Fulfillment (Wilton's Gold #2)

by Craig W. Turner

  Though there was no light to guide her, she deftly took uninterrupted step after step through a maze she’d walked a thousand times. The house was expansive enough that there was little need for basement storage, but Belochkin was protective of his liquor and kept vast amounts of it in a lavish collection beneath the house – Ekaterina had been sent on many an occasion to fetch a bottle for guests or for the General-Polkovnik himself. With each step now, she increased her speed, increasing her own comfort level as to her remembrance of the floor plan.

  A wraith through the darkness, she swept up the stairs and into Belochkin’s enormous kitchen that was staffed daily by as many as four cooks at one time. She remembered the parties, where the most important members of the Soviet military and Politburo would visit the compound and drink and talk politics until the early hours of the morning, the kitchen running full board until the last guest left. She remembered the belash, the borsch, the stewed fruits and the smell of various sausages, all with the perpetual clinking of glasses and dishes. It was a warm memory for her.

  The clock on the wall allowed her, for the first time since she’d arrived, to know the time. It was 8:50 p.m., which meant that Belochkin would be basketballing for another ten minutes. It afforded her a few moments to investigate, so she headed for the main stairwell. She ascended it without making a sound, as she’d known she could.

  The difficult part of this operation for Ekaterina was her disbelief that it was not all simply a fabrication. She could not rid her mind of the thoughts. Belochkin had been murdered this very night, and the story had been most recently related to her by a woman claiming to be the older version of herself. In itself, Jeff’s suggestion that not fulfilling the assassination would dramatically alter the course of world history was enough to cast doubt on the entire mission. The idea that the death of one person could have that much influence on the world was absurd. It added to her skepticism that she continued to try to bury, knowing it would serve her no good. Though she’d agreed to pursue the mission, she’d been searching for some evidence that would force her to fully believe that Evelyn’s recounting of history was accurate, casting all doubt aside. There was one place she knew she could get it.

  She came to a long, windowed corridor that offered her the option to go left or right. To the right, at the end of the hall, she knew there was a bedroom in which slept an eight year-old girl, a student of the Soviet military destined for great things. Apparently, this child had some options based on the events of that night – she would become a world-class spy or she would become a world-class scientist. Ekaterina had a preference, certainly.

  She turned away from the bedroom, however, and to the left. At the end of the corridor was a room that had been off-limits to her as a child – the only area on the entire property to which she had no access. She’d decided a long time ago that she forgave Belochkin for taking her from her parents because he offered her a much better life than they ever could have, and beyond that there was nothing in her experience with him to make her think he was a bad man. While Evelyn’s retelling did not paint a good picture of him, she could not justify killing him for things that he had yet to do. But there was a reason this room had been closed off. What was inside was what had spurred Evelyn, when she learned of it, to be decisive in her actions and take matters into her own hands. In her initial outreach to Ekaterina, she’d lamented her actions, but in an ambivalent way. She’d been confident in her decision to eliminate Belochkin, but she’d been sorrowful about its repercussions. She thought of Evelyn’s lifeless body in the brush along the compound’s fence – a point-of-view that was no longer relevant.

  At the end of the hallway was a large window that was almost unusable because of the strobe light pouring through it, but she peered outside and saw a silhouette of Belochkin, still bouncing the ball and shooting baskets. She pulled the bobby pin from her hair again and easily picked the lock on the door, entering the forbidden room for the first time in her life and closing the door smoothly and silently behind her.

  Once again, she was surrounded by darkness except for a glimmer of light coming through the two windows facing the backyard. All she could see was a series of shadows about eye level, so she slid along the wall and pulled the blinds closed over the windows so that no light entered. Then she groped along the wall for a light switch and turned it on. Fluorescents came on overhead.

  She was greeted with hundreds of pieces of paper dangling from the ceiling on different colored strings – an overwhelming display. Upon closer inspection, she realized they were a collection of magazine and newspaper articles, pages torn from encyclopedias and other books, maps. A tremendous project that must have taken Belochkin years to complete. Each of the entries was connected to others with an array of red, blue and yellow strings and, knowing that she was pressed for time, she began to attempt an analysis of the significance of the connections. Even if it wouldn’t mark Belochkin as an evil person, it would tell her an awful lot about him. And, quite possibly, herself.

  She guessed that about five minutes had passed since she’d seen the clock downstairs, which gave her five more to play with, plus roughly ten or so minutes when Belochkin would sit with his drink. She’d taken care of Evelyn, but the timing was such that she did need to act in the next several minutes and get back to Jeff and his time device to avoid any unpredictable outcomes.

  Still, she wanted to understand what she was seeing here, and afforded herself 180 seconds to do so. She picked an entry at random to start – a newspaper article about American President Nixon’s Watergate scandal – and followed a blue string.

  The story led to other moments in American history, many of which surrounded the U.S. invasion of Vietnam. She noticed she was pulling to one side of the room and thought her best bet would be to focus on the center. Cognizant of the time, she stepped back and unfocused her eyes, allowing the colors of the strings to come to the forefront, over the clippings themselves. After a moment, she saw a convergence of red, blue and yellow, and she started swiftly toward it.

