“You won’t find your friends,” said Drakov.
“What ‘ave you done with ‘em?” Mulvaney said, tightening his grip.
“Finn Delaney and Andre Cross have made good their escape,” said Drakov.
“How did you know their names?” Learoyd said.
“There is more involved here than you could imagine,” Drakov said. “Far more than I can allow you to interfere with. They understood how much was at stake, and they could not afford to concern themselves with you. Neither can I.”
He broke Mulvaney’s grip easily and threw him into Ortheris. Learoyd lunged at him with the knife, but Drakov was quicker. He blocked the thrust, turned Learoyd’s wrist, jerked him off balance, and chopped him to the ground. The Ghazis quickly closed in and the soldiers were taken.
“Now that I’m satisfied you’re no more than what you appeared to be, I can safely dismiss you from my mind,” said Drakov. “Unfortunately for you, I can’t let you go. You’d warn the Tirah force and upset my plans.”
“Don’t you worry, mate,” Mulvaney said. “We’ll upset more than yer plans yet.”
“Brash talk,” said Drakov, “and utterly pointless.” He opened the door to the cell and went inside to pick up the warp disc Mulvaney had tossed into a corner. He smiled as he came out. “If you had known what this was, you would not have treated it so casually. But then, you’ll never know. I have only one question for you. What became of the soldiers who were holding you here?
“I haven’t the foggiest notion,” said Learoyd. “If they had any sense, they went back to wherever it was they came from. It’ll take more than a few Ghazis and a handful of mercenaries to stop the Royal Indian Army, I can tell you that.”
“You may be right,” said Drakov. “It will take more. And there will be more. Meanwhile I have wasted enough time with you.”
“Then kill us and have done with it, you swine,” said Learoyd.
“Doubtless my friends would dearly love to slice you into ribbons,” Drakov said, “but I am not a barbarian and I see no point to having you killed. And you may be of some value to me later, one never knows. I will leave instructions for them to keep you alive.”
“How bloody gracious of you,” Ortheris said.
“I cannot promise more than that. After all, the British are my enemy, and I do not wish to appear too gracious. These cutthroats may decide to have some sport with you. Keep a stiff upper lip.” He smiled. “After all, I could have had you sentenced to the Death of a Thousand Cuts. Are you familiar with that quaint custom? The victim is tied down and slowly sliced with knives. Then thorns are pushed into the wounds as they’re sliced open. And that’s only one of the more creative amusements these people indulge in from time to time. We’ll see each other again before too long. And then you’ll have an opportunity to show me what soldiers in the Royal Indian Army are made of. Lock them up.”
Drakov watched as they were thrown into the cell, then turned and headed back toward the main chamber. He was convinced that the three soldiers posed no threat, but he was uneasy. At first he had suspected that they might be time commandos, but he never would have broken away from them so easily if they were. Martial arts worked well on 19th century British soldiers. With commandos from the 27th century, it would have been another matter entirely.
It had sent a thrill through him when he learned that the troops from the alternate universe, the commandos of the Special Operations Group, had captured Andre Cross and Finn Delaney. It was all coming to a head once more, and perhaps this time it would happen. He had failed to bring about the ultimate temporal disaster twice before. Both times Delaney, Priest, and Cross had thwarted him. This time he felt sure he would succeed. This time it would not be an army of cutthroats and killers recruited from periods throughout time, as his pirates had been, but an army of highly trained commandos from an alternate timeline, people who were the match of his father’s cursed First Division.
Drakov was insane. Perhaps it had begun from childhood, when his Russian Gypsy mother tried to explain to him how he had been born, but Vanna Drakova herself had not even fully understood it. Whatever she told her son about Moses Forrester, a father from the future—a man who had been lost and badly broken, whose life she had saved and with whom she had fallen in love—whatever strange version of the story she might have told him had only served to terrify the boy.
