Time Travel in Rock: 1984, page 20
“And they haven’t got a fucking clue what’s going on,” said Bugarin, causing Gorsky’s eyebrows to crash together into an impenetrable unibrow of white thatch. “That the ISD has been compromised is not in doubt, but it doesn’t look as if the EPDR politburo has gone rogue. We’ve recovered highly advanced surveillance devices and some evidence of an alliance with the Spanish fascist state, but who are the Spanish working with? Not the English themselves, it seems. Gorsky’s working hypothesis is that we’re seeing the Japanese in action, but that’s only because we all here understand that the one answer that guarantees a one-way ticket to the gulag is ‘I don’t know’.”
“Is there anything we do know?” Petrov asked.
“Other than persons unknown asking heavy handedly about Bulldog, we have two names. Stiletto and Time Dogs. They’re dangled around so often, Gorsky’s people believe someone is trying to send a message. Do those words mean anything to you, Ivan Sergeyevich?”
“No, General.” Petrov’s eyes glazed as his mind spun, starting to make connections that no one else could. As he had as a young KGB lieutenant.
“Well, go on,” Bugarin pushed. “You obviously have something on your mind.”
“Only that…. It was my idea to label the successful coup of the 1980s as the Socialist Victory and require the English to refer to that term constantly and enthusiastically. Anyone reluctant would face the consequence of their dissident behavior. Imagine that, being forced to endlessly proclaim the event of your nation’s greatest humiliation. The psychology is effective at suppressing the English, but it was always going to generate great reservoirs of hatred. Time Dogs. Time… And Stiletto… an assassin’s blade. I think someone is sending the message that even though decades of time have passed since the coup, they’ve neither forgiven nor forgotten the English traitors or their KGB backers. They want us dead, and they want us to know that our death is coming.”
Bugarin looked pleased. “Good. I had been thinking along similar lines. You’re the only survivor of Operation Bulldog. I think they want to kill you, Ivan Sergeyevich.”
“You want me to draw their fire?”
Bugarin banged his fist on the polished walnut table, making the empty vodka glasses shake. “No, Petrov, I want you to tell me what the fuck is going on in the EPDR. I don’t care how you do it, and I don’t care who gets killed in the process. So long as you get results.”
Colonel Petrov took his place at the table and undid the tape binding the dossier. He shot Bugarin a grin, knowing how much it would irritate the man. “You’ve done the right thing, General. I always get results.”
* * *
The Ilyushin Il-106 boasted an immense cabin, plenty enough for Petrov to sit and work without having his head pounded into idiocy by the plane’s four powerful engines.
In intelligence work, even the most glorious flashes of genius were always underpinned by long hours of dull legwork, intercepts, and all the many aspects of acquiring, collating, and inspecting information, knowing that the vast majority of it would never have any value.
On the seat beside him, was a small stack of dossiers the London station had sent regarding persons of interest. Dossiers he’d already read without anything important leaping out.
But the dossier in his hands was different. The man it described was important. Petrov knew it in his gut.
“I should very much like to meet you, Sergeant Fisher.” What is it that you haven’t told us? What haven’t your interrogators wrung from you that I shall?”
He turned the page, eager to learn more about this treacherous blowka.
“No!” He raged. “Imbeciles!”
From the distant control panel, the co-pilot looked around and glared.
Police Junior Sergeant Terence Fisher wouldn’t be providing Petrov or anyone else with further answers. His current location was the Chelmer Collective Farm in Essex, spread over four acres of arable land.
* * *
Petrov pulled the collar up of his jacket against the chill damp air of the London night. He took a right into an alleyway behind a shuttered retail block, listening for the faint buzz of the pursuing drone.
After taking a dozen paces in which he betrayed no indication that he knew the mysterious players were observing him, he planted his feet on the ground and folded his arms, hands inside the sleeves of his jacket. “No doubt you think you will learn from me about Bulldog.”