  It led her to an article from 1968 about the first mass market computer, with a photo resembling something between an old typewriter and an adding machine. Not sacrificing the time to engage in the story, she followed a yellow string to a series of articles on technology – new technology and products that were beginning to hit the U.S. market in the 1960s, and backwards into the 1950s. The audio cassette player. The microchip. The Barbie Doll. McDonald’s. Her interest was piqued, but she was having a difficult time seeing what would have forced Evelyn into what she’d done.

  Time was running away from her, so she moved more quickly. She hit a definitive shift as the articles moved toward trucking and logistics, and ultimately to a New York Times article lying on the floor, but still attached to a yellow string, about the passage of the Federal Aid Highway Act of 1956. She picked up the article and found no further strings leading on. She wondered why it stopped there.

  As she let the page fall back into place, she saw a large wooden roll-top desk with its chair lying on the floor in front of it, as though someone had risen quickly from it. She approached the desk, which was covered with nothing but a thick layer of dust and an open magazine. Ekaterina picked up the magazine and looked at its cover before returning to the inside. It was a Life magazine piece from 1975 titled “The 100 Events that Shaped America!” Her finger, holding the page, was on an article about the U.S. Interstate Highway System. She blew a cloud of dust off of the page to see one passage highlighted, which read, “The Interstate System is the most grandiose and indelible signature that Americans have ever scratched across the face of their land.” On the page across from the article was written in dark ink one word, underlined twice.

  Eisenhower.

  She’d discovered it. Belochkin was intending to use time travel to change history – American history – in a way that would best suit the Soviet Union. Given what Evelyn had told her about his reign of terror on the world if he was not assass
inated, it appeared that time travel was his swan song. By disrupting America’s rapid growth after World War II, made possible, he believed, by the construction of its highway system, he would prime the Soviet Union for world dominance, and was so dedicated to the mission that, in Evelyn’s reality, he made the discovery of time travel his primary personal political agenda. And, while he hadn’t specifically spelled out his plans there on the desk, it appeared Dwight Eisenhower was a key target.

  From Ekaterina’s knowledge of American history, Eisenhower was a reasonable choice for Belochkin. In addition to his spearheading the construction of America’s interconnected system of highways, which made movement of goods such as computers and Barbie Dolls possible throughout the U.S. markets – she was seeing the correlation now – he was a renowned enemy of Soviet Communism. That this dusty magazine existed in 1983 indicated that, for at least 30 years, he’d planned his ultimate mission, and Evelyn’s work had finally made it possible for him. What the general specifically intended to do, though, was a mystery.

  Her internal clock told her that three minutes was up. She peeked out the window to see Belochkin toweling off courtside, so she darted out of the room and down the stairs without a sound coming from her steps. She crept into the kitchen and hid behind the enormous prep island, peering over the countertop through the glass doors that led to the backyard. She watched as he poured whiskey into a glass and covered it with vermouth. Still standing, he savored a sip, looking out at the property, then sat in a patio chair and crossed his legs. Her memory of the usual scene blocked out Evelyn’s description of it, and she felt more comfortable assessing the situation from her own point-of-view.

  As he stared into the depths of the yard lost in his thoughts, she sprang into action, sliding her hand along the underside of the counter. She reached almost to the corner, frustratingly knowing that what she needed was there, but then her hand hit a small round button. Her fingers caressed it for a moment, then she looked once more at the visionary, Belochkin. He was sitting, unaware of her presence, enjoying his Manhattan.

  Ekaterina pushed the button.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  An overwhelming sound filled the air.

  An alarm. Ekaterina had somehow tripped an alarm when she went into the house.

  He hadn’t really understood why she’d gone in at all. According to Evelyn’s recounting of the original story, she’d simply approached Belochkin from out of the trees. In the abstract, it had been difficult to imagine, but now that he’d seen the layout of the property it seemed practical. When Ekaterina had told him she was going into the house he’d wanted to argue, but had trusted that she knew what she was doing. Now she’d blown it.

  Instinctively, he crouched into the brush and watched for the aftermath. Belochkin had risen so quickly he’d almost fallen from his chair, tripping over himself as he went. His drink fell to the ground, but he was already ten paces away by the time the glass shattered on the decorative bricks of the patio.

  Then Jeff realized that he was running directly at him.

  The tunnel. The protocol. If Belochkin was in danger, as Ekaterina had told him, he was to make his way to the tunnel and out. He was in a full sprint across the yard to do so.

  Fearing being caught, Jeff dove sideways into thicker brush and lay still on the ground. He was out of the strobe lights, and while his heart pounded with anxiety, he felt reasonably sure that Belochkin in his harried and hurried state would run right past him. On the other side of the fence, he could hear the revving of an engine approaching. At the very least, their emergency system was working. He didn’t know if there was anyone else in the house, but as far as Belochkin’s exit strategy, it was a well-oiled machine. Belatedly remembering that he had a responsibility if Ekaterina failed, Jeff reached for the gun tucked into the back of his pants, but froze. What was the point? He knew trying to hit Belochkin while he was running at full speed would accomplish nothing but giving away his position.

