TIMEWALK   (part four of five)

 by Richard Banks   

            “It's Cheshire and Adam,” whispers Cheshire.

            The door widens to let us in, then closes, plunging the house into total darkness. A voice tells us to stay where we are; he will put on a light. The muted sound of footsteps is reinforced by the creak of a wooden floorboard. An internal door is shut, curtains drawn and when the door is opened again a light shines out like a beacon. We follow the light into a room, where our host is already seated behind a desk. For a man who's been unexpectedly woken in the early hours of the morning, he seems remarkably composed, and if he's surprised by our mired appearance he makes no show of it. At first, I don't recognise him, a familiar face but in an unfamiliar place, the white overalls of the laboratory replaced by a blue quilted dressing gown.

            “Good God, sir, it's you!”

            Sir, the senior technician at Timewalk, stares back at me with an expression that suggests I have been more than normally incompetent.

            “Of course it's me, Adam. Who on earth were you expecting?”

            When I can't think of an answer Cheshire comes to my aid by saying I'm still woozy from a dodgy cigarette that she now thinks was a truth drug. Unsurprisingly this does not reassure 'sir' who is otherwise known as Professor Renshaw. Cheshire then launches into a blow by blow account of how she rescued me from a government hitman and that if the police are on to me they must surely know about everyone else in the cell.

            Renshaw considers this with the same expression he wears when calculating time shift coordinates. “Then why aren't they here, knocking down the door? No, it's only Adam they know about.” He fixes me with a look that suggests I am being held responsible for more than the footprints on his carpet. “Why you, Adam?”

            For the moment I am tempted to tell him the whole story; Eli, Egor, the whole thing, but I don't. If they find out I'm the old Adam rather than the new revolutionary Adam I become a threat to them all. I shrug my shoulders and when that response appears insufficient to reassure Renshaw I say that I'm not sure, it's all a blur, I was drugged. 

            “But that raises the same question. Why you? Why just you?”

            To make sure that it is just me, Renshaw phones someone called Mason on what he assures us is a secure line. Mason confirms he is okay, although he clearly doesn't relish having to acknowledge this at 1.30 in the morning. More calls follow and the recipients confirm that they too are okay.

            “Are you sure you weren't followed?”

            Renshaw's question is directed at Cheshire, who assures him that we were not. He takes a deep breath but is reassured. “It would seem, Adam, that whatever you may have told Lew has gone no further than him. Lucky for you, lucky for us all. I hope this isn't going to happen again.” There is an unpleasant edge to his voice. This is a man who will have no mercy on anyone who endangers the cause he espouses. I have a second chance; there won't be a third.

            Cheshire asks if the 'op' is still on. Renshaw confirms that it is. The only change is that he now wants me to detonate the explosives. Henderson, he says,  has been reallocated to other duties. My apprenticeship is over. It's time for me to step up to the plate and be fully involved. He knows I'm up to it; that's why he recruited me to Timewalk. I am to attend the final briefing at 20.15, after which the operation will commence.

            Cheshire asks what we are to do until then. Once Lew's body is found there can be no going back to the flat or our jobs. Renshaw agrees.

            “You will have to stay here,” he says.

            “And afterwards?” I ask. “After the op, what then?”

            He looks at me like a schoolmaster about to admonish an insolent child. “Leave that to me, Adam. Today we change history. Think about that.”

            This is not the reply I was hoping for and I'm beginning to think that my contribution to the revolutionary cause is unlikely to be missed if I am blown up. Renshaw delivers us into the care of a man called Hobson who takes us upstairs to a bedroom with an adjoining bathroom. We shower and while our clothes are being washed and dried we retreat into the unaccustomed luxury of a proper bed with mattress and sheets. This might be the equivalent of the condemned man's hearty breakfast, but as revolutionary activities go this is definitely the best so far.

            Hobson informs us that the briefing will take place in Renshaw's study and that until then we are to remain where we are with the curtains shut tight. He says that lunch will be served at 13.00 hours and offers us a choice of dishes that includes salmon and beef. Cheshire says that after the revolution we will all be eating beef. I pretend to agree but in an overpopulated world, this is never going to happen. As always the beef eaters will be the rich and powerful. The revolution, if it happens, will be about who they are. That's the way it has always been and always will. Why should it be different this time? But Renshaw is already eating beef. Why risk that?

            We dress, have lunch, watch TV. Cheshire says the operation is straight forward, low risk but she's too tense for that to be true. The minutes pass with unbearable slowness. I want them gone;  the sooner this is over the better.

            At last Hobson appears to tell us that the briefing is about to take place. He escorts us downstairs to where Renshaw and three other men are seated around his desk. A ring on the doorbell announces the arrival of a young woman called Jodi, who, without speaking, takes her place on the only unoccupied chair.

            Renshaw begins. He is brisk, matter of fact. He explains that I will be taking Henderson's place, but that all other details remain the same. Our target is Nicolas Steppler, a junior Minister at the Directorate of Internal Affairs. The plan is straightforward, apparently well researched. If everyone plays their part it should work. Steppler will be leaving his office in Victory Square at 21.30 in order to attend a reception for Regional Commanders. As he is only a junior Minister the security arrangements for his protection will be minimal, a single bodyguard at most. He will leave by a side entrance in one of a pool of cars provided by the Directorate of Common Services. The official car will be intercepted and delayed, while I make the pick-up in an identical car that has ten kilos of explosives in the boot. On arrival I am to take manual control of the car and drive Steppler for several minutes before stopping and activating two controls; one locking the passenger doors and the second triggering a timer device that will detonate the explosives. I have five seconds to make my escape. If I am not followed I am to report to a safe house near the Timewalk building. If I mess up I'm on my own.

