Damn. Blake thrust his hand in a pocket, pulled out a fistful of bills and tossed them on the counter. He rushed out the door and into the street, glancing about for a glimpse of his quarry. The redheaded man was nowhere in sight.
It had grown dark fast. Blake had spent the last few hours going over the dossiers of each individual.
Dr. William Amhurst had lived a cozy life with his spouse until she died during childbirth. From that point on he had sunk into seclusion, but over the years he’d managed to form a relationship of sorts with the renowned scientist, Nikola Tesla. Amhurst had even lived in the United States while they worked together, but after Tesla’s death the doctor moved back to Australia.
Three black and white photos of other men were spread out on the bed. Two of the individuals were members of the Sons of Stalin, and the other was a Japanese man. The names Gernot Kalkolov, Mikhail Shchekochikhin, and Satoshi Yashuda were stamped on the bottom of the photos. Blake spent a minute or more attempting to pronounce Mikhail’s surname, gave up hope on that endeavor, and began memorizing the faces of the three men.
Mikhail had the simplest face. No distinct features stood out except for a slight crook in the nose. The man had a soft jaw, but his eyes burned with an inner ferocity.
The Asian man, Satoshi, had thick sideburns, and long black hair pulled back in a ponytail. His face was hard-lined, and even in the picture his mouth seemed to be snarling in disgust.
It was Gernot Kalkolov who struck the most impressive image, despite the passive expression of his angular features. The dark eyes that stared up at him gleamed with a brutal promise that seemed almost intimate. It was creepy in its intensity.
Blake stood and slid his gun into a side holster under his left arm. If he had to pull out his weapon quickly, he would be slowed down by the cross draw. With his current objective, though, there would be no need for that; he would already have the gun in hand before taking the stairs to Dr. Amhurst’s building.
He secured the firearm into the holster and bent to retrieve and reread an article that was in Amhurst’s file. The periodical had reported on the house fire that not only destroyed Amhurst’s domicile but had also taken the life of the elderly doctor. The case was concluded as being an accidental chemical fire in the lab. No other lives were claimed.
Appended with a paper clip to the inside jacket of Satoshi’s file was another article that spoke of a double murder. The names were unknown, but the faces of Satoshi and Mikhail were unmistakable. Both men had been shot in the back of the head. It would appear that Gernot the traveler had disposed of his helpers along the way, but for what purpose, Blake didn’t know. Had there been a power struggle or perhaps dissention in the ranks?
Ethan opened the last folder, the one designated to Gernot Kalkolov — or Der Attentäter, as the file referred to him — who was from the future like Blake. He was German born, but his Russian father had moved them to Kiev when he was just a boy. As an adult, he formed a close alliance with Vyacheslav Kirillovich Ivankov in the Russian mafia. He became their main assassin, and after more than fifteen known kills for them, he’d taken the title of Der Attentäter — The Assassin. A few years after his rise, Ivankov had been imprisoned. Following this event, part of the original group branched off from the Russian mafia — this one a harsher faction, with different ideals and far different desires. They referred to themselves as Synov’ya Stalin — Sons of Stalin.
Thinking the mafia would be broken apart soon, The Sons of Stalin eventually severed all ties to their former group, but not before recruiting Gernot Kalkolov. In a short time he rose as one of the higher ranking members, and within that group he promoted himself as the leader of his own sect, the Nach-Soldat.
Reading at a feverish pace, Blake soaked up the information that followed. The Nach-Soldat were the ‘Past Soldiers’. They began working on something called Project Iron Hammer, and the result of that mission would be the future Ben Wallace had spoken of. Gernot volunteered to be the first Russian sent back to recover Amhurst’s lost work. Their goal was to attain this time traveling edge so that they might leap forward and back in time at will. Victory — and supremacy — would never be more than a time jump away.
Blake checked his watch. It was close. The fire at Amhurst’s would be just a couple of hours from now. If he was lucky, he could dispose of all parties in quick order and take the meteorite without further incident. His secondary objective was one in which he couldn’t predict the outcome: if possible, he would try to keep one of the bastards alive and find out where the first leap happened in 1986. With that information, perhaps Wallace’s version of America would turn out to be quite different.
He tossed the articles back in his bag. Two sets of keys were lying on the now rumpled sheets of the bed. They’d made the jump here with him, hitching a ride in one of the pockets of his era-appropriate clothing. The more familiar of the two belonged to him — the ring holding the key to his apartment at The Elysium Terrace and his ’67 Mustang. Blake felt a quiver roll up his spine as his mind adjusted to his position in history. His vehicle hadn’t even rolled down the assembly line yet, nor was it even an idea in its creator’s mind. He lobbed the first set of keys into the duffel, and tied the lacings. Then he picked up the second set. These belonged to Tobias. The Steelers emblem beckoned him to hold on to something concrete from his past — or future. He couldn’t be sure of anything anymore.
For luck then, he thought to himself and stuffed them into his pocket.
Blake hitched a ride across town from a man driving a pickup that looked like it predated the recent war by a decade. He was dropped off a mile and a half from Amhurst’s house and had to jog the rest of the way. It hadn’t been easy, given the recent trauma his body had suffered without having a full recovery. He had to pace himself in order to prevent burnout on the final half mile.
As he approached Amhurst’s residence, Blake stopped to take a few moments to catch his breath and recharge. Then he pulled out his binoculars and eyed the property before checking the time. It was closing in on the final minutes now.
It didn’t matter if Dr. Amhurst lived or died, but it was imperative that Blake stop the traveler and his cohorts. He looked again through the lenses. The lights were off throughout the whole house; that must mean they were all below, in the basement. Blake could only hope that was the case. He didn’t want to be taken by surprise.
He was about to pull the binoculars away when he noticed a man walking down the street. Blake’s senses tingled as he watched the man turn and head up the steps to Amhurst’s front door.
Who the hell is this? He hadn’t been told of a fourth individual, and this new addition to his already unscripted attack could be a game changer. One on three was already terrible odds, but against four it bordered on suicide.
39
Silence of the Telegrams
The buzzer rang and a red bulb on the wall near the basement stairs illuminated.
“Expecting someone?” Gernot asked.
Amhurst frowned with concern. “No … let me find out who it is.”
Gernot gave a short nod and returned to his work.
“I’ll be right back,” Amhurst said as he ascended the stairs to the main floor. He slowed as he approached the front door with caution. He opened it a crack and peered out. “Who is it?”