But this one. I’ve never seen her before this moment. A marksman, you say?’

  ‘Markswoman,’ he answers quietly. ‘But about the other … are you serious, Otto?’

  I am. Only I say no more, for the two of them are upon us.

  Alina hugs me, asks about my girls, but the other – Vasilisa – is more reserved. She gives me her hand, then stands back, letting Alina speak for them both.

  ‘It’s gone very quiet, Meister. It feels like they’re waiting for something, gathering their strength. We’ve had dozens of agents reporting in and they all say the same thing. That it’s gone quiet. And no sign of our enemies.’

  I turn to Saratov. ‘What do our friends in the think tank say?’

  I see how he looks to the other two, and realise I’ve asked an awkward question. It’s Saratov who answers me.

  ‘They’ve gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘A week past. All, that is, except for Moseley. It was he who told us … eventually.’

  ‘Do we know why? I mean … they weren’t taken, were they?’

  And I shudder to think of them in Kolya’s hands, working for him. Only then I register what Saratov actually said. ‘A week?’

  ‘Yes. They tampered with our cameras. Made it seem like they were there, in their quarters, when they weren’t.’

  ‘I see. But gone where?’

  ‘Home, I’d guess. Seems like the novelty wore off.’

  Only that doesn’t ring true. I can’t imagine them getting bored of this. No. There’s some other explanation.

  ‘Did we manage to track them? I mean … has anyone looked into that aspect of things.’

  ‘We have,’ Alina answers. ‘In fact, I did it personally, and there’s no trace of them having left Moscow Central.’

  ‘Then they’re still there.’

  Saratov laughs. ‘How could they be? There’s no trace of them, and we’ve searched the station from one end to the other.’

  Yes, I’m thinking, but this is a nichtraum, a ‘no-space’. Consequently it does not obey the same set of physical rules as the rest of the universe. And if anyone could work out how to exist in a nichtraum without being traced, then Galileo and his friends would certainly be capable.

  ‘They’re here,’ I say. ‘In the same way Reichenau was there, in Four-Oh. The question is, how are they feeding themselves, and how are they tapping into our power and water and air supplies?’

  Saratov is nodding now. Only I’m asking other questions suddenly. Like … why? And to what end? And is that end helpful or harmful? And if harmful … then why? What have we done to them to make them turn against us?

  If that is what they’ve done.

  Zarah and Urte have arrived by now, along with Svetov. And then Ernst finally comes, along with Master Schnorr, the old man supported on Ernst’s arm.

  Eight in all, I realise, and ask what’s happened to the rest. And am told that they are far too busy to attend, especially as they know already what I’m about to say.

  Which, again, irritates me. Is no one to be relied on?

  I begin to protest, only Ernst cuts me short, drawing me aside on the pretext that he has something really important to tell me.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask impatiently when we are back indoors and out of earshot of the others.

  ‘There’s been a development,’ he says. ‘Reichenau’s people have been trying to get him back. So far without success, but we’ve doubled our watch on those timelines that lead to earlier sightings of him.’

  ‘And?’

  Ernst shrugs. ‘I’m assuming that that’s enough. The way we reason it is that if something were going to happen in that regard, it would already have happened. That monster would be back, causing trouble, and he isn’t, so …’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘But keep on this, moment by moment. Assign a team.’

  ‘It’s done,’ Ernst says, smiling.

  ‘Good. Then let’s get back and get this over with.’

  440

  It’s all done in no time. Half an hour, at most. I have my say and they listen. And then they’re gone, leaving me there, alone, no decision made, my dilemma unresolved.

  Family man or not, and changed as I’ve been by events, I am still, at core, a lone wolf, and it’s that that prevents me now from acting effectively. For how can I be Master of all when I am scarcely master of myself?

  And there are many who agree with that. Who feel I am the wrong choice. And who am I to argue with them?

  But for now I remain as Master.

  I return to Moscow Central, conscious as I climb down from the platform, that there’s a heightened sense of alertness. Armed guards are everywhere.

