Master of Starlight

by Keith Short

  ‘You can’t possibly dance to this.’

  ‘You can dance to any music, if you try.’ He took Magda in his arms. ‘You see, it’s easy. If you want something so badly, you can have it. Like I want you and you want me. I’ve rid myself of the spectre of Sergei, by the way.’

  ‘Just like that? We can’t turn the clock back, Leon.’

  ‘Why not? The arrow of time goes in both directions. I thought you knew that?’

  ‘Why is it constrained to only two directions?’

  He looked into her eyes and laughed. That sense of humour would never fade. ‘You’d make a good physicist, Magda Tomala.’

  ‘Talking about physicists, one thing puzzles me. We spent all that time and effort on our predictive models – you trying to find a way in, me trying to find a way out. I’m a mathematician, I was developing a mathematical algorithm to provide me with an answer. You were following a similar process. Yet as a physicist, you can design a nuclear reactor in your head. Why did you need a formal model?’

  He laughed again. ‘You mathematicians can be so serious at times. For me, it’s like this. I get this amazing feel for what’s going on at the quantum physics level. I knew in my heart the adjustments we made between stellerator runs were going to work. But when it came to finding you, there was a cloud of emotion fogging my thinking. It’s called love. And no physicist will ever be capable of analysing love.’ She continued to sway in response to his steps but he knew they were both out of time with the music.

  ‘This movement is so beautiful, Leon. It makes me want to cry. I feel as if we’re together as one again.’

  ‘What did I tell you? We can always go back and recover what belongs to us. I can tell you’re fully recovered from your brainwashing without undergoing the reversal process. And I have you back. There are no longer any obstacles along our path through space-time. We’ve just proved that.’

  ‘Oh, Leon. I do love you.’

  The lace curtains of Glasnost’s grand ballroom fluttered in the warm spring breeze. With the string quartet permitted to play nothing but cheerful music and the champagne flowing, Vladimir Chekhov’s guests were bound in a heartfelt happiness.

  ‘Ah, the blushing bride. You look a picture. It reminds me of my own wedding.’

  Magda raised her eyebrows. ‘Vladimir, you promised.’

  ‘Don’t worry, my dear. There is no sadness in my heart today. Only love. I can’t begin to explain what it means to me to see my only son marry such a beautiful, intelligent girl as yourself. His mother would have been so proud of him. In fact, I feel happy for the first time this century.’ He beckoned across the room. ‘Leon, come and join us for a toast.’

  Leon strode across the dance floor, wearing the beaming grin he’d displayed since the moment the registrar pronounced him and Magda man and wife.

  ‘I haven’t had the chance to thank you, Vladimir. Oh, sorry.’

  ‘No, don’t be sorry, Leon. I realise how difficult it must be for you to call me Father. And you don’t have to. I want you to know that I’ve had a long discussion with Szymon. What a delightful chap. And we agreed you should retain his name. After all, he’s done a wonderful job in bringing you up.’

  ‘And my stepmother, Lynne?’

  ‘Leon!’ Magda had her arms folded. ‘It’s our wedding day.’

  Chekhov was quick to answer. ‘What she did was wrong. Yet, despite what people say, I can be a good listener. And believe it or not, I can even forgive. But this is all for another day. Today we have a party to start. Not only is it your wedding day, but we are celebrating the future of nuclear fusion power. The world will no longer have to rely on fossil fuels or inefficient natural resources. Soon we will be generating most of our power from man-made starlight. Fusion will make sure it is all done responsibly and that everyone gets their fair share of the benefit. And it’s all down to you, Leon.’

  ‘Yes, we’re well on our way. And I understand the US government departments are having success in weeding out the bad apples at the top of their organisation. What a situation we were in. American Tycoons versus Russian Oligarchs . . . Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean—’

  Chekhov’s scowl turned into a wry smile. ‘I know, Leon. It must have been terrible for you and your colleagues. And your technical counterparts at Los Alamos, of course – devout and trustworthy scientists, all of them. We’ll find an acceptable commercial way forward one day, I promise you that.’

  ‘But there is one issue I need to resolve.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Ivan Kuzmin. Why didn’t he come to the wedding?’

  Chekhov looked puzzled. ‘He has urgent security matters to attend to. You knew that.’

  ‘That’s what I was coming to – security matters. What concerns me is if Kuzmin is so sharp, how come he didn’t spot that huge security hole in the boundary of the mansion.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, why didn’t he install a wafer-zip detector at the main exit – stop anyone leaving the building with a zip in their pocket? The main security systems would have detected a zip at reception, of course. But for the sake of a ten-minute job, we would have had defence in depth. There has to be a good reason for him not doing it and, if I didn’t know better, I’d even say Kuzmin could have been in on this data heist. Do you want me to have a word with him?’