He could not comprehend how it was possible for a father to sire a son hundreds of years before his own birth. So his highly imaginative mind, already influenced by his mother’s Gypsy superstitions, led him to believe that he was born of some sort of supernatural union—a demon issue. This belief was only reinforced when he discovered that he did not sicken and that he healed from wounds with astonishing rapidity. It was reinforced further still as he got older and found that he did not age—or that he aged at a rate far slower than was normal. He did not know about such things as chronoplates or warp discs or antiagathic drug treatments until much later, but the seed of insanity was planted, nurtured by a hate for his father, who had left his mother alone and unprotected to die a violent death.
The seed of madness sprouted and began to grow when, as an adult in England, he met Sophia Falco, one of the leaders of a terrorist group known as the Timekeepers. When she learned the truth of his background, she used him to get back at Forrester. She seduced him, took him to the future with her, and obtained a black market cybernetic implant for him which, when programmed, gave him an education equal to that of a soldier in the First Division of the 27th century. And then, having fed his hate, she set the son against the father. She had failed and it resulted in her death, but she had not failed completely.
Forrester had never fully recovered from his guilt over what his son had come to, and Nikolai Drakov never understood why, at the crucial moment when he had his father at his mercy, he was unable to kill him. it had been too much. Too many things had happened to further unhinge an already unstable mind.
He escaped and formed the Time Pirates, composed of bloodthirsty mercenary soldiers from every period of time imaginable. Determined to strike back at his father and at the entire system that gave birth to him, he took upon himself the mantle of fate’s avatar. He stole a Soviet nuclear submarine and planned to use its missiles to fragment the timestream. His father’s commandos beat him once again, aided by the turncoat, Martingale. But they had not defeated him completely.
The consequences of that last great battle, Drakov was convinced, had brought about the confluence effect between two timelines. And he had been granted yet another opportunity. He would split the timeline, shatter it if possible into a thousand different timestreams, and in one of them, he knew, he would finally find peace. In his moments of lucidity, which came fewer and further between, he subsided into deep depression, an unutterable melancholy which made him weep for his mother and long for the normal life that might have been. At such moments he was tempted to escape, to find some tranquil period in time where he could forget it all and live out his extended lifespan in peace. But he was never able to escape from his worst enemy—himself.
The traitor Martingale had gotten away, but Drakov felt confident he would return. His father’s people now knew what was being planned, and they would retaliate. So much the better. The more chaos introduced into the scenario, the greater the chance of further disrupting history. He thought the commandos had been captured, and since there had been no report of Priest, he thought one of the other prisoners might have been him. He wondered what Lucas Priest’s reaction would have been when he was confronted by his twin. Now all three of them were unaccounted for. That bothered him. They were too damn resourceful, those three. And too damn lucky.
They would know about him being present on the scene now. He counted on them coming after him. it was one
of the things he had tried to impress upon the soldiers from the alternate timeline—their plan had to be a multileveled one with fallback positions. The commandos had never failed in an historical adjustment, and these three were the best of the lot. This time not even they would be able to stop it. They might stop one facet of the plan, but they would never stop the others. The moment the assassination of Winston Churchill was accomplished, and the moment the Tirah Expeditionary Force marched into the ambush, the advance team and he would move to execute the third part of the plan. They would teleport to Kabul and assassinate the Emir Abdur Rahman, pinning the blame on the Pathan warlord, Umra Khan.
The Russians would be certain to take advantage of their “friend” the emir being murdered by a Pathan warlord. They would march into Kabul and launch a punitive expedition against the tribes on the frontier, then not only control Afghanistan, but the British frontier buffer state between Rahman’s empire and India. It would lead to war, and history would be unalterably changed.
He activated his warp disc and clocked to his camp headquarters, materializing in his private chambers. Sadullah fell on his knees before him.
“I have failed, Holy One!” he moaned. “Forgive me! You have worked wonders to give me the chance to strike at the firinghi once more, and I have failed again. How can I make amends? How may I redeem my unworthiness in your eyes?”
“You have failed no one save yourself, Sadullah,” Drakov told him. “I warned you of this before. I did not expect for you to succeed at Chakdarra, only to light the flame of rebellion so that it would burn on after you had gone. Even now Hadda Mullah carries on your work. I am not displeased.”