The Master of Time

by David Wingrove

  And instinctively I know that this is Kolya’s work. That he’s exercising my imagination through the woman and her children. Stripping away another layer of skin.

  Why else would he leave his sign?

  I leave them there, returning to my apartment. Only for once I don’t know what to do, how to respond. I’ve not even got a gun any more. Phil took that from me.

  I look about me, lost, my mind a sudden blank, when I see it, there on the cupboard by the front door. Kavanagh’s business card.

  I turn it between my fingers and see that he’s written down the name and number of the hotel he’s staying at, and ask myself whether he had any part in this. Only I know he didn’t. Kavanagh’s a decent man.

  I go through and sit there while I dial the number and wait, and when the concierge answers, I ask for Kavanagh, in as steady a voice as I can muster. He puts me through, and I wait while it rings and rings, and suddenly Kavanagh’s there on the other end of the line, his voice heavy with sleep.

  ‘Otto? That you?’

  ‘Kav?

  ‘Hey, buddy … what’s up?’

  I hesitate, wondering just how much to tell him over the phone. In all likelihood this line is tapped. But I need his help.

  ‘It’s the woman. She’s … she’s dead.’

  ‘Jeeze! You sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘You still in the apartment?’

  ‘Yeah … look … I really don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Otto. Listen. Just stay where you are. Lock the door and wait. I’ll be there in twenty.’

  And the phone goes dead.

  And as it does, so I wonder – have I done the right thing?

  Only what else could I do?

  I think about the situation, aware, suddenly, that something’s wrong. There would have been noise, lots of noise – the kids screaming, and the two gunshots. So why aren’t the police here? Surely someone would have phoned them.

  Kavanagh’s there in fifteen. He’s carrying a big suitcase, and as he sets it down on the sofa, so he looks at me with a pained expression.

  ‘Otto … I’ve got something to tell you.’

  ‘Yeah?’ And I wonder if it’s one of the scenarios I’ve run through my head the last few days. ‘You’re an agent, right? CIA?’

  ‘Fuck no. But I’m not a lawyer, either.’ And as he says it, so he springs the lock on the case and it eases open. And inside …

  Guns. The whole case is full of guns, everything from handguns to what look like fully automatic army-issue rifles.

  I laugh. ‘You sell guns?’

  Kavanagh smiles. ‘Handy, huh?’

  And I reflect that that’s true. Mighty handy, in fact.

  I reach past him and take one of the big guns. A Heckler & Koch G41. It’s a German 5.56mm assault rifle. A civilian version of a battlefield weapon.

  ‘You sell these?’ I ask him as I test the unloaded gun.

  Kav smiles and nods, but his eyes are taking in how familiar I am with the weapon. Which is the truth. I’ve used it many a time, back in the past. It’s a beautiful weapon.

  ‘You got shells for this?’

  In answer, he shows me the munitions belt he’s wearing under his coat, and I laugh.

  ‘Who are you working for, Kav?’

  At which he looks hurt. ‘Hey, I know I’ve spun a lie or two, but … well … this is what I do. I sell guns. And a good living it is, too.’

  I slowly nod, taking in what else he’s got there in the suitcase. It’s a regular little armoury. The only thing that’s missing is a laser rifle. And that’s only because it’s 1984 and far too early for that kind of weaponry.

  ‘So what do you want to do?’ Kavanagh asks me.

  And in my head I answer him. I want to blow their fucking heads off, that’s what I want to do. But I’d have to find them first, and I’ve a feeling that could be more than a little bit difficult. Only Kavanagh, once more, is way ahead of me.

  ‘Can you use that thing?’ he asks me, gesturing towards the gun.

  I nod.

  ‘And you seriously want to take these fuckers on?’

  I hesitate, then nod again.

  ‘Then I’ll take you there. They’ve a building on Seventh Avenue.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘They were good customers of mine … In the past.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We fell out.’

