‘And that was it? The first time?’
‘Urd no. If you really want to trace it back to source, you’d have to look to Fabius.’
‘Fabius?’
‘The legendary Fabius Maximus, the Roman dictator who fought Hannibal. Or rather,
didn’t
. You could say he originated this form of warfare. His tactic was to retreat before his enemies – in his case the Carthaginians – destroying the land in front of them, while feeding and maintaining his own army, and let them lose men to hunger and disease. Then, when they were finally weak enough, he struck back at them, encircling them, cutting them off from any source of reinforcement or resupply.’
‘And then eliminating them.’
‘Right.’ Ernst pauses, looking at me questioningly. Thus far he’s enjoyed making the historical parallel, but he has suddenly understood that it’s to a purpose. ‘So how does this help us understand what’s going on right now?’
I hesitate, then launch in, aware that the boys are listening to every word.
‘Think about it. About the Russians, I mean. What if they’re doing what they always did? Destroying their own land in front of their enemy? Drawing us in, deep into their territory, then turning on us. Only, what if they’re doing it in Time?’
Ernst stares at me, surprised. But I can see that he likes the idea. But does the analogy hold? Is that really what Yastryeb is up to?
Ernst is looking thoughtful. ‘Maybe,’ he says finally. ‘Only how would they go about that? How – when we can jump out of there any time we want – could they form an effective
Kessel
? How could they surround us when we won’t let ourselves be surrounded?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I answer. And that’s true, only I’m beginning to get the vaguest glimmer of an idea. ‘By doing exactly what they’re doing at Poltava and destroying their own history bit by bit, by drawing us in, perhaps by encouraging us to help in that destruction. And then trapping us in ruined cul-de-sacs of time.’
Ernst, however, seems anything but convinced by the idea. ‘But why would we do that if they were already doing the job for us? Hecht would
never
risk the agents.’
‘He’s already lost five.’
Ernst’s mouth opens then closes again. ‘Yes, but—’
‘Don’t you see?’
‘See what?’
‘How hard it would be for Hecht
not
to respond … not to risk at least some tentative action to try to gain advantage of the situation. After all, it’s what his whole being is trained to do. To see the historical cusps and react to them. For him
not
to react … it’s almost impossible.’
Ernst looks worried now. ‘But he
must
. If that
is
what they’re doing.’
‘Yes,’ I say. Only I’m remembering now that look on Hecht’s face, the silent dismissal, first of Freisler and then of myself. Decisions. Even now, Hecht is making grave decisions.
Scorched earth … And I think of the
Kessels
at Stalingrad and Poltava, and of the thousands of French soldiers dying of cold and exhaustion on the road to Moscow, and I wonder, just for an instant, whether that is to be our fate, too. Whether, when the time comes and the snows begin to fall, we too will be found wanting.
In the real history – the history we know – events go like this.
It is eight in the morning, on 17 June 1709, Charles’s twenty-seventh birthday, and – as is his habit – he has ridden out to inspect his men and their positions, a few miles south of Poltava, near the village of Nizhny Mliny. The Swedes and Cossacks are drawn up along the bank of the Vorskla, facing the Russians across the river. As Charles rides along, within musket range of the Russians, one of his Drabants falls from his horse, shot dead in the saddle.
Unconcerned for his safety, Charles rides on, then turns his horse to climb the bank, turning his back contemptuously on his enemy. At that very moment, a Russian musket ball strikes his left heel, piercing the boot and travelling the full length of Charles’s foot, smashing the bone and leaving by the big toe. Charles grunts with pain, but carries on, gritting his teeth and finishing his inspection as if nothing has happened. Yet when, three hours later, he tries to dismount back at camp, he passes out from the pain.
It’s a bad injury, one that Charles almost dies of. Coming just nine days before the decisive battle of Poltava, it proves critical in that Charles, his army’s chief strategist and good-luck totem, will not be there in person on the battlefield.
But history has changed. This time, as Charles climbs the bank, the musket balls whizz harmlessly past the young king, and as he looks back contemptuously at the Russian lines, he does not see his unknown ‘nemesis’, lying there among the trees where the river makes a turn, his head blown off.