  The general’s footsteps grew louder, and Jeff watched as he raced past him and into the opening that led to the tunnel. He immediately regretted not at least trying, knowing he’d failed as badly as Ekaterina. The heavy engine came to a halt seemingly within steps of Jeff, but he knew there was a protective wall between him and the rescue squad. After about ninety seconds, he heard the motor rev again and leave quickly. Peering around the yard and seeing no one, he stood. The alarm continued to echo into the night.

  He felt motion to his side and braced himself, only to turn and see Ekaterina standing inches from him. The look on her face seemed to be worry, but the shadow was casting a strange light that made it difficult to see.

  “Didn’t go so well, huh?” he asked. “Did you find Evelyn?”

  “We must go, now,” she said quickly, confirming the worry. “There will be soldiers coming.”

  “But we didn’t fulfill the mission. We can’t travel back to the present – we don’t know what future we’ll be walking into.”

  “There is not time to discuss it. Where is the time device?”

  He reached down and pulled it from his pocket. “It’s here, but we need a minute to think about this. If Belochkin’s not dead-” He didn’t want to break it to her that he’d had a shot at him and had failed to take it.

  She turned to face him. “I need that device.” She was serious.

  “No, you don’t. I’ll handle this. You handle-”

  Ekaterina’s hand lashed out and took control of one end of the device. Jeff’s reflexes kicked in and he locked his hands into a vice grip around it, his thoughts jumbled as he considered what she was trying to accomplish. She pulled him towards her until they had full body contact, wrestling over the device. He tried to read her eyes, but saw nothing beyond sheer determination.

  Then he realized what was happening.

  Ekaterina’s intention was never to carry out the plan.

  He tried to tighten his grip, but suddenly her free hand whipped out at him and caught him in the throat. He went down hard, feeling fortunate that his stance against her had at least shielded his neck from a more damaging blow. Still, he’d lost his grip on the device and was now lying on the ground, struggling to restore his breathing. Through teary eyes, he saw her pull a piece of paper out of her pocket and start to enter coordinates onto the device. As she angled toward the light to see what she was doing, his ability to breathe returned, but stayed down, knowing it would take a moment for her to finish entering the numbers.

  A noise came from the house, and he could hear a commotion. They didn’t have long before the Russian sentries would make their way into the backyard. He noticed Ekaterina look up at the noise and took the opportunity to leap to his feet. He grasped the device again and turned his body so that she would have no straight shot at him.

  Not knowing what coordinates she was entering, he did what he could to cover the trigger that would send them through time if it was pressed. As he looked into her eyes, the light leaking through the trees and reflecting off of them, he felt her fingers negotiating themselves around his, giving the sensation you might feel when you first realize a spider is crawling on you. She was entering the final digits in the sequence, and though he had a firm grip on his end of the device, he wasn’t able to stop her.

  She slid her index finger under the palm of his hand. He contemplated attempting to jerk the device from her as violently as possible, but she was surprisingly strong and it might’ve meant losing contact altogether, which he couldn’t afford to do. It was too late, anyway. His best bet was to make sure that, if and when she hit that button, she was taking him with her.

  Across the yard, he saw uniformed soldiers burst through the kitchen doors and start searching the yard, weapons drawn. Others were in full sprint from around the side of the house. Watching the sea of shadows coming toward them, Jeff had a strange vision of playing Red Rover, Red Rover (Oh won’t you come over) while waiting for the school bus as a child.

  “Are you coming wit
h me?” she asked when he turned his attention back to her. There was an icy stare in her eyes.

  “I don’t think I have much choice.”

  Maintaining her eye contact, she pushed the button.

  The world around them vaporized and then reappeared, and they stood in the tuft of overgrown trees, now devoid of leaves, in overcast daylight. The air was noticeably colder, and his feet sank softly into the wet ground beneath him. They were still both gripping the device.

  “What did you just do?” he said, his voice coming out with a shakiness he’d never heard before.

  “If I had a chance to restore Russia to its glory, why would you think that I would not take that opportunity?”

  She hadn’t relaxed her grip on the time device. He took a glance around the property, which was now alive with activity. People walking in groups, their breath misting in the cold air, a handful of young men playing basketball on what was now a full court instead of the half court it had been thirty years before, a young child in a parka playing a cello under a gazebo. Fortunately, no one had noticed them yet.

  “But you have no idea what the repercussions could be. You have no idea what kind of a world you’ve put us into.” He was whispering, but loudly.

  “Dr. Jacobs,” she said, calling him by his formal name now that their relationship had changed, “Time travel is a dangerous animal. You said it yourself. You should be more careful.”

  He took another moment to look at her, then sighed deeply. He was standing in what was most likely present day Communist Soviet Union, an American stranger in a strange land. But he couldn’t conceive any sort of plan standing here, risking being seen, particularly with a woman who’d just through her actions announced herself as a foe – of his and his country. One that he knew could kill him with her bare hands if she felt the need to do so – and in this new scenario that he was imagining, there wasn’t anyone he’d be able to count on for help. “What do we do now?” he asked.