And the Tide Turns

by Timothy Dalton

  As soon as he was done with his breakfast, he needed to get back to The Lion Inn and go through Ben Wallace’s care package; inside it would be his weapon and every scrap of information that had been compiled on Doctor William Amhurst and the other men.

  Blake put the cup down and pushed it far away. In the corner of his eye he spotted a man in a nearby booth peering at him. Something felt off about the man’s scrutiny – he was much too curious – and Blake turned his head to get a better look at who was watching him. A flash of ginger hair came into view before the man brought a newspaper up to shield his face. When Blake looked back down at his plate, he saw from the periphery of his vision that the man stood, put on his bowler hat, and left the café.

  Blake rose, following suit. As he passed by the front counter, the proprietor called out, “‘Scuse me, sir – you didn’t pay for your meal.”

  Damn. Blake thrust his hand in a pocket, pulled out a fistful of bills and tossed them on the counter. He rushed out the door and into the street, glancing about for a glimpse of his quarry. The redheaded man was nowhere in sight.

  ***

  November 30, 1948, 9:03 PM

  It had grown dark fast. Blake had spent the last few hours going over the dossiers of each individual.

  Dr. William Amhurst had lived a cozy life with his spouse until she died during childbirth. From that point on he had sunk into seclusion, but over the years he’d managed to form a relationship of sorts with the renowned scientist, Nikola Tesla. Amhurst had even lived in the United States while they worked together, but after Tesla’s death the doctor moved back to Australia.

  Three black and white photos of other men were spread out on the bed. Two of the individuals were members of the Sons of Stalin, and the other was a Japanese man. The names Gernot Kalkolov, Mikhail Shchekochikhin, and Satoshi Yashuda were stamped on the bottom of the photos. Blake spent a minute or more attempting to pronounce Mikhail’s surname, gave up hope on that endeavor, and began memorizing the faces of the three men.

  Mikhail had the simplest face. No distinct features stood out except for a slight crook in the nose. The man had a soft jaw, but his eyes burned with an inner ferocity.

  The Asian man, Satoshi, had thick sideburns, and long black hair pulled back in a ponytail. His face was hard-lined, and even in the picture his mouth seemed to be snarling in disgust.

  It was Gernot Kalkolov who struck the most impressive image, despite the passive expression of his angular features. The dark eyes that stared up at him gleamed with a brutal promise that seemed almost intimate. It was creepy in its intensity.

  Blake stood and slid his gun into a side holster under his left arm. If he had to pull out his weapon quickly, he would be slowed down by the cross draw. With his current objective, though, there would be no need for that; he would already have the gun in hand before taking the stairs to Dr. Amhurst’s building.

  He secured the firearm into the holster and bent to retrieve and reread an article that was in Amhurst’s file. The periodical had reported on the house fire that not only destroyed Amhurst’s domicile but had also taken the life of the elderly doctor. The case was concluded as being an accidental chemical fire in the lab. No other lives were claimed.

  Appended with a paper clip to the inside jacket of Satoshi’s file was another article that spoke of a double murder. The names were unknown, but the faces of Satoshi and Mikhail were unmistakable. Both men had been shot in the back of the head. It would appear that Gernot the traveler had disposed of his helpers along the way, but for what purpose, Blake didn’t know. Had there been a power struggle or perhaps dissention in the ranks?

  Ethan opened the last folder, the one designated to Gernot Kalkolov – or Der Attentäter, as the file referred to him – who was from the future like Blake. He was German born, but his Russian father had moved them to Kiev when he was just a boy. As an adult, he formed a close alliance with Vyacheslav Kirillovich Ivankov in the Russian mafia. He became their main assassin, and after more than fifteen known kills for them, he’d taken the title of Der Attentäter – The Assassin. A few years after his rise, Ivankov had been imprisoned. Following this event, part of the original group branched off from the Russian mafia – this one a harsher faction, with different ideals and far different desires. They referred to themselves as Synov’ya Stalin – Sons of Stalin.