  Katerina and the girls are sleeping when I go to see them. For a while I just sit there, watching them, getting some sense of ease from the simple sight of them. Only this is far from done with. The worst of it lies ahead, within the loop.

  As I make to leave, so one of the nurses, a big Russian woman called Ludmilla, who I’ve not met before, calls me back and hands me something – a large envelope, containing papers.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Katerina asked me to hand it to you. If you returned.’

  Back in my rooms, I sit in Hecht’s chair, in the glow of the World Tree, feeling strangely apprehensive. It’s not like Katerina to do this kind of thing.

  I slit the envelope open. Inside are four small letters – handwritten, the writing on each quite distinct. I know those hands.

  I take the first of them – Natalya’s – and unfold it. ‘Daddy,’ it begins.

  It’s relatively brief. Six pages, front and back, ending with her love. But between …

  I shudder, then wipe the tears away. My darling. My poor, poor darling. And now that I know, I wish I didn’t. For here, written in her child-like hand, is everything that happened to her while in that monster’s charge. The whole of it, condensed into a howl of pain. Things she couldn’t say to me, face to face. Things that need a distance to be said.

  I set it aside, trembling as I pick up the second of them – Irina’s – her hand quite different from her elder sister’s. Much neater, and somehow more adult. But I remind myself, she’s only nine. ‘The things I’ve seen’ she says, and once more I wish I didn’t know, for she has seen what infant eyes should never witness. Experiments and the like. Abominable cruelty. Oh, and not only what she saw, but what she suffered, too.

  And, reading this, I feel a numbing impotence. An awful sense of helplessness. Protecting her – that was my job. That was what I was meant to do. And that’s the worst of it. To think of her, hopelessly longing for me to come and save her, day after day, month after month. And nothing. Nothing but that awful feeling of abandonment she speaks of here, that led her to despair of ever seeing any of us again. What torments she must have suffered, my poor dear, chained in that awful cage, l
ost and, it seemed, un-loved.

  Trembling, I put Irina’s account aside, then stare at the next of them, written in Anna’s rounded but shaky hand. I’m not sure I can read another word of this, for this is killing me. Each word is like a drop of acid on my soul. Only I must. This is my duty. To know and understand and maybe help prevent it ever happening again.

  Only how can I guarantee that?

  I take a long, shivering breath, then unfold it. ‘Daddy,’ it begins.

  Oh gods, and this really is the worst. For this alone I would kill the man. Kill him and then bring him back to life and kill him a thousand times again. A slow, tormenting death.

  Oh darling Anna, did he really do that to you?

  And more. Saying the unsayable. Each word a prayer for forgiveness. For surely she must have done something terribly bad to deserve such punishment. Only I know my darling Anna. There’s not a single bad atom in her, and certainly nothing to make her deserve such hideous treatment.

  ‘You cunt. You fucking cunt,’ I say, addressing the air, as if Kolya can hear me. ‘For this alone I’ll have you. I swear it.’

  And so to Zarah’s letter. Words whispered to her mother’s ear and set down. Words that finally make me understand what evil resides in that man. For no one could have done to her what he did – not if they had the smallest trace of goodness in them. Of empathy.

  No. I understand it wholly now. Kolya is a man without a spark of human decency in him. A man who can do the unthinkable and sleep soundly afterwards.

  And as I think that, so I wince with pain, recalling how he plucked her from the cart and threw her into the stream, like a discarded doll.

  A demon. I’m convinced of it now. A creature of sulphur fumes and malice.

  I turn to the last page of Zarah’s tale and find, to my astonishment, her account of where she was briefly kept, before Himki and the cart. A big, hangar-like place, at one end of which was a strange, silver vehicle with stubby wings.

  The fortress! It has to be. Upriver from St Petersburg

  It was there that Kolya gave a talk to several hundred of his ‘brothers’ who had gathered to hear what he had to say. And while she, exhausted, had had no memory of anything he said, Zarah did see something of significance.