But I, sitting there on my horse among the honour guard, waiting for the king to rejoin us, have seen it all: saw the man appear from nowhere and, at an arm’s length, shoot the Russian sniper dead before vanishing again. As clear an instance of time assassination as I’ve ever seen.
So do we leave it at that, or do we intercede? Do we attempt to change it back?
I have a strong sense of them waiting there for us in the wings, a gut feeling that if we sent someone in to try to change things back they would simply ambush them, picking off our agents one by one until we ceased to exist. In my mind I can picture the massive firefight that would result, there among the trees, and know that however good we are, they would outnumber us three, maybe four to one and kill us all.
What’s more, we could use whatever weaponry we chose to use, but they would only respond in kind. No matter how much we upped the stakes, they’d top us, as if it were some crazy game of poker in which we held the losing hand. Three twos against four aces.
I turn my horse and make to ride away, only as I do there is a massive explosion behind me, back where the dead assassin lies. My horse bucks wildly, then calms, and I look up in time to see Charles, staring across the water at the huge pall of smoke and steam that’s rising from the crater in the riverbank, a look of astonishment in his eyes.
He’s wondering, no doubt, what unearthly form of mortar could have made such a huge hole, yet as the water rushes in, boiling and steaming against the super-heated earth, I, at least, understand what it is. A message. To me. To let me know that they know I’m there. And the thought chills me, because once more I don’t understand their motives, only that they’re taunting me.
Hecht is far too calm for my liking.
‘But they know I’m in there,’ I say, repeating it to him. ‘It’s as if they know something. As if they’re mocking me.’
They know I’m dead
, is what I really mean.
Know it and want to keep reminding me of it
.
‘Or were just removing the evidence,’ Hecht says.
Only why? It’s not like the Russian sniper was one of their agents … Or was he? Is what we’re witnessing second thoughts – some huge change of mind on Yastryeb’s part? Has he suddenly decided
not
to back Peter, but to put all of his considerable influence behind someone else? Menshikov, perhaps? It’s possible. I mean, I’ve always wondered about Menshikov, wondered if he was one of their agents, that is, because his origins are veiled to say the least. If he is, then it makes a kind of sense, because it’s far easier to directly control one of your own men than seek to influence such a powerful and headstrong young man as the six-foot-seven Peter.
Only it doesn’t
quite
make sense, because Peter doesn’t seem to do much wrong as far as the Russians are concerned. Indeed, I’d go so far as to say that he fulfils the same function in their history as Frederick in ours. Without him, well, there
is
no Russia.
At least, that’s how we’ve been reading it all along. But what if we’re wrong? What if there’s some other path their history can take?
‘
Maskirovka
,’ Hecht says quietly, and Freisler, sitting just across from me, smiles and nods.
It’s an old Russian term, a catch-all concept, covering deception, camouflage, and all manner of operational security. Yet what kind of
maskirovka
would be worth losing Poltava? It might seem obvious, but we keep returning to this:
what possible advantage
could be gained by seemingly losing it all?
I want to find that out, only Hecht isn’t going to let me.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he says, fixing me with his grey eyes. ‘I’m sending Freisler in. You’re too prominent, Otto. For some reason …’
He doesn’t say it, but I can guess what he’s alluding to. My escapade on the river with Krylenko and the
staritskii
, the laser gun.
‘But I—’
Hecht interrupts me. ‘You’ll stay here, Otto.
Okay?
’ Then, more gently. ‘We’ll use you. Don’t worry. But not yet. Not until we find out a lot more about what’s going on. What our two agents were duelling about, for a start.’
I go to open my mouth, then think better of it. It’s a woman, I’m sure. What else could be that important?
‘So what do you want me to do?’
Hecht reaches down, then hands across two files. Print-outs. ‘I want you to read these. And then I want you to go and see Kirchoff.’
‘
Kirchoff
? But—’
‘You’ll see him. And afterwards you’ll come back here and we’ll talk. Okay?’
It’s
not
okay, and I want to protest, only Hecht seems insistent.
I stand, then bow smartly to him, as a soldier bows to his commander. And then I turn and, without another word, walk over to the door and step through.
