The Kremlin Phoenix

by Renneberg, Stephen

  Craig sat at the computer and logged into his Twitter account, then tweeted, #90045884 Who are you? And what the hell is going on?

  She glanced to her left and brightened. “Finally! What did he say?” She listened as Zikky read out Craig’s message, then said, “My name is Mariena. What is going on . . . is more difficult to explain.”

  Try me, he tweeted, including the hashtag. Start with why I have to tweet you, when you’re standing right in front of me.

  The moment he entered the tweet, her head tilted slightly as she listened to Commander Zikky read out the message. “I’m not in front of you. This is . . . a form of communication.”

  Have you considered using the phone?

  “That’s not possible. I’m very far away.”

  What do you want?

  “You have to transfer all of the money to Valentina Petrovna, immediately.”

  I will, after she does what I ask.

  “You have to do it now.”

  No.

  “You owe me. I saved your life, twice: once at the elevator; once at the restaurant.”

  I escaped.

  “More than that. You were dead both times, before I helped you change the timeline.”

  You’re not making any sense.

  “I told you about the file, in Goldstein’s office.”

  The file wasn’t in the top draw of Goldstein’s desk.

  Mariena looked puzzled, then shrugged. “He mustn’t have followed my instructions.”

  You spoke to him?

  “I visited him a few minutes before his time of death. I couldn’t save him, but I asked him to help us. I had no way of knowing if he complied with my request.”

  How could you know his time of death?

  “You wouldn’t believe me.”

  Try me!

  “His date and time of death is in the historical record.” She paused, then added, “As is yours.”

  But I’m not dead.

  “You are from my perspective. All that happened is the exact moment of your death changed. When your time of death changes, the timeline resets.”

  Craig laughed incredulously. Wait a minute. You’re in the future?

  “Your future, yes.”

  So you remember what I haven’t done yet?

  “More than that. I remember what happened before the timeline reset, because the resets are so small, and they don’t affect me directly. That’s how I know you’ve died twice already, and that I saved you both times. It’s why you’re still alive in your current timeline.”

  “Dying twice isn’t a small thing!” Craig said aloud.

  Mariena’s attention was distracted by Zikky again. “He won’t understand,” she said, then arched her brow skeptically before returning her attention to the window over Craig’s shoulder. “What you’re seeing is a hologram. A message, not a person. I exist, but not in your temporal reference frame.”

  And here I was thinking you were just a mirage.

  “I’m as real as you. I’m sending you this message at a very high speed, faster than the speed of light.”

  Even I know nothing can go faster than the speed of light.

  “Except for a particle known as a tachyon, which can’t go slower than the speed of light,” she corrected. “We have the technology to send a stream of such particles backwards in time to you in holographic form.”

  That’s impossible.

  “Not impossible, just paradoxical. Have you ever heard of the causality paradox?”

  I’m a Harvard lawyer, not a science geek.

  “It’s a side effect of Einstein’s theory of relativity. If you send a message faster than the speed of light, it travels backwards in time, so you can receive the message before you sent it. So what’s the cause of the message? Sending it, or receiving it before you sent it? That’s what this is. You’re receiving my message before I sent it, because I’m in your future. In the linear timeline, I won’t be born for several centuries.”

  Craig stared thoughtfully at her, wondering if this was a trick to get the money from him. Prove it.

  “I already have. I saved your life – twice.”

  If you’re in the future, how come you can’t see what I tweet, before I tweet it?

  “Because we’re changing the timeline as we speak. You never tweeted in my past, or your future – in the old timeline. By talking to you, I’m a cause of your tweets, and by listening and responding, you’re also a cause – in the new timelines. Every tweet you send is an infinitesimally small reset. I guess you could call it simultaneous causality, because we’re both causing the same reset, from different points in the timeline. It requires a non-sequential view of time, a simultaneous view stretching from creation to infinity.”

  Craig blinked. “If you say so.”

  So why do I have to tweet you?

  “Social media in your age is your historical record. Everything people say on it, is stored forever. When you tweet, we see it appear in ancient data archives, after the timeline resets. Historically, Goldstein handed the MLI master list over to the people he was working for, and they used the money to create my past. I stopped him doing that, but it has only delayed events. It hasn’t completely broken the timeline, only stressed it. In my time, they still get the MLI funds.”

  How? Craig tweeted. I’ve hidden it.

  “Because they kill you and take the money, and use it exactly as before. Your only hope is to give all of the MLI funds to Valentina Petrovna immediately. That should trigger a complete break in the timeline, rather than the tiny resets we’ve seen so far. It might even be enough to save your life.”

  I’ll give it all to her, soon.

  “It doesn’t matter what you’re planning in your own timeline, I know in mine that you don’t do it because you are killed before you can. Your death certificate is a matter of historical record for us.”

  Craig exhaled slowly, trying to get his head around the paradox. So, I’m going to die soon?

  “Yes.”

  How soon?

  “Very soon. I’m sorry. You must do what I ask now.”

  On impulse, Craig went to the hotel door and slid the old style metal loop over a bolt in the wooden door frame. The old door lacked a heavy dead bolt or electronic card reader, making Craig acutely aware of how flimsy was the protection offered by the door. He returned to his computer and tweeted again.