  I don’t ask. No. Now that my mind’s made up, I get a trench coat from DeSario’s wardrobe – bulky enough to hide the fact that I’m carrying the Heckler & Koch, and one or two other items I’ve selected from Kavanagh’s suitcase – and slip it on.

  I turn, to find that Kavanagh’s busy loading the guns. And not just mine, but his.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  He smiles at me. ‘You think I’m going to let you go in there on your own? Who d’you think you are? Arnold Schwarzenegger?’

  I can see I’m going to have to watch this movie. If I’m still alive, that is.

  Five minutes and we’re ready. But before we leave the building, I take him inside and show him what those bastards have done, and witness for myself how he’s affected by it.

  As we step out onto the New York streets there’s no outward sign of the weapons we’re carrying, but there is something menacing about the look of us. That said, it’s dark now, the streets almost deserted, and we seem to melt into the shadows.

  ‘You don’t have to do this.’

  He looks sideways at me. ‘No?’

  ‘What about the woman, back in Chicago?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘I thought …’ Only I don’t know quite what I thought. And I’m incredibly grateful to Kavanagh for being there with me. For sticking around. Yes, and for sharing the risk.

  Because in all likelihood, neither of us are going to see another morning. And that’s asking one hell of a lot of someone you’ve only known a day or three.

  Not that getting revenge for a woman I barely knew makes any kind of sense. Only how could I possibly let that go? How could I let those bastards get away with it? Especially if it is Kolya.

  The further south we go, the busier it gets. Things are much more lively here. There are whores a plenty, and their pimps, not to speak of the drunks and addicts to whom this late hour is the beginning of their day.

  And then suddenly we’re there. It’s an eight-storey apartment block, and from the lights that are on in a number of its windows, I’d guess that the evening shift was on.

  I look to Kavanagh. ‘You sure this is it?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘And you still want to go along with this?’

  ‘You changed your mind, Otto?’

  I look back at him, for the briefest moment wondering whether this makes any kind of sense whatsoever. Only if I am trapped in this alternate world with no way out, then why not make this ultimately futile gesture? Why not try to clean the streets of some of these motherfuckers and scumbags? Because the authorities sure as fuck aren’t committed to the task.

  The Heckler & Koch feels reassuringly warm and firm beneath my fingers. I click off the safety and smile at Kavanagh one last time.

  And, turning back, facing the big, glass-panelled doorway, we go inside.

  330

  As we stand there, waiting for the lift to descend, I say a silent goodbye to them all – to Katerina and my girls – because this isn’t the kind of adventure where everything turns out well. Nor can it be put right by jumping back in Time. That option simply isn’t open to me this once. If they kill me, I stay dead.

  Kavanagh, beside me, is quietly whistling to himself. He seems almost cheerful. As for me, I’ve done this far too often to feel any nerves. I’m not afraid of death.

  As the bell pings and the lift hisses open, two of them – big, Italian bastards in black suits and dark glasses – make to exit. There’s a moment shocked surprise as they register our weapons, and then they re
ach for their own.

  Only it’s too late. Kavanagh takes the big fucker on the left, blowing the top of his skull off, while I rake the other one, the power of the 5.56 millimetre shells making him jerk backwards in an obscene dance.

  Stepping over the bodies, we enter the lift.

  ‘Eighth floor,’ I say, and Kavanagh obliges me. The doors hiss shut and the big cage begins to ascend.

  Kavanagh watches me, a faint smile on his lips now. ‘You think they heard that, up on the eighth?’

  I shake my head. Only I’m not taking any chances. Whatever advantage we had is being used up fast. They don’t know who we are, nor how many of us there are, but they’ll know pretty soon that they’ve been infiltrated.

  We’re there in thirty seconds. By my calculations, it’s not time enough for a message to be phoned through; even so, I have Kavanagh position himself on the far left of the lift.

  ‘Cover me,’ I say, and, as the doors begin to open, I’m through the gap, gun raised. Only no one’s covering the lift. There’s a broad corridor with five doors off of it, two of them facing me directly. It’s through these they come, four tough guys, armed with handguns. Kavanagh takes out one of them even as I open up with the Heckler & Koch.