He looked up and there, just out of jumping reach, was his opponents’ spy drone, impressively miniaturized into the guise of a dragonfly.
“But you’re wrong,” he told his opponents, and threw the EMP grenade up with one hand, using the other to depress the detonator as it passed the drone.
The grenade detonated. No shrapnel, no hot explosive gas. The only obvious indication was a red light that briefly flashed, but in the realm of electronics, Petrov had just unleashed Armageddon.
The radio link with his support team – dead. His digital watch – kaput.
But the electronic dragonfly hovered unharmed, mocking him.
Then it flew away.
* * *
Data intercepts. Van Eck phreaking of unshielded equipment. Malware. The London station had been bewitched by the siren song of modern technology.
These shiny things did have their place, but with Bugarin’s backing, Petrov initiated a program of basic field craft, reintroducing the kind of skills honed into every agent during the First Cold War.
Even Gorsky had relocated in person to London and waited on Petrov’s every word.
Gorsky was playing a political game, of course, but it was one Petrov easily ignored, because he understood this would be his final mission in every sense.
If Petrov failed, he would be blamed. And if he succeeded where others had failed, his punishment would be even more severe. One way or another, he would never get to be a bitter old man shivering in his lonely apartment. At least there was that.
The fieldcraft strategy was simple. The ISD had been compromised, so a randomized sample of its senior, middle, and low-ranking personnel were designated for surveillance. They were followed, bugs were planted, conversations overheard.
So far this approach had identified two individuals who didn’t exist according to any records.
Stiletto was the codename of a devilishly handsome man and erudite skilled operator whose charisma was so powerful that he seemed able to suck anyone he chose into his orbit.
Stiletto. Such a cool name – obviously – for such a slick operator, but was the codename a clue that this dangerous man was an assassin?
Through Stiletto they found another player, a young woman who looked worryingly Indian. And given her signs of unfamiliarity of her surroundings, she wasn’t English born but an asset of the Republic of India. That was truly troubling.
At first, his KGB teams had thought she was another person trapped by Stiletto’s brilliance, but when Petrov listened to the recorded conversations, he knew their relationship was different.
He thought for a while that they were lovers. She was pretty in a weird kind of way – though not nearly as good looking as Stiletto – and although she was a bit on the short side, she had the kind of dangerous smile that made red-blooded blowkas do stupid things.
The spy lovers with movie star looks. It was a compelling idea, but Petrov soon dismissed it. No, the woman worshipped Stiletto, but they weren’t lovers. She was his sidekick. His assistant.
Her Indian appearance continued to trouble him.
India had been a reliable ally of the Soviet Union for many decades. The republic was an associate member of the Comecon socialist economic bloc, and she almost always took the Soviet line in international affairs. But unlike England, Poland, Germany, and the other possessions of the Soviet empire, India fought tooth and claw to keep its autonomy and needed to be flattered and bribed to toe the line. All attempts to bind her directly to the Kremlin’s will had been sharply rebuffed.
Perhaps Indian intelligence wanted to know the truth about Operation Bulldog to harden its defenses against the KGB pulling off a similar coup in India.
It was a plausible explanation. But Petrov was a cunning old cucumber, and he was far from convinced.
Maybe now Petrov would learn more.
He looked through the one-way window at the prisoner sitting in the adjoining interview room, two interrogators standing at either side, their faces expressionless masks. The senior interrogator sat opposite his victim, enjoying a cigarette in a break after the warmup, a standard preliminary designed to weaken and disorient.
Danny Goldman was the man being questioned, a senior data clerk at the Ministry of Persuasion. Goldman had been picked at random for close observation and luckily for all concerned, his habits had changed suddenly two days ago.
It was enough to bring him in, and now the hapless Goldman fidgeted nervously in his chair, eyes darting as if searching for an escape route he would never find. His smart business shirt in faint pastel pink had been ripped open all the way, and now revealed bruises sprouting under his ribs to match the swelling over his eyes.