  What’s so important about this MLI money?

  When Zikky read out the tweet, sadness swept over Mariena’s face. “Earth in our time is very different to what it is in yours, but it’s a result of yours. There’s a revolution coming in your time. The MLI money is the key. It can change the direction of that revolution and the balance of power in the world. It all hinges on Russia.”

  But Russia is no threat to the West.

  “No, but China is. In your time, people wondered what would happen when China’s economy equaled America’s, but they didn’t consider what the world would be like when China’s economy was three or four times larger than America’s. Later in your century, an Autocratic Russia and a Communist China become allies. Russian technology combined with massive Chinese economic power are too great for a debt-ridden America and an impoverished Europe. In the centuries that follow, the balance of power shifts overwhelmingly against the free nations, with a terrible result.”

  What result?

  She ignored his question. “Your only hope – our only hope – is for Russia to join the free nations, not oppose them, to keep the technological advantage with the free world, to preserve a global balance.”

  Craig wondered if her prediction could possibly be true. But that hasn’t happened yet? Right? So how do you know changing my time makes the future better?

  “Trust me, it couldn’t be worse.” Mariena said. “Now please do what I ask.”

  Craig gazed at her holographic image thoughtfully, trying to imagine what Mariena’s world could possibly be like.

  She glanced to her left. “Are we still
transmitting?” A moment later, she turned back towards the window. “Can you hear me?”

  Yes.

  “Will you help us?”

  Who are you?

  When her accomplices read out his question, she said, “We’re . . . the last chance of making the world right again. Humanity dies with us, or lives with you.”

  Craig swallowed. It sounded crazy, but then he’d never spoken to a hologram from the future before, and that seemed crazy too.

  How long have I got?

  She waited while her accomplices checked his date and time of death.

  “Our records show your time of death is in . . . seven minutes.”

  “Seven minutes!” Craig said aloud, shocked.

  A shadow obscured the crack of light between the door and the floor, moving as the handle turned. When the lock caught the door, the clicking of a lock pick jiggling the tumblers sounded. Craig realized seven minutes was long enough to break into the room, to force him at gunpoint to transfer the money and to kill him!

  “Are you transferring the money?” Mariena asked

  Craig jumped to his feet, knowing there was now only one way out of the room. He pushed open the window, grabbed the computer and climbed out onto the narrow, fourth floor ledge. The door lock clicked open behind him as he pushed the window closed and started sliding his feet along the narrow stonework.

  Inside his room, the door opened, but was caught by the metal loop. Nogorev threw his shoulder against it, tearing the securing bolt from the door frame. He stepped inside, seeing a woman standing with her back to him, the same woman he’d seen in Romano’s restaurant.

  “Where is Craig Balard?” Nogorev demanded, leveling his gun at her.

  She seemed to ignore him, saying, “Craig, can you hear me?”

  Nogorev approached. “Answer me!” When she didn’t answer, he fired a single shot into the back of her head. The bullet passed harmlessly through the hologram and shattered the window beyond and startling Craig outside. Nogorev swept his gun through the hologram curiously, then stepped through Mariena’s image, and opened the window.

  Craig inched away to his right, glancing down apprehensively at the alley bordered by low tenement houses. He was an arm’s length from the corner of the building when he glanced back to the window. Nogorev locked a withering stare on him. For a moment, Craig was mesmerized by those eyes, then he continued edging towards the corner again.

  “Come back, and I’ll let you live!” Nogorev promised, still hoping to recover the MLI master list which he now knew was missing from the files he’d taken from Goldstein.

  Seven minutes, Craig remembered, certain Nogorev would never let him live. He glanced down, and for a moment vertigo gripped him, then he looked up, clearing his head.

  Nogorev aimed his silenced pistol at Craig. “Last chance.”

  “Kill me, and you’ll never get the money,” Craig yelled as he felt his way around the corner with one hand.

  “Then no one will get it,” Nogorev said.

  Craig pivoted on one foot and lunged around the corner of the wall. He fell off the ledge as Nogorev fired, feeling the blast of air as the bullet flashed passed his head. His fingertips caught the stone edge as he dropped Nikki’s computer and swung around the corner, out of Nogorev’s sight. The laptop spun away from the building and shattered on the path below as Craig clawed his way along the ledge to a rusting drain pipe running down the side of the building. He hooked a leg around the pipe and slid haltingly down towards the third floor ledge. With one foot on the stonework, he kicked in the nearest window and dived into a room, unoccupied except for a single suit case by the bed. Craig ran out into the hall, where a middle aged maid was guiding a linen trolley out of the elevator a short distance away.

  “Wait!” he yelled, running as the elevator doors started to close.

  The maid stuck out her hand, catching the door.

  “Thanks,” he said, as he stepped inside.