  So now they know we’re here. From this point on we’re in hostile territory. We miss a single one of these fuckers and we’re dead.

  ‘You okay?’ I ask Kavanagh.

  In answer to which he swings the big gun round and fires off a stream of bullets, the closeness of which reminds me just what a knife-edge we’re on here. But that’s two more dead, and one life I owe Kavanagh.

  ‘How’re we going about this?’ he asks. ‘Room by room, or do you wanna wait right here and pick them off two by two?’

  ‘Down,’ I say. ‘We keep moving and they can’t anticipate us. We stay here and we’re dead.’

  ‘All right,’ he says. ‘You seen the guys who did it yet?’

  I shake my head, realising, as I do, just what I’d like to do to those two. More than just kill them.

  I indicate the left-hand stairs. ‘Down there,’ I say quietly, and, as one – as if we’ve been partners this last dozen years or more – we descend, side by side, our big assault rifles searching for targets.

  And almost run into three more of them. It’s only the fact that we’re silent, and they’re talking – a nervous, uncertain chatter – that gives us the edge.

  We open up as they come round the corner of the stairs, the noise deafening in that small space, but the second or two advantage means that they don’t get off a single shot.

  So far, so good. Only now we can hear heavy footfalls on the stairs below, and shouting, and, somewhere, a telephone ringing urgently.

  We’ve killed eleven of the bastards, but if Kavanagh’s right, there’s a good thirty or more of them in the building, and we sure as hell aren’t going anywhere. They’ll have sealed off all of the exits by now, and even as we slowly back up the stairs, we hear the power to the lift cut off.

  Kavanagh glances at me, a kind of ‘what now?’ look, and I gesture toward the floor above.

  It’s identical to the eighth, with five doors, two of which face the lift. I gesture towards the end door and we run across. Kavanagh jerks the door open, and we’re met by the shocked stare of a secretary: a young woman in her twenties, who, by the look of it, is on the phone to someone. She’s alone in the room, and I go to turn away, when she makes a grab for the gun on the desk beside her.

  It’s mistakes like that that are fatal, and I deserve to die for making it. Only Kavanagh is on the case, thank Urd. As she lifts the gun and aims it at me, he blows her head off.

  Two lives I owe him now.

  ‘Out!’ I say urgently, and, both of us taking a long breath, we kick the door in and go in guns blazing.

  And take out a big, fat guy in a vest, who falls with a massive thud on the carpet beyond his desk.

  ‘Jeeze,’ Kav says, looking at the big guy. ‘You know who that is?’

  I haven’t time. ‘Out!’ I say. ‘Now!’

  And we go out again, directly into a firefight. For a minute or two we’re pinned down, but then we get lucky and another group of their guys – unnerved, possibly – come up the other stairway, firing as they do, and for a moment the two groups are blowing each other to kingdom come, until one of them realises what’s going on. But it gives us the chance we need, and suddenly we’re out of there, hurtling down the stairs, shouts and gunfire following us down.

  ‘Where to?’ Kav yells.

  ‘Fourth floor,’ I answer him breathlessly, praying to the gods that there’s not a welcoming committee there. We’re lucky. The fourth floor’s empty.

  But not for long. The circle’s closing in on us. We can hear them, up above and on the floors below, shouting, getting closer by the moment.

  I turn and kick one of the doors open. The room is empty.

  ‘You know who that was?’ Kav asks again. ‘Up on the seventh. The fat guy?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘That was him. The Big Boss himself.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Only I’m looking about me and thinking what a shithole this is. What an awful, shabby cesspit of a room to die in. Because die we shall. They’re closing in by the second.

  I change the clip in my gun then look to Kav.

  ‘Hey, bud … I owe you …’

  Kav makes a vague sound in his throat then goes over to the window.

