So he told them, the whole knotted tale of what had happened when he and Troyak first got to Ilanskiy. Orlov grinned at times, nodding his head when a part of the story included him. He had all that inside his head now, clear memories of everything. He could still see those bulging eyes and purple lips as he choked the breath out of Commissar Molla.
“This young man,” Fedorov finished. “He was going by the name Mironov back then—right now, in 1908. Later he would change that name and take another—Kirov.” He folded his arms watching them both closely.
“Sergei Kirov?” said Orlov. “The man we named our ship after?”
“That’s correct.”
“You came all this way to speak with him? Well what in God’s name for?”
“It was going to be more than that,” said Fedorov. “This was something that Karpov and I worked through for a very long time. This whole situation—back in 1942—well it’s my fault. You see, I told Mironov something, opened my big mouth, and I let something slip. That changed everything. It set up that whole crazy world, the war we were fighting, the Orenburg Federation, all of it.”
“Mironov set that up? I thought Volkov did all that.”
“Yes, he did, but he might not have ever succeeded if I had kept my mouth shut. When we’re this far back in time, any little slip can have major consequences to the events that follow. One little slip could end up becoming something very big. Well, I made a mistake, and now I have to correct it—at least I’m going to try…. I told him something, and that changed everything.”
“What was it?” Orlov remembered how curious he had been.
“I told him how he would die—not exactly—but I gave him a warning about Leningrad, about the day he would be assassinated.”
“Sookin Sym!” Orlov gave him a wide grin. “Good job, Fedorov. It looks like he took your advice, because he lived, and he’s a damn sight better than Stalin.”
“Yes,” Fedorov said quietly, “I suppose he is.”
“So, you want to make sure he gets the message,” Orlov guessed. “You want to speak with him again and leave nothing to chance. I Understand now. But Fedorov, how do we get back after this? Have you worked that out yet?”
Orlov remembered the anguished look on Fedorov’s face.
“Get back?” said Fedorov slowly. “Well, the stairway will be right there, won’t it? The last time I went up, it delivered me right back to the time I left—1942—the very same day, only a few hours later. The good Sergeant here said he had been looking for me for some time, though for me, it was only a matter of minutes that passed. I think that stairway works like that. You get right back to where you started, as if you were walking a circle. It always takes you back to where you began.”
“Only this time we didn’t come by the stairs,” Orlov remembered how he caught that. “We got here on this damn airship,” he said. “Will it still work?”
“We can try,” said Fedorov glumly. “We all go together, right up those stairs.”
And that was what they tried. Now they were all gone, except for me, thought Orlov. Even as he tramped up the main stairway, his ear still listening for any further signals on his service jacket, he realized this was probably a stupid and fruitless move, but he had to be certain.
He reached the upper landing. “Fedorov? Troyak? Anybody there?” This stairway did nothing—no magical shift in time.
A young woman stuck her head out of one door, one of the maids that had been cleaning the rooms. This was bullshit, he thought. All the others were gone, and here he was, still stuck in 1908, all by himself.
No.
He was no alone. The plaintive call he had heard on his service jacket told him that well enough. Volkov! This was the man that had bothered them on the ship, then Fedorov claimed he followed him all along the Siberian rail line, and caused a great deal of trouble. It’s the same guy who started all this crap about the Orenburg Federation. Ivan Volkov!”
“Son-of-a-bitchkovitch!” Orlov swore in English this time, the way he had heard some Americans do it once. How did Volkov get back here?
Two plus two eventually added up to four in Orlov’s mind. It was clear that Volkov could not have come on a Zeppelin like the team did. So there was only one way he could have appeared here—that damn stairway! But why? What was he doing here? What was this crap about Team seven.
Yes…. Fedorov once told me that Volkov had been after him, and that he had a security team with him. I can’t remember everything, but it’s clear that someone is here, in 1908, and that he’s broadcasting on a service jacket. Fedorov is long gone, off to who knows where, and all the other marines. It’s just me here now, and Ivan Volkov. What should I do?
Fedorov’s words were darkly in his mind again… ‘ When we’re this far back in time, any little slip can have major consequences to the events that follow. One little slip could end up becoming something very big….’
Any little slip.
Well, Volkov was a damn sight more than that! He was one hell of a major fuck-up—right here, and right now. This is how he got back here, he reasoned. He had to come down those stairs.
Orlov moved down the hall, seeing the door at the top of the back stairway landing. He peered out the window, seeing the rail yard was empty now. Everyone had followed those silly race car men west towards Kansk. He squinted, looking this way and that for any sign of Volkov, but he could see no one else, just an old woman dragging a child behind here on the other side of the rail yard. He was standing right there, at the top of those mysterious stairs, as if he thought Fedorov, Troyak and all the other Marines would come up any second. He would even be glad to see Zykov with his shit-eating grin again, but all was dark and silent.
If Fedorov knew about this he would blow a gasket, he thought. One little slip, he says, but Volkov raises hell here. He starts his own goddamn country! That traitor fights against Sergei Kirov for decades. He even goes so far as to side with Hitler.
So what do I do about this?
He had two choices now, and plain as the two stairways leading down from this second floor. One was the back stairway, wrapped in the shadow of uncertainty. He could try that again, and maybe this time it would work. He had no notion that the direction he came from mattered. Fedorov had gathered the men in the dining room below, and they were all to go up, but in Orlov’s mind that was mere happenstance. So he could try again, and he might just get to the other end of his circle. Fedorov said it worked like that. You get back where you came from. Yes? Clearly the whole team got through… somewhere. He would have to get somewhere as well.
The other choice was the main stairway, and as far as he knew, there was no magic there. It should just take him back down to the lobby, where that old man and his daughter were fussing about. He couldn’t blame them for that, what, with all of the Marines tramping about the inn. If he went that way, down the main stair, he’d likely stay right where he was—at least in time—and right where Volkov was….
Yes, he thought. “If I try the back stairs again, and it works, I might get through to find Fedorov, and then he can decide what to do. Yes? He’s a whole lot smarter than I am when it comes to this time business, and he’d certainly want to know what I’ve learned about Volkov. Then again…. If I do get somewhere that way, what about Volkov? I already know he’s going to cause a shit storm here, but he hasn’t had the time to get started yet, has he. What was this crap about Team seven? Could he have other men with him.
He suddenly knew how he could find out, reaching inside his service jacket for the same secure pocket flap and squeezing the ping button. He would get the same message that Volkov got.