I lean towards Kravchuk, lowering my voice. ‘So just what is the deal?’
Kravchuk stares back at me, stone-faced. ‘Deal? Who said there was a deal?’
‘But your masters …’
There’s a sudden, tense stillness about the table, and I know I’ve said the wrong thing. This is a secret mission, and we seem to know too much. Kravchuk stands, then draws a finger across his throat. And as he does, I jump …
73
I’m bleeding badly. There’s a three-inch gash on the right side of my throat and I’m conscious that if I’d left it another second I’d be dead. Ernst is untouched but he’s angry and very confused. As Urte sees to me, sealing the wound with plasflesh, he stands over me, his hands on his hips, shouting down at me.
‘What the fuck were you doing, Otto? You almost got us killed!’
‘The Mongols,’ I say, wincing as Urte presses down on the gash. ‘The little fucker’s working for the Mongols!’
‘I don’t care who he’s working for, when you’re back there you shut the fuck up! It’s my project and the sooner you realise that, the better!’
I stare at him, shocked, then look away. Was I that out of order back there?
‘Look, Ernst,’ I begin, ‘I’m sorry, but—’
But he’s not listening to my apologies; not this time.
‘You’re out, you understand me, Otto? Out! You’re a bloody wild card, and I can’t afford you. I don’t know what the problem is, and I don’t want to know, but I won’t have my project endangered by you.’
Everyone’s gone still around the platform, listening, and though I know I ought to leave this and take it up again when Ernst is in a better mood, I’m stupid enough to fight him there and then.
‘You can’t,’ I say. ‘You can’t.’
‘Can’t I?’ And he turns and makes to leave, but I call him back.
‘Look, I’m sorry, Ernst. I won’t do it again. Only I …’
He turns, staring back at me. ‘Only what?’
Only I can’t say, because then everyone will know.
‘Well?’ he insists.
I push Urte away, ignoring the pain in her eyes, and get to my feet.
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Not a damn fucking thing!’
74
Zarah comes to me that night. It’s her turn, and I’ve no right to send her away, but I do. I can’t do it, you see. I physically can’t do it. And she’s so bloody understanding about it that it hurts, so much so that I almost call her back. Only that would be a mistake, the way I feel.
For the best, I think, wondering whether I’m thinking now of Zarah or of Katerina. Only I’m not convinced that it is. In fact, I’m hurting so bad that I actually contemplate going to Hecht and throwing myself at his mercy. He’ll understand. Surely, he will.
Which only goes to show how deeply this madness has got into me.
Leave it be, Otto, I tell myself. There’s no future in it.
Ironic, huh? Only it’s not. Because it hurts too damn much. I need her, like the Earth needs the sun and the soil needs the rain. And if Ernst says I’m out …
That galvanises me. I decide there and then what I must do to get back in. Hecht’s the key, of course. If I can prove to him just how important this is, and how vital it is that I’m involved …
Yes, but that means undermining Ernst. And Ernst’s a friend. The best I have. He was with me as a child in the Garden, and later on he roomed with me when we were boys at the Academy. A dozen times and more he’s saved my life. Only …
Only I don’t love Ernst. I love Katerina.
It sounds callous, even to me, but I have no choice. If I’m to see her again, I must take charge. I must overrule Ernst. And so I take out a pad and begin sketching out a plan to present to Hecht.
Not that it’s hard, because this is what I’m best at – what my life has been shaped to do. To evaluate and make decisions. To seek out the right events and act. And I’m not just good at this, I’m the best. There’s no other operative – not a single agent – who can analyse circumstance the way I do and see where to act and when. Ernst doesn’t even come close, so that when I go to Hecht that following morning, Ernst has not even begun to think the problem through, whereas I …
Hecht looks up and smiles. A smile of deep satisfaction.
‘This is good, Otto. This is very good.’
