The Empire of Time (21 page)

How simple it is, after all. But no one would have guessed. Not for a moment.

‘He killed himself, you know.’

‘Did he?’ But Gruber seems unconcerned.

And it strikes me that he’s waiting for someone. He has been told exactly what to do, and this is part of it. I look into the barrel of his gun and shake my head.

‘Put it down, Hans.’

‘What?’

‘The gun. Put it down. You know you won’t use it.’

‘Won’t I?’

‘No. Because you’d have done it by now. Who’s coming, Hans? Who wants to see me?’

The surprise in his eyes is almost comical, but I know I’ve guessed right.

‘Nemtsov,’ he says. ‘He said to keep you here.’

‘I see.’ But the truth is, I don’t. I was expecting Yastryeb himself. Perhaps to gloat and tell me it was all over. But no. It was only Nemtsov. Only the messenger boy.

‘What have they promised you, Hans? What was your price?’

That riles him, but he’s trained well enough not to let it show in his voice.

‘I get to live.’

‘You’re that confident, then?’

Gruber laughs, but there’s a hardness in his face now. ‘You’re doomed, Otto. There’s just so many more of them than you, and that’ll count in the end. Because they’re every bit as good as you. And Yastryeb, well, Yastryeb will crush you, you’ll see.’

‘And that’s it, is it?’

Gruber nods, and I laugh and really anger him.

‘You’re a fucking fool, Otto. A bloody idealist. Can’t you see we can’t win?’

‘
We?
I thought you were
them
.’

The gun trembles, then he lowers it. And as he does, so Nemtsov shivers into being beside him.

‘Herr Berr … I’ve heard so much about you.’

I smile. ‘I’ve killed you, you arsehole. In Berlin.’

‘You think you did.’

And that might be true. After all, there’s no mention in history of a nuclear explosion taking out the centre of eighteenth-century Berlin.

Nemtsov is a bear of a man, complete with a bushy black beard that seems to sprout from the base of his neck. I imagine, naked, you would not see an inch of flesh on him, only a lush dark growth of hair, like the primeval Russian forest.

‘So what do you want?’

He grins and takes a letter from his pocket. It’s sealed with red wax, like some ancient document. A nice touch, I think, and take it from him.

‘For me?’

‘No. For Hecht. It’s from Yastryeb.’

‘And you want me to give it to him, right?’

Nemtsov nods.

I turn the letter, then lift it to my nose and sniff. It smells old and musty, as if it’s been kept in a box for a century or more.

‘How can I trust you, comrade? This could be a weapon.’

‘It could. But it isn’t.’

‘So you say.’

‘Then test it. I’m sure you have ways.’

He knows we have, and he knows that I’ll deliver it. But I want something more from this exchange.

‘What’s he like, your master?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘Just that I’m told he has a weakness for young girls.’

Nemtsov’s eyes widen and his nostrils flare. It’s true what they say about these Russians. They
are
more passionate than us. But that passion can be a weakness. It can get in the way of clear thought.

‘Go fuck yourself, Herr Behr!’ And there’s a kind of mocking, childish sound to the way he pronounces the last two words. But sticks and stones …

I slip the letter into my pocket, then smile at the two men facing me. ‘So? Is there anything else I should know before I go back? Any other little messages you’d like me to carry with me?’

‘Just this,’ Nemtsov says, and glances at Gruber, a sudden gleeful look in his eyes. ‘We’ll see you in three days …’ And with that, both he and Gruber disappear.

I stare at the blank space in front of me, shocked. Gruber … has gone.

‘Oh shit!’

And I jump, not knowing what I’ll find.

The place is silent. Eerily so. There’s no sign of damage, but then, there doesn’t have to be. The mere fact that there’s no one there makes me think the worst, because there’s
always
someone there, day and night, every day of the year.

I step down off the platform and look about me. Expecting what? A tiny pile of ash here, another there? But there’s no sign of a struggle, no evidence that anyone’s been here, except …

That’s it. The absolute silence. The lack of even the slightest tremor. The bombardment has stopped. That constant sub-level trembling has stopped. Gone is that faint pressure in the ears, the ever-present smell of oil and burned plastics, so subtle that it can only really be detected now, in its absence. The desks glow softly, the screens alive and tracking still. I walk across and look at one.