  Vladimir Chekhov laughed out loud. The room went quiet and the guests stared with incredulity. He’d obviously never been heard to laugh like this before. He wrapped his arm around Leon and hugged him close.

  ‘Just for once, young man, you are so wrong.’

  CHAPTER 47

  Oleg Malkin stepped out of the Chevrolet cab and followed the sidewalk along Daytona Beach. He abhorred the flashy beaches in this part of the world, yet he always recognised the financial potential of tourist areas such as Florida’s east coast. The Americans could do more with this, he thought as he looked out at the tide of beach dwellers cavorting at the water’s foaming edge. It was a sweltering day and he found the dry air stifling. But there was a lucrative deal on offer; why else would he leave his air-conditioned pad in Kissimmee and suffer Florida’s oppressive summer climate? He was to meet with Jake Howard, a big player in these parts who had plans for a new super-brothel in Downtown Orlando. He’d been impressed by Jake’s ideas during their preliminary video chat, they matched his own – and Jake had big backers. He’d even managed to convince Jake that his own experience would be invaluable and the word partnership was mentioned more than once. For the first time since arriving by transatlantic liner three months earlier, Malkin was excited by his financial prospects.

  The Rip-Tide beach bar was everything Malkin feared. The fierce sun burned down on its glitzy open areas and the regimented rows of sun worshippers left scant space for anyone to walk along the bar’s private beach. The bar itself was jammed with bikini-clad American beauties sipping at fluorescent cocktails served by bronzed and muscled waiters. How could they drink so much alcohol in heat like this? Why would Jake Howard choose such a venue to outline his proposals? At least there’s recruiting potential here.

  ‘Ah, there you are.’ Jake Howard smiled down at Malkin as he offered him a long scrawny hand, toasted brown from years under the Florida sun.

  He hadn’t expected Jake to be as tall as this. He looked up into his wizened old face, shielding his eyes with his hand and squinting as the bright sunlight shone from behind Jake’s head. ‘Nice to meet you in the flesh, Jake.’

  ‘Glad you could come along, Oleg. We’re over the other side. It’s more pleasant round there in the shade. Come and join us for a drink.’

  ‘You’ve invited others to the meeting?’

  ‘Only one. He’s one of your compatriots, living in England. Already thinking of setting up a similar operation in London, I believe. And when I described your experience, he seemed keen on joining us.’<
br />
  I should know the main players back there. Maybe he’s someone new?

  The other side of the bar was, as Jake promised, cooler and more comfortable. He was beginning to feel good about this meeting, confident he could start up again and rebuild the empire he’d lost. He was going to enjoy life once more. I’ll show Chekhov what he’s missing.

  ‘There he is. The table in the far corner,’ Jake said, giving Malkin a friendly nudge forward. ‘Go and introduce yourself. I’ll bring over a jug of iced orange and we can make a start.’

  Jake Howard’s guest was sitting with his back to him. There was something familiar about this figure. Perhaps I do know him after all? Malkin was within a metre of the table when Ivan Kuzmin stood and turned.

  ‘Good to see you again, Mr Malkin. Mr Chekhov is keen to talk to you about his son. We have a private jet waiting for us at Orlando International.’

  EPILOGUE

  ‘You have visitors, Lynne. I’ll leave you in peace, my love.’

  The lights in the bedroom were dim, making it almost impossible to see the man who fed her and tended to her daily needs. He seemed a good sort, but who had he brought along to see her?

  ‘Leon? Magda? Is that you? Come and sit down, I have a chair to either side. Though I don’t get many visitors. Sit close to me. I don’t see too well nowadays – everything seems so foggy.’

  A tender kiss on the cheek. When was the last time?

  ‘How are you feeling, Mum?’

  ‘Leon. So nice of you to come. How is your work going? Are you doing well?’

  ‘Yes, it’s going well. I’ve spent a lot of time in London. But I’m here now.’

  ‘I hope you’ve been looking after this good lady. Has she been in London with you?’

  She felt her hand being squeezed. The soft caressing of her bedraggled hair made her smile. She couldn’t remember the last time she smiled.

  ‘You’re very affectionate today, Magda. Tell me what you’ve been doing. What’s the matter, dear? I can tell you’re upset. I’ve never seen you cry before.’

  ‘I love you, Ma. I’ve always loved you.’

  ‘Mary, my precious.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My sincere thanks go to Dr John Coffey, Zoe Fearnley and Janet Hutchins for their feedback and support throughout the drafting of this novel.

  I am particularly indebted to Dea Parkin and her brilliant team of editors at Fiction Feedback. Thank you, Dea, for your invaluable advice, mentoring and patience.