  Thinking the mafia would be broken apart soon, The Sons of Stalin eventually severed all ties to their former group, but not before recruiting Gernot Kalkolov. In a short time he rose as one of the higher ranking members, and within that group he promoted himself as the leader of his own sect, the Nach-Soldat.

  Reading at a feverish pace, Blake soaked up the information that followed. The Nach-Soldat were the ‘Past Soldiers’. They began working on something called Project Iron Hammer, and the result of that mission would be the future Ben Wallace had spoken of. Gernot volunteered to be the first Russian sent back to recover Amhurst’s lost work. Their goal was to attain this time traveling edge so that they might leap forward and back in time at will. Victory – and supremacy – would never be more than a time jump away.

  Blake checked his watch. It was close. The fire at Amhurst’s would be just a couple of hours from now. If he was lucky, he could dispose of all parties in quick order and take the meteorite without further incident. His secondary objective was one in which he couldn’t predict the outcome: if possible, he would try to keep one of the bastards alive and find out where the first leap happened in 1986. With that information, perhaps Wallace’s version of America would turn out to be quite different.

  He tossed the articles back in his bag. Two sets of keys were lying on the now rumpled sheets of the bed. They’d made the jump here with him, hitching a ride in one of the pockets of his era-appropriate clothing. The more familiar of the two belonged to him – the ring holding the key to his apartment at The Elysium Terrace and his ’67 Mustang. Blake felt a quiver roll up his spine as his mind adjusted to his position in history. His vehicle hadn’t even rolled down the assembly line yet, nor was it even an idea in its creator’s mind. He lobbed the first set of keys into the duffel, and tied the lacings. Then he picked up the second set. These belonged to Tobias. The Steelers emblem beckoned him to hold on to something concrete from his past – or future. He couldn’t be sure of anything anymore.

  For luck then, he thought to himself and stuffed them into his pocket.

  ***

  Blake hitched a ride across town from a man driving a pickup that looked like it predated the recent war by a decade. He was dropped off a mile and a half from Amhurst’s house and had to jog the rest of the way. It hadn’t been easy, given the recent trauma his body had suffered without having a full recovery. He had to pace himself in order to prevent burnout on the final half mile.

  As he approached Amhurst’s residence, Blake stopped to take a few moments to catch his breath and recharge. Then he pulled out his binoculars and eyed the property before checking the time. It was closing in on the final minutes now.

  It didn’t matter if Dr. Amhurst lived or died, but it was imperative that Blake stop the traveler and his cohorts. He looked again through the lenses. The lights were off throughout the whole house; that must mean they were all below, in the basement. Blake could only hope that was the case. He didn’t want to be taken by surprise.

  He was about to pull the binoculars away when he noticed a man walking down the street. Blake’s senses tingled as he watched the man turn and head up the steps to Amhurst’s front door.

  Who the hell is this? He hadn’t been told of a fourth individual, and this new addition to his already unscripted attack could be a game changer. One on three was already terrible odds, but against four it bordered on suicide.

  39 Silence of the Telegrams

  November 30, 1948, 9:42 PM

  The buzzer rang and a red bulb on the wall near the basement stairs illuminated.

  “Expecting someone?” Gernot asked.

  Amhurst fr
owned with concern. “No … let me find out who it is.”

  Gernot gave a short nod and returned to his work.

  “I’ll be right back,” Amhurst said as he ascended the stairs to the main floor. He slowed as he approached the front door with caution. He opened it a crack and peered out. “Who is it?”

  A man stood on the front stoop. He wore a thick scarf wrapped around his face; only his eyes were visible. “Telegram for you, sir,” he said, holding out a slip of paper with an attached envelope.

  “Thanks.” Amhurst managed to make his voice sound benign and innocent, in contradiction to his basement project. He glanced over his shoulder to the stairway at his back to see if Gernot or one of the others was close behind, but he was alone.