The real questioning was about to begin, and all of it directed by Petrov, who could communicate with the chief interrogator via radio link.
“Who is Stiletto?” the interrogator asked.
Goldman shook his head and would not reply.
One of the men stationed behind the prisoner gave him a sharp blow to his ear, but Goldman still would not speak.
The questioning grew firmer, the beating harder.
Unexpectedly, Goldman held up a hand and Petrov ordered the interrogator to pause.
It took a minute or so for Goldman to catch his breath and get some control over the blood flowing out his mouth.
His broken face looked to the window, his gaze directed straight at Petrov. He spat out a tooth and spoke. “I have a message from Stiletto for Lieutenant Colonel Ivan Sergeyevich Petrov. Stiletto asks the colonel why he hasn’t figured this out yet and doesn’t he know Stiletto’s got worlds to save and girls to excite? Perhaps the piece of Russian weasel shit wouldn’t mind getting a hurry on?”
All three interrogators set about Goldman with their fists. By the time Petrov called them off, Goldman was unconscious. Idiots!
When the subject came to, no matter how extreme the methods the interrogators used to work him over, he would not say another word. The torments the man endured made Petrov want to vomit for a week, but he would not speak.
This was unheard of. Everyone always broke in the end. Everyone!
Something very strange was happening here. Something new. And it all revolved around Stiletto. How could the man possibly exert such power?
Petrov had allowed Stiletto the slack to play his games, because he wanted his target to reveal more of his network. Or, at least, that was what he’d told himself.
For the first time, Petrov began to doubt he would ever catch his spy.
* * *
In the end Petrov took matters into his own hands. He would be the KGB spycatcher on the ground. Only he could succeed where everyone had failed.
Doing so broke protocol. Contravened orders. Did all sorts of things that would leave him deep in the shit-pile, but Petrov was beyond all that. He’d rubbed too many noses up the wrong way to believe he could get out of this alive. All that was left was for him to find the truth his own way, and that would be a greater reward than anything he could have hoped for in his retirement.
His trap set, Petrov waited for his target in one of Stiletto’s preferred hideouts, the disused basement of an office building with stairs down to an abandoned subway tunnel far below ground.
The electronic trip wires and traps he’d rigged meant no one could sneak up on him. All he had to do was get Stiletto right where he wanted him. And the latest report before he ordered radio silence was that the great man was on his way.
The door at street level groaned open.
Hidden deep within, where steps connected the two basement levels, Petrov could barely contain his excitement. Here it was – the definitive showdown between two supreme rivals.
Petrov positioned himself in the shadows of the lower level, tranquilizer gun at the ready and heart racing with anticipation.
It wasn’t long before he heard a tuneful whistling that intensified until, finally, Stiletto appeared at the top of the stairs, silhouetted by the diffused light of the lamp he carried. He had his hand in his pocket, moving with the kind of casual air about him that only someone with an immense amount of self-confidence could pull off.
Petrov waited until his prey was halfway down the steps. Then he sprang his trap.
A bank of powerful lights skewered the man, making him flinch and cover his eyes with his arm.
“I have you at last, Stiletto,” Petrov roared in triumph. “You’re mine!”
As the dazzle began to leave his eyes, the two men regarded each other. Stiletto was a magnificent specimen, but Petrov was reassured to see that he was just a man. He wondered again how Stiletto had bound people to his will. Some kind of psychoactive chemical was the current theory, but Petrov made sure it wouldn’t work on him.
The KGB colonel shot two tranquilizer rounds into his foe and then detonated the two stun grenades he’d secured above the stairs.
Petrov dove to the side as they went off. He was also on the level below and the combined effect was to mute the blasts. Nonetheless, he was shaken by the force of sound and light that sent shockwaves reverberating through the basement. Petrov fell to his knees, clutching his head because his skull felt as if it had exploded.
