John Schettler - Devil's Garden

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Twoother men were also on a narrow stairway at that very same moment, though they were thousands of miles and long decades away. Captain Volkov led the Englishman up the main stairway to his room, searching it quickly and then hustling the man down the dark back stairway. Where has that proprietor gotten himself to, thought Volkov as they went? Where are my men? This whole situation was very odd, and most irregular. Who were those imbeciles posing as NKVD? They paid a very high price for their little reenactment, whatever they were doing here. He was intent on locating his men and getting to the bottom of this mess. There would be a report to file now. The local authorities would have to be called in, and the coroner. Yet he was certain his position would absolve him of any wrongdoing here. Those men had interfered with a naval officer, and threatened him at gunpoint. They got just the same in return. It was purely self-defense.

The dining room they found themselves in was obviously the same room Volkov had been in before. He could tell by the window arrangement, but now it was all strangely different. The windows were shattered, and an amber glow from outside was illuminating the room. What was going on here? Where were the bodies of those idiots he had to deal with here a moment ago?

Volkov was tensely alert now, and Byrne could feel his hand tighten painfully on his shoulder. They moved to the front desk, and Volkov studied the situation carefully. No one was there, just a register open on the desk, a pen there as if it had been dropped at a moment’s notice. Where was that serving girl that had been cowering behind the desk? She probably ran off when things got violent. Gunshots will have that effect, so he thought nothing more about the fact that the lobby and foyer were deserted now. He squinted at the scrawled handwriting in the register, noting the names there: Lt. Hans Koeppen, Ernst Maas, Hans Knape, and the date was very odd in the registry, 30-6-08. Sure enough, he saw the name Byrne there as well. The Englishman was telling the truth.

“Koeppen,” he said aloud. “The thirtieth of June? The year is obviously wrong. 2008?”

“One of the contestants,” said Byrne, glomming on to the information as if to buttress his story with this strange and dangerous looking man with a gun.

“Contestants?”

“In the Great Auto Race, sir. The race I am here to report on.”

“What are you talking about, you fool? There is nothing of the kind underway here…” He had no knowledge of the famous historical event, a grueling race from New York to Paris, and not crossing the Atlantic, but heading west across the United States, the Pacific, Siberian Russia and all the way to Paris through Asia and Europe. The last three cars had endured the waist deep mud of Siberia, to get this far, and the German team was now in second place, trying to catch up with the speedy Thomas Flyer car of the American team.

The more Volkov looked about him, the stranger everything seemed. There was no computer at the front desk, the furnishings, lamps and chairs, were all antiques, though wonderfully restored. Everything was different, and the calendar… another oddity obviously there for decor. They were making this place out to be an old inn from centuries past.

“Where is everyone?”

“Probably out near the tracks, sir, where I should be. The Protos is leaving this morning. That’s the German team’s car. I was just running upstairs to fetch my notebook when I found the door locked on the upper landing and began knocking to see if I could gain access. Then you appeared with that other older man, and…well, I’m very confused, sir. Are you with Mironov?”

“What? Mironov? I am with the Russian Naval Intelligence, and I have had more than enough of this nonsense. Is this Mironov the associate you spoke of earlier?”

Byrne followed what Volkov said as best he could, in spite of the fact that his Russian was limited. Yet he heard enough to realize this man was an intelligence officer, and Mironov’s warning about the Tsar’s secret police, the Okhrana , rose as a warning in his mind now. “He was just another boarder,” he said, not knowing what else to say. “I had breakfast with him. I thought perhaps that you were with his party.”

He had seen Mironov go up the stairs after that other strange man left them, the one who called himself Fedorov. Then Mironov appeared again, a troubled look of astonishment on his face. He said nothing, striding quickly across the dining hall and out the main entrance there by the front desk.

Now Volkov seemed to be peering outside. “Through that door,” he said gruffly, nudging Byrne out. They emerged to find the northeastern sky still aglow with a strange light, as though there had been some tremendous explosion there and the whole taiga forest was set aflame. There was still a distant rumble of thunder in the air, as though from a cannonade, or more explosions.

“My God,” said Volkov as he stared at the sky. He could only think that a nuclear detonation could produce such a scene. “They’ve finally done it,” he breathed. “It’s begun.”

Thedoor was above them this time, and it took the strength of both men to raise the heavy stone lid with considerable effort. It opened on a cold empty room, its far wall and roof broken and open to the low sky above. A grey mist hung over the scene, pale and diffused with the light of an early rising sun. The cold air of the tunnel was unabated in the stark scene they entered, and Thomas saw here the broken remains of the castle in which they had just passed a comfortable evening’s rest.

“My lord, where have we come?”

“Step lively, Mister Thomas. Here, can you give me a lift up?”

Thomas helped the Duke gain a firm hold and assisted as he climbed up through the opening. He reached down to receive the luggage and set it aside, then extended an arm to Thomas, heaving him up.

“A bit of strength still left in these old arms and shoulders,” said the Duke, breathing in the cold foggy air.

“My God, that stone lid looks like it hasn’t been moved in ages.”

“I don’t suppose it has. In fact that passage will lie in undisturbed silence for another hundred years once we get it shut again. Well now, let’s get down to the lime kilns. There will be a boat there and we can row over to the mainland.”

“But sir… What’s happened here?” What was his Lordship saying? Another hundred years? “Is this the same castle, sir, or have we come all the way over to the ruins of the old Priory?”

“No Mister Thomas, you are standing in Lindisfarne Castle. I’m afraid it’s in a sad state at the moment. Come along, we’ve no time to lose. Set that stone lid back securely, my man. Yes, that will do.” The lid settled with a strange click.

Thomas was still somewhat confused, but the Duke seemed very purposeful and eager to be on his way, so he took up the luggage and the two men started to make their way through the castle. It was clearly Lindisfarne. Thomas could recognize the layout of the walls and the high whinstone crag where it was set on Holy Isle. But there was no sign of the Edwardian chambers they had stayed in on the upper battery. The grounds seemed unkempt, the walls and stairs in sad disrepair. With all the talk of imminent war, he wondered if the place had taken a bomb while they were negotiating the steep stairs and passages beneath the castle, but he would surely have heard something like that, and there was no sign that anything of the sort had happened here.

“Your pardon, sir… but the castle-”

“Yes, yes, a pity, isn’t it? Jacobites made quite a mess of the place in years past. Well this was the way it was most of the time, just an old coast guard lookout point. It won’t be restored for many years. The Dundee lime kilns are still working, though I doubt we’ll find anyone there at this hour. The tide is up and the sea will have the island in its grip for another two hours. By that time we should be well on our way.”