            “Any questions?” asks Renshaw. When there are none he wishes us well and is on the point of ending the meeting when he decides to say something that has evidently been omitted from earlier briefings.

            “You will, I am sure, be wondering why we are targeting a little known Minister with only a subordinate role in Government. Let no one be in any doubt about the importance of what we are to do. It is no exaggeration to say that the future of the human race depends on the successful outcome of this mission. As you are aware, the Government has delayed the start of the Time Forward Programme pending the resolution of unresolved technical problems. It may surprise you to know that no such problems exist and that, unknown to our political masters, I have overseen a number of missions with a view to gathering information useful to our cause. I regret to inform you that twelve years from now the world will be devastated by nuclear conflict. How this happens – I mean the precise sequence of events – is unclear, but what I can tell you is that the war will happen as a direct consequence of the reckless militarism of our then leader. That man is our target, Nicolas Steppler. He must be stopped, stopped now. We dare not fail.”

            There is silence, broken only by the shuffling of chairs as everyone gets to their feet. Hands are shaken, backs patted, a brief hug or two, then we are away, walking quietly, unobtrusively, to our designated positions. At the second intersection Cheshire turns right and I continue straight ahead. I glance back at her. It's twenty-four hours since I met her. Twenty four hours of death, near death, affluence and revolution. It's been a whirlwind romance. Do I want to see her again? I think I do.

            I arrive at the garage where the car I am to drive is ready, its sculpted body spotlessly clean, a functional work of art. To destroy it seems a greater crime than the taking of life but this I must do; how can I not. I change into the uniform of a Journey Attendant and listen to the last minute instructions of the mechanic. He informs the car of its destination and we are away.

            The car navigates its way onto the main vehicular route into Westminster, which, thirty-five minutes from curfew, is beginning to empty. We are on schedule, completing each section of the journey exactly on time. If the man responsible for delaying the official car has, for whatever reason, failed to do so, it will be within fifty metres, but there is no sign of it. The car pulls into Victory Square then left into a side turning, where it stops outside a porticoed entrance. I override auto drive and sound the horn to signal our arrival. The doors open and Steppler exits the building, briefcase in hand. I stride out onto the pavement and hold open the passenger door. He is about to get in when a voice from within the building calls his name.

            “Nicky, any chance of a lift?”

            Nicky asks where he wants to go and on being told the Savoy invites him to, “jump in.” Steppler shifts across the back seat as the other man emerges into the bright glow of the doorway. It's Eli, the new Eli that I saw on TV. He has the self-satisfied swagger of a man revelling in his own success. If he recognises me I'm done for, the mission over. But then this is the new Eli and I'm the old Adam. Did we ever meet? The thought seems absurd but the hope it gives me steadies my nerves. I stand motionless, hand on the door, while he buttons up his overcoat. Whatever I do I must not make eye contact. He steps down onto the pavement and I salute him with a sweep of my hand that covers my face. To him, I am a person of no importance, worth no more than a cursory glance. He joins Steppler in the back of the car. I shut the door and take up my position in the driver's seat.

            Within seconds we are away. Steppler opens the window in the partition between us and issues a peremptory instruction. I am to go to the reception and then take Eli to the Savoy. I respond with a dutiful, “yes sir.” Fate has delivered into my hands the man who in all probability ordered my murder. His death is unimportant compared to that of Steppler but it's difficult to know which will give me more satisfaction.

            I have only to stop, push two buttons and make my escape. I calculate that if I open my door before I push the second button my chances of escaping uninjured will be marginally, but significantly, enhanced. The thought distracts me and I am late in noticing the brake lights of the car in front of me. I press down on the brake and a collision is narrowly averted; my passengers, deep in conversation, appear not to notice.

            I turn into the inside lane, pass a row of shops and stop outside the unlit façade of the World Bank. Steppler opens the window and asks why I have stopped. He waits for me to say something,  but there's no need. I open my door and press the button that locks the passenger doors. I hear the bolts click into place and, to my horror, see the bolts in my door project out into empty space. This wasn't in the plan and I'm guessing there won't be a five-second delay when I press the second button, but I press it anyway and launch myself into the middle of the road. The explosives detonate, along with the petrol tank, and what's left of the car bursts into flames. There's a shower of burning debris and pain in one or both of my legs but I get up and stagger towards the side road that's on my escape route. There are fifteen minutes to curfew. With luck, I will get to the safe house without attracting attention. Then I come to my senses; I've been set up. I was no more meant to survive the bomb than Steppler. My new comrades are as toxic to me as the Government. I take refuge in the doorway of a shop and try to work out what to do. It's looking grim, but if I can get to the safe house I will have at least one ally in Cheshire. I also have a gun and Renshaw won't be expecting me. What happens after that I don't know. As plans go it doesn't add up to much, but it's better than being homeless and on a Government hit list.

(to be continued)

           Copyright Richard Banks