Ian Hocking - The Amber Rooms

Proctor had to smile again. Their own Meta had precisely two members: herself and Draganov.

‘I believe her,’ she said. ‘You and I also exist in these alternative realities. In some, I guess we started earlier.’

Draganov did not seem amused. ‘Has it occurred to you that they might be more advanced in passing matter into our universe? I wouldn’t want to meet my doppelgänger.’

‘Yes,’ said Proctor, quietly. ‘It has occurred to me.’

‘Jennifer, I made it clear, months ago, that if we are to find a method of shaping the present through changing the past, it should not be for personal gain.’

Proctor rubbed her forehead. She was getting a headache. ‘A better world? What could be a more exalted aim, and still lead to personal gain?’

‘It will not bring your father back.’

Proctor watched him take the time band and break it.

‘That’s expensive,’ she said. ‘Especially in these troubled times.’

‘What shall we do with all this?’

‘The charges are laid.’ She indicated plastic yellow boxes in each corner. ‘We just need to set the timer.’

‘Do we know what happens to Saskia after 1908?’

‘There’s nothing in the records. Those of Nakhimov are scant. She will have adopted a new identity. Why do you ask?’

Draganov stood. ‘I’m going back to get her.’

‘For the data on her brain chip? Don’t trouble yourself.’

‘No,’ said Draganov. ‘She’s done something for us, so we can do something for her. The time paradox that protects her stifles her, too. I’m going to find her and bring her to 2023. Once she has played her role in those events, she will be free.’

‘Free to die? Personally, I wouldn’t rush to thank you.’

Proctor and Draganov walked to the door and used the low-frequency transmitter to signal the technician in Nevada. As the door opened, Draganov gestured with his hand.

‘Ladies first,’ he said.

Proctor looked at him. She knew, now, his background as a former Templar Knight. It explained much about him.

Before she stepped through, she commanded the charges to blow.

‘Ten seconds,’ she said.

They closed the door. As Proctor thanked the technician—this time using his name—she counted down from ten. The door did not so much as tremble. For those near Königsberg Castle, Kaliningrad, there would be a distant rumble as the last of the Amber Room was destroyed.

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Phew. That was a long book. I’m knackered just thinking about it. Knights Templar, eh? Cheeky monkeys.

As you can probably tell, I had my nose in a few books before and during the writing of The Amber Rooms. It would not be cricket if I were to forget all about them.

Young Stalin by Simon Sebag Montefiore provided background on the early days of the dictator. The wonderful film Russian Ark gave me a sense of the enigma of Russia—not enough to solve, but enough to fascinate. Parts of Count Nakhimov’s house on the Moika are borrowed from the Petersburg residence of the Family Yusupov, described by Prince Felix Yusupov, together with episodes in which he—wait for it: dragged up —and sang in jazz clubs, in his book Lost Splendour. (This book is hosted by alexanderpalace.org, itself a fantastic multimedia resource on Imperial Russian history.) Other eyewitness accounts include Thirteen Years at the Russian Court by Pierre Gilliard, which includes the death of the Tsar and his family, and The Real Tsaritsa, written by a close friend of the Tsar’s wife called Julia Dehn. I have also drawn upon the top-notch Fire and Sword in the Caucasus. This book was published in 1906 by the Italian historian and diplomat Luigi Villari and describes his travels around Russia, most particularly the Caucasus. He enjoyed himself alright. Mustn’t forget the books Five Sisters: Women Against the Tsar (edited by Barbara Engel and Clifford Rosenthal) and A Life’s Music by Andreï Makine.

I discovered the quote from Albert Camus while listening to the audiobook of Clive James’s Cultural Amnesia. Thanks, Clive. Nobody says “Margarita Pracatan” like you.

I want to thank my Russian teacher, Наталья Тарнягина, for her understanding and patience, even when I came late to classes and shouted the Russian, ‘Goodbye!’ at everybody as I walked in. They might have been laughing then—but they weren’t laughing later as they waited for me to finish reading Russian sentences letter by letter. Neighbours Janet and Michael Berridge, plus friend Viktor, helped polish some of my translations herein and generally give the impression that I understood a modicum of Russian. Lies! My friends Ed Genochio and Aliya Whiteley gave me feedback on the final draft. Ed even used Google Docs, which was brave. Olivia Wood, my editor, kept me entertained with mots bon even as she tidied up and generally prettified my English.

And, for the cups of tea, optimism and faith, and for putting up with my absences: my partner, Britta.

Finally, thanks for reading, Comrades.

The Mid-21st Century: Krk, in the Bay of Kvarner, Adriatic

When Beckmann awoke in the darkness of his bedroom, he touched his heart. He had flown to China the previous winter and paid a military doctor for an illegal medical nanotechnology called i-Core. The doctor, though bought off with an Edvard Munch, had grumbled during the procedure. He described i-Core as a parasite. He cited the death of America as a side effect of humanity’s love for technology. Beckmann had a notion that he would sit on a fucking tapeworm if he thought it would smooth the jagged beats of his heart. He was an old man, could afford the i-Core, and gave not a damn about international regulations on automaticity.

He remembered the ampoule of golden i-Core on the workbench of Dr Hsieh. Outside, it had been snowing darkly.

Beckmann’s hand remained on his chest.

He heard the distant report of a gunshot, which was not uncommon these days when the wind was in the east. The noise carried across the Adriatic to the high window of this bedroom, penetrating the armoured glass.

This prompted a thought of his last, disbanded employer, the Föderatives Investigationsbüro . The organisation had been replaced months after his retirement by another with a different three-letter acronym but the same brief, a budget blacker than black, and military oversight in place of civilian.

Dr Hsieh had used a hypodermic syringe. It was an anachronistic tool. Just like, Beckmann supposed, his FIB agents had been. One, the Moscow Section operative Klutikov, had joined Beckmann in his retirement, and now supervised the security of this clifftop compound. Another, Brandt, had disappeared in the twenties, along with the reclusive John Hartfield. Beckmann had only one clue to her whereabouts: a photograph taken in St Petersburg in the 1900s. It showed a shopping arcade. In the foreground, Saskia Brandt stood in the clothes of the day, her expression unabashed. She seemed to be looking at the camera; at Beckmann. No more photographs of her had been found. He had it mounted in one of the upper hallways.