  Amhurst let out an imperceptible sigh of relief. The first two months of working with Gernot had carried a sense of normalcy in the daily routine. But in the last few weeks the man had become insistent that Amhurst deliver acceptable results without further delay, as if there was an invisible looming deadline.

  Assured that he was alone, only then did Amhurst look down at the telegram. He read it once, twice, then a third time, his brow creasing more with each read.

  Impossible! Yet Amhurst knew better than most that he couldn’t denounce anything after what he now knew was possible. As the courier waited, Amhurst opened the envelope and scanned the page. It had to be true – it just had to be! His heart fluttered and an involuntary voice in his head told him that he should run for his life – now.

  But what would that solve? Gernot would still have his encoded notebook and his machine. Whoever had sent him this telegram knew more than what Amhurst himself had been told by the strange man downstairs in the lab who had stood on his porch months earlier.

  Amhurst folded the two pieces of paper, put them inside his front pocket, and thanked the courier as he closed the door.

  He stood in the front hallway, trying to sort out his options, but he couldn’t escape the dread that crept up his spine. There was no backing out now. He had already given away too much information to the men in the lab. He had to find a way to get it back, even if it meant dying in the process.

  So he came to a drastic conclusion: The lab must be destroyed, tonight!

  ***

  Blake stared at the newcomer to the equation who stood at Amhurst’s door with a scarf wrapped around his face – which made no sense because it was late spring in Australia and the temps were mild. A light inside the house flicked on and seconds later the door opened. Amhurst and the man engaged in a brief exchange and then the man handed something over.

  Amhurst appeared shaken by what he’d just been given. So it wasn’t a fourth party – just a courier. Thank God. Blake didn’t relish the thought that he had an extra target to go after.

  He glanced at his watch. A little late to be delivering messages though, isn’t it? His unease grew.

  The messenger descended the steps. Blake tracked the man as he walked away before swiveling the binocs back to the door. Amhurst had already retreated inside and switched off the front stoop light.

  Blake trained his eyepiece back on the courier, but he was already gone. He hated that he now had a loose end to the puzzle he may never get to deal with.

  Screw it. Whatever just took place might have been a key factor as to why Amhurst is murdered tonight.

  He put the binoculars away and zipped open the overalls he’d worn on the trip over here to cover his mission clothing. He unfastened his gun, pulling the slide back and then letting go. He heard the gratifying sound of a bullet engaging in the chamber and flicked off the safety. Then he stepped out of the overalls and left them in a heap by his feet.

  Time to roll.

  ***

  Lies. All of it. Who to trust?

  Amhurst had never walked down the two flights of basement stairs so slowly in his life. Mentally processing his strategy added to the lethargy of his steps. Part of him knew that his body language was giving him away, but he seemed incapable of forcing himself to act any different.

  He entered the lab, peering at his now unwelcome guests with new eyes. The Japanese man, Satoshi, was helping Mikhail install gaskets on the new apparatus Amhurst had designed. Gernot stood with his back to the staircase, busying himself with another task Amhurst had designated earlier.

  They were all so preoccupied that it should be simple enough to grab his notebook and scurry back up the stairs. His legs were wobbly in his old age, but surely he could pull it off. He would then lock the door and run for help.

  But could he really trust the sender of the telegram with his notes? Amhurst didn’t think that would be too smart at this point. In the wrong hands, who knew what the future would hold. His present was technically his future, but what lay beyond could be the Holocaust all over again – or worse. His personal log needed to be destroyed; even with the code he’d developed, he just couldn’t chance it.

  He was attempting to deftly walk in and grab his book, when the cracking in his bones betrayed his position. It was useless. He couldn’t sneak up on a corpse. And now that he had been noticed, he couldn’t request to leave again without raising too much suspicion.

  “Who was it?” Gernot spoke with his back still facing the stairs.

  “It was … just a man looking for a local.” Amhurst began fiddling with liquids that were boiling in their beakers, using their proximity to his notebook to edge closer.