I have it all, you see. Oh, not the fine details, but the broad strokes. I can see how Kravchuk worked it, and when and who with. It’s only a question now of filling in the gaps. For he is, indeed, working for the Mongols. Using Mongol silver to buy off Russia’s princes. To prevent them from forming a united front against the Horde, such that when the Great Khan’s armies appear on the steppes, there will be no effective opposition.
I feel almost a sense of admiration at the scheme. It’s so simple, after all. Only there’s one big problem. For it to work, Kravchuk has to live. And every atom of my being cries out to kill the little toad.
But we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.
I’m down to teach that morning. It’s a small class of six students, cadets in their late teens, and the subject’s one of my favourites, identifying the patterns of history, but halfway through I find myself preoccupied and, rather than cheat them, I decide to involve them in my problem.
‘Okay,’ I say, looking about me at their eager faces. ‘Let me float a hypothetical at you. What if, when the Horde invaded Kievan Rus’ in the thirteenth century, the Rus’ had been prepared for them? What if, when Batu’s army had attacked Riazan in the winter of 1237, the other princes had rallied to Riazan’s aid? What if they had defeated Batu outside Riazan and thrown him back across the steppes?’
Six hands go up. I choose a slender, blond-haired boy to the right of the group.
‘Yes, Muller.’
The young man hesitates, getting things clear in his head, then begins: ‘In the short term, things would have been very different. The Suzdalian reinforcements would not have been destroyed, and so Moscow and Vladimir would not have fallen to the invaders. Suzdal and Pereislavl would not have been besieged and there would have been no defeat of the depleted Russian armies at the Sit River in March the following year.’
‘Good. So you’re saying that from that first failure, all the rest follows?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That there would, in effect, have been no Mongol campaign that winter of 1237–38?’
‘Yes, sir. It’s clear – at least, from the historical record – that they reacted much too slowly to the threat and grossly underestimated the size of the Mongol army that was facing them. They clearly thought that the Mongols were merely another raiding party, like the Polovtsy, who they’d been fighting for the previous two centuries.’
I smile. ‘And in the longer term?’
Muller shrugs. ‘I think they would have crushed the Russians. Come back in greater force and finished off the job.’
‘So you might think. But let’s widen the net a little, and see what else was going on. The initial success of the Mongols in destroying the major power in the region allowed them to concentrate, for the rest of 1238, on subduing all of the minor powers. The Polovtsy, the Circassians, the Ossetians of the northern Caucasus, and – perhaps most important of all – the Mordva and the Bulgars, who rebelled against their rule that year. You see, victory over Kievan Rus’ – even as partial a victory as they attained – allowed them to consolidate at little cost. And when, two years later, they turned against Kiev itself, Rus’ was so weak by then that, when the Mongols laid siege to Kiev, the Grand Prince abandoned his own people, and left them to their fate. If the princes had worked together …’
A hand goes up.
‘Yes, Alpers?’
Alpers is a big, well-rounded boy with fine dark hair. His grey-blue eyes look puzzled as he speaks.
‘Forgive me, sir. I understand what you’re trying to say, but surely that’s exactly the point. Even when the Rus’ pri
nces worked together, they failed. And would it really have mattered much if their conquest had been delayed a year or two? In the end it would all have worked out much the same.’
Again I smile. They’ve learned their lessons well, these young men. But like me, they’ve been making far too many assumptions in this one regard.
‘I take your point, Alpers, but for once I want to challenge that. A question for you all. How long did that first Mongol invasion last?’
Haller’s hand shoots up first and I point to him. ‘Five years, sir.’
‘And why did it cease?’
I point to Kubhart, who shrugs, so I ask Haller again.
‘Because the great khan, Ogedei, died. And Batu had to return to attend the khuriltai in Central Asia to appoint his successor.’