‘Otto …’

My name, uttered in that silence, is enough to make me jump and turn. It’s Hecht. He stands there by the portal, facing me, one hand extended.

‘You have a message, I believe.’

I should know by now not to be surprised by anything Hecht does, but this surprises me. How could he possibly know?

‘It stopped,’ he says. ‘Shortly after we acted. Yastryeb must have grown tired of the charade.’

I stare at him, wondering if that’s really how he views it. After all, if a single one of those nano-worms had penetrated our shields, we’d all be dead.

I hand him the letter. He unseals it and unfolds it, then gives a brief laugh. ‘The bastard wants us to surrender. He says we’re finished.’

‘Then why not finish us?’

‘Precisely.’ And Hecht makes a ball of the ancient paper and lets it drop. I ache to read it, to see exactly what Yastryeb has said, even to glimpse his handwriting, but I show no sign.

‘Where is everyone?’

‘Having a rest. It’s about time, wouldn’t you say?’

‘But … who’s tracking our agents?’

‘No one. They’re back here.’

‘All of them?’

Hecht nods, then gestures for me to follow. We go through, into his room. I sit across from him, cross-legged.

He’s silent for a moment, contemplating something, and then he looks at me and gives that faint, enigmatic smile of his.

‘You want to know what’s going on, don’t you?’

‘It might help.’

‘It might. Then again …’ He hesitates, then sits forward slightly. ‘As I see it, we’re at something of a stalemate. Anything we do, they undo, and anything they do,
we
undo. It’s cat and mouse out there, but who’s the cat and who the mouse? Or, to put it another way, Otto, we’re too well matched. This thing could go on for ever.’

There’s something about the way he says this that makes me curious. ‘What’s happened?’ I ask. ‘I mean, to you.’

Hecht looks at me admiringly. ‘Very perceptive of you, Otto. I wondered if you’d notice.’

‘Well?’

He folds his hands, then sits back again, closing his eyes. ‘I met myself today. My future self.’

‘Ah …’

‘Yes, ah …’

‘And what did you say to yourself?’

Hecht’s eyes flick open. ‘Which self would that be, Otto?’

‘Your future self. What did he tell you, other than that Yastryeb was full of shit?’

Hecht laughs. ‘You want to know?’

‘Yes.’

You see, it isn’t often that we visit our own selves. It’s not encouraged. Our future selves know too much – who died and when, and who did what – and it’s not always best to know that kind of thing. It’s hard enough living with the rest of it, the changes and the dead who aren’t dead. So future-Hecht must have had a damn good reason to visit himself. One hell of a good reason.

Hecht is smiling that smile again, which makes you think he’s mocking you, but instead of telling me, he shakes his head.

‘No, Otto. This once I’ll keep it to myself, if it’s all the same to you.’

I sigh. Maybe it’s best that I don’t know what’s going to happen. Then again, if Hecht is alive up the line, then things are probably all right.

‘I’m tired,’ I say.

‘Then get some sleep. Or go visit Zarah. I’m sure she’d like to see you.’ And he smiles, as if he knows something that I don’t.

But I don’t want to see Zarah, however much she wants to see me. I want …

To sleep. It hits me now. The drug is wearing off, much sooner than I thought it would. Maybe it’s the stress – that business with the Russians – but suddenly I am dead on my feet. I stand and nod to Hecht, then turn and make my way across. But no sooner am I in my room, than I am gone, lost to the void, an atom, endlessly circling.

Endlessly, endlessly circling.

And wake, on my feet, a battle waging all about me, the blue coats of the Prussian grenadiers packed densely to either side, their bayonets fixed.

A sword swings wildly past my right shoulder, a flash of silver in the acrid, smoke-filled air, and I step back smartly, half-crouching, knowing that I’m in real and mortal danger.

This happens. I do have blackouts. But rarely like this.

There’s no time for that, however. I have two options: to jump straight out of there or to fight.

I choose to fight.