  “Who was it?” Gernot asked again, and turned to face Amhurst. The man’s burn scar seemed to look even more gruesome than before, the taut skin shiny, almost pulsing in the glow of the bubbling liquids around him.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen the man before.”

  Gernot shook his head. “No, who was this man looking for?”

  “Can’t remember, never heard of him either.” Amhurst waved a hand, attempting nonchalance, but he saw Gernot give the slightest nod to Satoshi and knew his lie was unconvincing. Truth be told, he’d never been a good liar.

  His stomach twisted with anxiety, but Gernot went back to working on his task at hand. Amhurst had to take advantage of the man’s distraction, his mind frantic as he worked to come up with a plan. And then Gernot’s scar seemed to light up for Amhurst’s eyes like a target, and he knew this would be his only chance. A boiling pot of mixture that had been extracted from the meteorite was close by. He grabbed it and hefted it at the man’s face.

  The Russian moved so much faster than he had anticipated, and Amhurst’s heart felt like it stalled from the surprise of Gernot’s sudden movement. The meteorite concoction sailed in a harmless arc over the table and splattered impotently to the ground with a wet, splashing sound. The hot, thick liquid sizzled like bacon in a cast iron skillet as it landed on the cold floor.

  Amhurst froze, blood pulsing in his ears, adrenaline pumping ineffectually through his limbs. Except for when Celice had passed away, he’d never felt more helpless, and he gave an inward curse to his old age.

  Gernot grinned at him, his expression sinister. “My dear Amhurst, I’m afraid I saw that coming. You see, I wasn’t lying when I said I took this book from your remains.” He picked up Amhurst’s coded diary and waved it casually in the air. “But you were hardly in a grave. In reality, you were lying just where you are standing now.”

  The pot almost fell from Amhurst’s grip, but he kept his grip on the handle through the strength of sheer terror. It was now his only weapon, the last line of defense. He forced himself to stand straighter, but the other man’s words had rattled him and the now empty pot began to shake.

  “You see, we have had this dance, you and I, several times,” Gernot said in a condescending tone as he took a step closer to the old man. “You gave me this.” He pointed to his facial scar. “I fear someday you may actually succeed in killing me, but I won’t be dead forever. You’ve caused only a tiny setback for me; minor details that I must adjust next time.”

  “Then I’ll destroy my work!” Amhurst wailed, and swung
the pot toward Gernot’s head.

  The younger, stronger man swatted Amhurst aside like he was was made of paper and sent him crashing into one of the lab tables. Amhurst tried to steady himself but was unsuccessful.

  Gernot approached, reaching out to curl his hand around the doctor’s thin neck. “Dr. Amhurst, do you not understand?” the Russian whispered. “After I kill you here, I will travel back three months from now to meet you once again on the steps of this very place. To you, it will be our first encounter.”

  If the choking grip had not been so tight, Amhurst would have tried to offer his best retort. Instead, he concentrated on trying to suck precious air into his struggling lungs.

  “Even so, I would like to know who sent you the telegram.”

  “What telegram?” Amhurst gasped.

  Gernot threw back his head, letting out a haughty laugh. Then he stopped like the flip of a switch and fixed Amhurst with a cold glare. “You are not listening to what I’ve been saying. This has all played out before.” He stuffed a hand into the old man’s pocket and pulled out the telegram with the attached clipping, flinging them away in a dismissive motion.

  He was nose to nose with Amhurst now. “As sad as it is to watch you die time after time, it’s taxing and it halts our progress; now I must start three months back. I need whoever sends this telegram gone!”

  Amhurst recoiled from the ferocity in the other man’s eyes. It was hard to fathom that this was the same man who had been so courteous and respectful nearly three months ago. While his demeanor had altered and he’d seemed too driven these last few weeks, Amhurst never expected this transformation. He decided that if he couldn’t stop this cruel man, the least he could do was slow him down by keeping silent.