‘Good. So we might ask, how did the Mongols succeed? Was it purely, as is usually argued, because of brute force and superior military technique, or were there other, crucial factors involved? We might note, for a start, that the Mongols did not campaign at all during the period of the thaw. Their campaigns were mainly winter ones, when they could ride across frozen rivers and ignore those natural barriers that, at other times of the year, would have held back their advance. And the most crucial of all their winter campaigns was the first, not only because it allowed them to create a power base in the Caucasus, but because it also instilled in the minds of their enemies the myth of their invincibility. There’s no doubt that, in attacking Kievan Rus’, the Mongols overstretched themselves considerably. Why, one only has to look at the failure of their campaigns against Poland and Hungary to see that their expansion was unsustainable. And so, I feel, it might have been in Rus’ itself, had the princes cooperated, instead of bickering among themselves.’
Alpers raises his hand again, and I nod to him.
‘But the fact is, sir, that they did, and the Russian cities fell, one by one, to the Horde. Even if they’d been delayed a year, it wouldn’t have mattered much. They were far too strong for the Rus’.’
Or too clever.
But I’m suddenly convinced. More than when I visited Hecht earlier. Kravchuk is the key. His bribes, his influence, are crucial to the Mongol victory. By buying advisors and sowing the seeds of doubt, he’s done as much as any Mongol army in the field. And it is our job to aid him, because if we don’t …
I spell it out for them. The failure of the Horde, the great empire of the Khans falling apart in the space of eleven bleak years as internecine warfare rips it asunder, its demise as spectacular as its expansion under Genghis Khan. And into the vacuum steps a new, regenerated Rus’, under a vigorous young ruler, Alexander Iaroslavich. No longer ‘Nevsky’, but ‘the Great’, a heroic leader whose forces cross the great plains of Asia and conquer China.
They laugh, as if I’m playing with them, but for once this is no jest. This is what has happened. It is history now, not hypothesis.
Unless we change it back.
I end the class, then spend the next three hours reading in the main library. Every book is different now, yet everything I read is familiar somehow. So it is sometimes. For this change is far from set, and the memory of what was is still strong in all of us. Thus it is that I notice the omissions. Under Alexander, Rus’ grows strong, and his seed – the Riurikid dynasty – thrive in their new conditions, extending all the way into the current age, not ending in 1598 with the death of Ivan’s son, Fyodor. There is no Peter, no Catherine, no Lenin and no Stalin, for all’s transformed.
Minute by minute it grows stronger. Minute by minute what is takes hold, and what was slips from us. Yet we retain enough to know what we must do.
Hecht is waiting at the platform next to Ernst. Ernst can barely look at me, but that no longer matters. What matters is that we act and act quickly. And so we jump. Back to the moment before I went to visit Razumovsky. There, I meet myself in the snow-covered street and tell myself to go back to the room with Ernst and wait, while I walk on, answering destiny’s call.
And so the circle’s broken. For once there, I argue with Razumovsky, and keep him in the room, persuading him not to go and confront his enemy. And so Kravchuk lives and history’s re-made.
Except I want him dead. Dead so he can’t come back.
Or is there another way?
Razumovsky’s daughter is there, above me in that house. And if he’d left, she would have come to me and kissed me. But that’s all changed now. Now we have never kissed. And I ache to kiss her. Ache to have her in my arms. And so I offer him a deal. I’ll recompense him whatever Kravchuk’s cost him – ten times more, if need be – only there’s one condition: his daughter’s hand in marriage.
He stares at me, as if I’ve suddenly changed shape. ‘Is this what it was about, Otto? Is this why you told me what you told me?’
I want to tell him the truth, even if it costs me, but I know I can’t. This man is proud enough to kill, and I’m not so good a friend that he’ll forgive me. And so I lie.
‘Think, Mikhail,’ I say, standing over him. ‘Think what this will have done to her reputation. To cast off such a suitor as Kravchuk … she’ll not find it easy to find another, will she?’
It’s a truth he finds unpallatable. ‘Maybe so, but what are you, Otto? A Nemets. A mere trader. You could not pass for Russian even if you tried. And half the year you’d be away …’
‘And she could live here, with you.’
I see he likes the idea. Even so, he’s far from convinced.
‘You have no house, no servants …’
‘Then I’ll make one, and buy some. I’m rich enough.’