  ‘Shee-it!’ he says, and the way he says it makes me go to the window to see. And what I see makes me more sure than ever that were going to die. Because there are three, no four big limos pulling up, and lots of black-suited guys pouring out of them.

  Only suddenly there’s gunfire down there.

  ‘What the …?’

  The door behind us crashes open and there’s sudden gunfire. Kav, I know, is down, but even as the guy in the doorway looks to me, I let loose, a dozen or more shells slamming into him, blowing him out into the corridor.

  There’s a moment’s silence, and then the gunfire starts up again, but far below this time, out in the street and on the lower levels, and for a moment I don’t know what the hell is going on. All I know is that, for that brief instant, I am safe. Hurrying across, I kneel beside my fallen buddy and see at a glance that he’s not going to make it. Not with those wounds. But I do what I can, holding him and comforting him in those last few moments; telling him I couldn’t have done it without him, that I owed him my life.

  And then the door crashes open again and the big men with guns are forming a circle about us, even as Kavanagh takes his last, long, shuddering breath, and dies.

  A real death, I think. A meaningful death. One that you don’t come back from.

  And, after wiping a tear away, I let them cuff me and lead me away.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ I say, and the two guys holding me look at me and laugh. ‘Fucking comedian, huh?’

  331

  Four hours later, I’m sitting there with Phil again, only this time we’re in the Oval Office, Phil’s snowy owl settled sleepily on his shoulder. He stares at me a while, then shakes his head.

  ‘Who are you, Otto? Who are you working for?’

  Behind Phil, on a pull-down screen, they’re running the edited CCTV footage of our attack on the mobsters’ HQ, the sound muted.

  ‘You want the truth?’

  ‘You want to tell me the truth?’

  I study him a while. If there’s one person in the entire universe who might believe me, he’s seated in front of me right now. Or, at least, the old Phil might. This new guy, the one who’s president … well, he might just think I’m crazy.

  ‘I don’t come from this time,’ I say, watching his face for his reaction. ‘I’m not from the twentieth century.’

  He laughs. ‘Okay. I get it. You’ve seen the film. Terminator.’

  I shake my head, but already I’m thinking that I might have made a mistake.

  ‘Look … I realise that what I
’m about to tell you sounds like the blatherings of some crazy man, but it’s all true. It all happened.’

  ‘And you can prove it?’

  ‘No. I can’t, but it’s true nonetheless. I’m a Reisende.’

  ‘A Reisende?’ he says, taking great care with the pronunciation of the German word. ‘A traveller?’

  ‘That’s right. A time traveller.’

  ‘Oh … of course.’

  I look past him, noticing a small movement, there in the shadows of the room, and realise that they’re taping this. Of course they are. I mean, after all, I’m sitting with the President of the United States.

  ‘There’s this war, you see … or was … between us and the Russians.’

  ‘You being …?’

  ‘The Germans.’

  ‘The volk,’ he says. ‘You’re talking Rassenkampf, yeah? A race war throughout Time?’

  ‘That’s it. That’s it exactly. Three thousand years of time, anyway. Only I’ve been dumped here … here in this cul-de-sac of Time, and I can’t get home.’

  ‘And home is …?’

  The thirtieth century … and the thirteenth … Only I don’t say that.

  ‘To Katerina.’

  ‘Ahhh.’ And he smiles, as if he understands. ‘A woman. I thought there might be one. Your very own Helen of Troy, yes?’

  I’m about to say that Helen has nothing on my darling girl, only there’s a sudden knocking and, a moment later, Phil’s aide-de-camp pokes his head round the door.

  ‘Mister President … the press are going mad out here. They want to know what in God’s name’s been going on.’

  Phil raises a finger, as if to ask for my indulgence, then answers the young man.

  ‘Tell them I’ll make an announcement later on. At eight, let’s say.’

  ‘But Mr President …’

  ‘At eight.’

  When the young man’s gone, Phil looks to me again. Then, as if he’s reached some kind of decision, he nods.