His breath came in ragged gasps, and he tasted the tang of blood in his mouth. But he laughed through all of it because he knew Stiletto had received far worse.
Petrov shook the stars from his head, grabbed his handcuffs, and approached the body sprawled across the stairs.
Stiletto convulsed, racked with coughing. And then… the man levered himself up to sit on a stair.
Incredible!
Anyone human would be unconscious. The rounds had put more than the safe dose of sedative inside the man. Stiletto was superhuman… and far too dangerous to risk him escaping.
Petrov dropped his tranquilizer gun and drew his trusty 9mm Makarov pistol. If he blew Stiletto’s legs off, even he wouldn’t get away. The only question was whether Stiletto would survive.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” said a woman’s voice from behind.
Very slowly, Petrov safed his pistol and placed it on the ground.
“Interesting,” he said. “You’ve not even a trace of an Indian accent.”
The truth was, he was only guessing this was Stiletto’s Indian accomplice. Beneath his veneer of calm, the KGB colonel was terrified. How did she get through his web of snares? How was this man not unconscious? Was he actually dealing with the supernatural here?
With hands kept high, he turned slowly.
It was Stiletto’s woman, all right. She seemed disappointed with Petrov for some reason. Angry even. And she looked hotter than an Odense smoke shack when she was angry.
“What’s wrong with your era?” she grumbled. “I keep telling you people, I come from a town called Kindness. It’s not far from what you would call Peterborough in Cambridgeshire. Even in this fucked-up timeline, that’s not in India.”
“Who are you?” Petrov dropped his hands and squared his shoulders. “At least give me that. It’s all I want to know. Then kill me. I’m a dead man anyway.”
“This is your lucky day,” said Stiletto, his voice now accented, unlike in all those recorded conversations. He sounded Danish.
Danish? No one had suspected the Danes to be interfering in the EPDR.
“We’re gonna give you all the answers you desire.” Stiletto grinned. “You don’t even have to die. In fact, I insist you don’t.”
The woman came in front of Petrov and stretched out an open hand. “Let’s start afresh, Colonel Petrov.”
Bemused, Petrov shook her hand, flinching briefly because there was something greasy in her palm.
“The lady’s name is Zudge,” said Stiletto, “and mine is Steven Z. Caldwell. But friends and enemies alike call me Stiletto.”
“And we are…” said the woman who claimed to be from Cambridgeshire.
Petrov put a hand up. “No, don’t tell me. You’re the Time Dogz.”
There was an awkward silence. “Are you sure you want to bring him along, Stillo? He just stole your catchphrase.”
“Bring along?” Petrov didn’t understand.
Stiletto’s face lit up. “Yeah. At first, I was going to grab you to spill the beans on Bulldog. But, like me, Zudge isn’t just a pretty face. You can help us stop Bulldog before he launches his coup.”
Time Dogz…
Time…
Petrov suspected he’d misunderstood the significance of that word from the very beginning.
Chapter 37
Back at the Kennel, things were plummeting downhill fast. The Kill Box had its own independent power supply. Just as well, because outside of that section, the power was out throughout the Kennel.
No point trying to contact our friends. Time was too precious, and I already knew what to do.
We went to the storeroom to stock up but… it was empty. Even the storage shelves had gone; it was just a hollow empty shell. Every room was bare except the Kill Box and its control equipment, which did make sense because that would have the most connection to other timelines. I hoped that meant it would remain stable for a while, but I didn’t really understand what was happening.
Petrov watched us all and said everything with his bemused expression.
He got me thinking. “Zudge, we need to go back to 1976. It’s our only chance.”
“We already know that!” She was primed to explode. I hadn’t realized she was so on edge.
“It’s Petrov,” I said calmly. “We need him to get to Bulldog, but… Damnit! He looks like a brooding KGB colonel. He can speak English, but only with a heavy Russian accent. At the height of the Cold War, that’s going to be a problem.”