‘And bold.’ But he looks aside, despair on his face, not joy. In a day he has gone from being a useful member of his community to becoming a pariah, and whatever I offer doesn’t help change that. Unless …
‘Mikhail … what if we were to become partners?’
He looks up sharply. ‘How’s that?’
‘Trading partners. I have the goods, you know the markets. You see, I am limited by the Prince’s decree as to where I travel. But you, you have no such restrictions. You could travel to Vladimir or Kiev itself. They say you can charge three times what they’ll pay here in Novgorod.’
He nods, knowing the truth of it. ‘And what of your compatriot?’
‘Kollwitz? He’ll do as I say.’
But I can see, even as I say it, how much Ernst will rail against this. He’ll see it as another erosion of his authority. And rightly so. But I can’t pull out. Not now. Because I can see that Razumovsky’s half-convinced. If his business here has fallen apart, he’s as well off trying some other avenue of trade.
‘Well?’ I ask.
‘All right!’ he says, and standing, grins at me. He takes my hands, then pulls me closer, embracing me in the Russian fashion. ‘All right! Let’s seal it with a drink!’
And my heart exults, for she’s mine. Katerina is mine.
75
Hecht stares at me then shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry, Otto, but Ernst is right. We can’t afford to get involved with this man, Razumovsky. It’s Kravchuk we need to focus on. We need to keep the man sweet. And we really need to keep things quiet. So I’m sending Ernst back to change things again. He’ll meet with Razumovsky alone and this time he’ll say nothing about Kravchuk. We’ll let things take their course, okay?’
‘And Nevsky?’
Hecht looks to Ernst, who seems suddenly deflated. ‘I’ve decided to put that scheme on hold. Nevsky seems to be an important figure in this other matter. If we undermine him, who knows what other damage we might do. No? We need to find out a good deal more about Kravchuk and his activities before we return to that.’
I keep the disappointment from my face. In fact, it’s only when I get back to my room that it hits me. They’re going to leave things as they are. Which means that Kravchuk will marry Katerina. And he’ll father children by her, whereas I … I won’t even get to meet her.
The thought of it destroys me. I lie on my bed all a
fternoon, unable to raise myself. It’s as if I’ve died, only if I’d died there’d not be this pain. And it doesn’t cease. The torment is endless. Until, eventually, I can take it no longer and I get up and go to the gym and spend an hour pushing myself to my limits.
Evening finds me in Kurtz’s Bar in the recreation area. There’s a dozen or more people scattered about the place, but no one I’d call a friend. Besides, there’s something about my body language that discourages them from coming across.
I’m on my fifth whisky when Urte comes and sits with me.
‘Hi,’ she says.
‘Hi.’ But I can’t even force a smile, and she sees that.
‘You want to talk?’
I stare back at her coolly. ‘No.’
‘You sure?’
‘Completely sure.’
‘Only I …’
I wait, and eventually she finishes the sentence.
‘Only I couldn’t help noticing what’s been happening.’
‘And what has been happening?’
She looks down. I’ve already done enough to rebuff her, but she’s sticking it out, and I realise that she must like me a lot. Not that it matters. Not that anything matters right now.
She reaches out and touches the scar at my neck. It’s almost healed, but it’s still tender.
‘It’s the only one that shows.’
‘What?’
She smiles sadly. ‘Look at you, Otto. You’re a classic, you know that? Walking wounded. A bullet to the heart, endlessly repeated.’
My mouth is suddenly dry. I go to speak, but she shakes her head, then turns and orders two more whiskies. Doubles.
We end up in bed, of course. Where else is there to end? But it’s not for sex. No. I let her comfort me. I let her hold me while I cry, never saying a word, never explaining a thing. Only she knows, I’m sure. Or guesses. And when I wake, she’s gone. Only there’s a note beside my bed and the lingering smell of her perfume in the air.
‘Otto,’ it reads, ‘ follow your heart. Love Urte.’
The Empire of Time Page 22