It’s scorchingly hot and the air is filled with the shouts and screams of men, the thunder of cannon fire and the whistle of musket-balls. But where we are, on the Muhl-Berge, the battle rages fiercest, cold steel deciding the issue. It is early afternoon, and the battle is barely an hour old. I know this because of where we are, among the Russian trenches, where four battalions of Frederick’s finest men – his grenadiers – are causing havoc, slaughtering the demoralised Russians to a man.

I draw my sword and parry a low thrust from one of the few Russians who has the stomach for the fight. Many are just letting themselves be bayoneted. It is sheer carnage where we are, but I know that this phase of things won’t last much longer. Even as we cut our way across the great hump of the Muhl-Berg, Saltykov is redeploying his men in a new line of defence just beyond the sandy little valley called the Kuh-Grunde. From there the combined Russian and Austrian batteries will take their toll of our forces, turning potential victory into bloody defeat.

But that’s to come.

The Russian falls, shot from close range by one of my fellows, and I am conscious suddenly that I am in full Prussian uniform, the rough cloth unfamiliar, but I recognise it at once as that of the thirteenth infantry regiment. I look about me and see, far to my left, his sword drawn, encouraging his troops, Major-General August Friedrich von Itzenplitz. He will die today, but right now he grins like a demon, sharing his soldier’s bloodlust.

I know precisely where I am. I have walked this battlefield a dozen times or more, and even stood on the escarpment beside Frederick, watching as the battle unfolded. But this is different. Never, in all my years, have I been in the thick of the conflict.

I am dressed as a captain, and I wonder how and why. There’s a gun tucked into my belt, too, a replica, made to look like a pistol from this age. And slowly, piece by piece, it comes back to me. This is Hecht’s plan, not mine.

As the action begins to die down and the platoons reform, I make my way across to Itzenplitz and, saluting him, request permission to seek out Frederick and give him the news of our success. He smiles and bids me go, then calls me back to thank me for serving alongside his men. And I realise there and then that I must have volunteered for this only last night – and as I leave, making my way through the ranks, the soldiers cheer me and slap my back, like I’m a hero.

I find Frederick up on the Kleiner-Spitzberg, to the east of Kunersdorf village. Already he has made several major mistakes. His men are exhausted after their long overnight march, and the terrain is not to his advantage – there are long ponds stretching all the way along between our forces and the Russians, and now Frederick has marched his men another six miles simply to attack his enemies on their best fortified flank. Things are going badly wrong. The cavalry are arriving in dribs and drabs and the Kuh-Grunde is about to become a massive killing ground. But when I report to him, he seems elated by his early successes and keen to press his ‘advantage’.

It is not my role to talk him out of it, but for once I’m tempted. I have been down there, among the dead and dying. I’ve seen the suffering first-hand. Many are dying of the heat and thirst, their wounds untended, their loved ones far away, unaware of their fate. And there’s more to come. A whole afternoon of suffering.

Ten thousand men will die today, while another thirty thousand will carry the scars of this battle for the rest of their lives. And for what?

For a gamble. Which is all this is, after all. One mad cast of the dice against the odds. For even Frederick can see what is happening. Only he doesn’t want to. He thinks sheer will and Prussian grit and
luck
will win the day. But he forgets Zorndorf. His enemy did not run that day and they will not run on this. Four hours from now it will be his troops, shocked and bloodied, who will be staggering from the field of battle, a defenceless mob, mortally afraid of being captured and transported to Siberia.

But I keep my mind to the task. It is Frederick who matters now, wrong as he is, evil as this day’s work of his will prove, for without him we do not exist.

I stand close to him, watching as he gives his orders. Finck is to attack with his eight battalions from the north, struggling across the swampy ground to be slaughtered, while the Hauss battalion under von Kleist, a cultured man of letters, will be cut to ribbons by the Russian batteries, Kleist himself mortally wounded.

It is a butcher’s shop, and even from this height we can hear the screams of the dying and the wounded. But worse – far worse – is to come. Frederick has yet to commit his main army. Only then will the battle turn. Only then will the true horror of things be revealed.

I stay with him as things develop, witness to his moods. Elation and despair, anger and brute frustration war in his face. News comes of Seydlitz’s failure to penetrate the Russian defences, and of the bullet wound to his hand. Then, as the afternoon wears on, we learn that Major-General Puttkammer, a favourite of Frederick’s, is dead, shot in the chest. All is gloom.