  Craig rode the elevator down to the lobby. When the doors clanked open, he peered warily out. Finding the lobby occupied by only a few guests and the concierge, he walked to the front door and slipped quietly out, then hurried along the sidewalk towards the alley where the computer had shattered. Just as he reached it, Nogorev burst out of the hotel’s back door and looked up at the wall searching for clues as to where his quarry had gone. Nogorev started towards the back street behind the hotel, not seeing Craig behind him, who turned and ran across the street. The detectives watching the hotel, radioed their first sighting of Craig as dodged through traffic. A small delivery van screeched to avoid hitting him, blasting its horn in protest. Nogorev stopped and looked back toward the noise, breaking into a sprint the moment he saw Craig darting through the traffic.

  Damn, he’s fast! Craig realized as he ran into another street, knocking people aside in reckless panic, while near the hotel, the detectives climbed out of their car and started after them both, already far behind.

  Nogorev raced between people and cars with the speed of an athlete, then Craig turned sharply across the road again, and headed towards an Underground station as more horns honked angrily at him. At the Underground entrance, Craig glanced over his shoulder without slowing, seeing Nogorev was closing rapidly.

  I’m no match for him! Craig realized as he leapt down the stairs two at a time, tripped and rolled to the bottom, knocking two men over as he fell. Craig’s head glanced off the last step, then all three hit the bottom together. Dazed, he stumbled to his feet as Nogorev appeared at the top of stairs and took aim.

  One of the men Craig had knocked down jumped to his feet in a fury. “What do you think you’re doing, you stupid bastard!” the man yelled, throwing a roundhouse punch at Craig’s jaw as Nogorev fired.

  The punch knocked Craig down as the bullet struck the angry man’s shoulder, sending him spinning to the ground. A woman screamed as blood smeared the man’s shirt and the shrill call of police whistles sounded from inside the station as two policemen ran toward the stairs. Craig blinked stars from his eyes as he stumbled away, out of Nogorev’s sight. He tumbled over the turnstiles without a ticket, then ran to the nearest platform. Behind him, people rushed to help the wounded man as the police arrived.

  “He shot me! That bastard shot me!” yelled the injured man from the foot of the stairs.

  Nogorev holstered his gun inside his jacket as more police came running, and slipped away into the crowd.

  On the platform, Craig stumbled into the nearest carriage, not caring where the train was going. Other passengers watched him collapse onto a seat, breathing heavily and holding his throbbing head. The doors closed and slowly, the train pulled away from the platform. More than seven minutes had passed, and he was still alive.

  More importantly, the timeline reset again.

  * * * *

  Inspector McGuire sat in his office in New Scotland Yard studying a report analyzing Craig’s internet usage when Corman and Harriman entered. He handed them each copies of the report. “Balard made no calls from his hotel room, but he made good use of the room’s wifi service.”

  Harriman glanced at the list of websites Craig had logged into. “They’re all banks?”

  Corman skimmed the report quickly, then whistled slowly. “That crazy son of a bitch! He did it!”

  “Did what?” McGuire asked.

  Corman picked up the Inspector’s telephone. “I’ve got to make a call. Do you mind?” he asked, already dialing.

  “Help yourself,” McGuire said, certain that it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d refused.

  When the call connected, Corman said, “584236. I need a list of electronic funds transfers in the last twenty four hours from the following banks,” he said, then read aloud the names on McGuire’s list. “Only the big ones . . . and the destinations if you can get them.” Corman looked up at Harriman and McGuire, who watched with interest.

  “There are millions of transfers every day,” McGuire said. “Finding any money Balard
transferred will be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  “Depends how big the needle is,” Corman replied, then straightened as the person at the other end came back on the line. “No, only very large amounts . . . Yes, that sounds like one! . . . Trace it if you can.”

  “Are you going to tell us what’s going on?” Harriman asked.

  Corman smiled incredulously. “That no nothing, wet behind the ears, punk lawyer, just pulled off the biggest heist in history! And seriously pissed off some very nasty people.” He sobered. “Which means he’s the deadest man walking on the face of the Earth! God help him.”

  * * * *

  Veniamin Zhurav lived in a small cottage on the outskirts of London, almost in the style of an English country gentleman. He had an inconsequential, embassy job, giving him a modest income and ensuring an even more modest pension. He’d failed to notice the man in the creased suit follow him from the Russian Embassy to the train, then tail him all the way home. He flipped the catch on the gate in front of his house, collected his mail and strolled toward his front door, unaware the man caught the gate behind him. When Zhurav unlocked the door and stepped into the entrance hall, the man slipped in behind him, and pressed the cold steel of a knife against the diplomat’s throat.

  “Don’t move!” Craig ordered.

  It was a common carving knife he’d bought from a supermarket, but to Zhurav, it felt like cold death. “What do you want?”

  “Do you know who the head spy is, in your embassy?”

  It was never publicized who the SVR members were, but most people had their suspicions. “No,” he lied.

  Craig pressed the blade firmly against Zhurav’s throat. “Do you know someone who does?”

  “Why?” Zhurav asked, realizing he was not this man’s target.

  “I want you to give them a message. Tell them I have the MLI money – all of it. If they want it back, my price is the file on Colonel Jack Balard, US Air Force.” Craig had no intention of giving them the money, but he was desperate. Valentina didn’t have his father’s file, and couldn’t access it. His only option was to bluff the people who did have it. “You got that? Repeat it.”