Kirchoff! What the fuck does he want me to see Kirchoff for? There’s nothing wrong with me. Nothing
mentally
.
But first the files.
Only when I get back to my room, it’s to find Ernst there, sitting on my bed. He wants to talk. About Katerina and Kolya and – most of all – about what happened back in Krasnogorsk.
Only I don’t know what happened. Not yet, anyway.
Ernst looks fragile and nervous, but that’s how he is these days, and the news that Katerina and I somehow died back there has not improved his condition. Perhaps he even blames himself. But I’m not going to be sucked into speculating about the situation, not until I know a hell of a lot more than I do right now.
I change the subject. Ask him what he makes of Poltava and the changes the Russians have made. He makes me go through them again, one by one, then shakes his head, just as mystified by it all as I am.
‘It makes no sense,’ he says. ‘Absolutely no sense.’
‘I know. Only it must.
Somehow
.’
‘And the changes up the line?’
‘Are devastating, so Hecht says. Russia, well, there
is
no Russia, in effect.’
Ernst considers that, then looks at me again. ‘We haven’t got it all,’ he says. ‘There’s something missing. Something that makes sense of it all.’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Only what?’
Ernst gestures to the files I’m holding. ‘What are they?’
‘Files on our agents. The two who were in there.’
‘And they’re among the five who are dead?’
‘Yes. As of now.’
‘Do I know them?’
I nod. ‘Neipperg’s one of them. The other’s Stein.’
‘Ah …’
We were in the Garden with Josef Neipperg. He’s of our time, so to speak. He shared a lot with us. And now he’s dead. For now, anyway.
I sigh, then sit beside Ernst on the bed, handing him Stein’s file. ‘And there’s another thing.’
‘What?’
‘Hecht wants me to see Kirchoff.’
Ernst’s head comes up quickly. He meets my eyes, then, embarrassed, looks away. He licks at his lips, then asks. ‘And what do you think of that?’
‘I think it’s a shit idea.’
Ernst is quiet after that. Too quiet.
‘
What
?’ I ask.
He looks to me. ‘I think you should. After what happened. It must have been quite a shock, seeing yourself like that. Not to speak of …’
Of Katerina
.
I let out my breath. ‘I don’t need to see Kirchoff. I don’t …’ I stand, then throw the file down angrily. ‘What the fuck is Hecht up to? I mean, why summon me back if he doesn’t think I’m capable mentally?’
‘That’s not what he’s inferring.’
‘No?’
‘No. But you’re not a machine, Otto. And it must have hurt. It must have …’ He looks away, then visibly shivers. ‘I can’t imagine, I mean, what I’d have felt. I’ve never loved someone that much, Otto. I’ve never, well, never been that lucky.’
I stare at Ernst, seeing him suddenly. Seeing how lonely he is. How incomplete.
Sitting, I put my arm about his shoulders. ‘You think I should see him, then?’
Ernst turns his head and looks at me. His eyes are smiling, yet there’s still the same pain in them, behind it all. ‘I think you need to.’
‘But if Hecht finds out about Katerina …’
‘Hecht won’t. Kirchoff won’t tell him.’
I almost laugh at that, only Ernst is in earnest. ‘He
won’t
,’ he says again, this time with emphasis.
‘How do you know?’
‘Because he knows already. Because I told him.’
The files don’t tell me much, only that they’re both good agents. Solid, reliable men. Men you could trust with your life.
No wonder Hecht is worried.
I’m about to get washed and changed, ready for my session with Kirchoff, when young Horst pays me a visit.
‘So?’ I ask. ‘What’s the news on our friend Kolya?’
He hands me yet another folder. I open it, then frown. ‘Is this it?’
‘That’s it.’
‘But—’
‘I was looking for the best part of a month, subjective. Twenty-seven different sites, in eleven separate epochs, and that’s all I could find. It’s like, well, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that our friend Kolya had set about destroying any clear links.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that his ancestors keep going missing. Boating accidents, fires, sudden disappearances, journeys where they set off and never come back, even straightforward abductions. If it made any sense, I’d say he’d gone out of his way to kill his own ancestors. Only … how would
he
survive without
them
?’