‘Yes, I did. But if that family now decides to take a holiday in Sarajevo and bump into someone who bumps into someone and somehow changes the course of the Archduke’s day …’
‘Pretty bloody long shot, Hugh.’
‘All events are long shots until they occur. That’s what chaos theory’s about.’
Stanton decided he wouldn’t share the details of the rest of his morning’s adventures with McCluskey. He felt foolish enough about the near catastrophic confrontation in the cafe as it was.
‘So you listen to me,’ he went on, ‘I want you to go back to your bed and lie down again. You’ve had a massive blow and need to rest as much as possible. We leave town tomorrow and I don’t want you keeling over on me at the station with some kind of cerebral haemorrhage.’
McCluskey’s face fell.
‘Leave town? I was thinking we could have a day or two in Istanbul. Constantinople, Hugh, in the dying days of the Ottoman dynasty. Think of it! The mystery, the magic. We can’t just walk away from that.’
‘We can and we must.’
Stanton was uncomfortably aware that the young men he’d nearly had a punch-up with were soldiers. Officers who would, in the way of the British army of the period, have plenty of leisure time. Leisure time they might very well choose to spend right where they were sitting, in the bar of the Pera Palace Hotel.
‘We have four weeks to get through till our appointment in Sarajevo,’ he went on, ‘and we need to draw as little attention and make as little impact as possible. So, my plan is to leave Constantinople in the morning and head to Britain, where we’ll stand out least. What’s more, spending four days on a train is as good a way as any to avoid leaving any footprints. Once in the UK we’ll lie as low as possible for a fortnight till we make the trip back.’
McCluskey frowned. There was a pocket on her dress, from which to Stanton’s astonishment she now drew rolling papers and a pinch of loose tobacco.
‘Jesus,’ Stanton hissed. ‘You can’t roll a fag here!’
‘Why not? I’m an eccentric English lady. There’s no law.’
‘There’s convention! We are trying not to draw attention to ourselves. We are on a mission.’
‘But actually that’s the point, isn’t it, Hugh?’ she said, reluctantly putting the tobacco back in her pocket. ‘You’re on a mission. I’m not. You don’t need me. In fact, let’s be honest, a gouty old drunkard like yours truly would be a liability. Why not leave me here? I’ll be fine. I’ve got a million quid in forged Imperial Bonds sewn into my knickers and quite frankly the minute this Nurofen kicks in I’m ready to party.’
‘No, that’s not going to happen,’ Stanton said firmly. ‘Not for another couple of months anyway. Not till I’ve done what you sent me to do. Every step either of us takes, every breath we draw, in some small way changes the future from the one we know, from the template we’re relying on to guide our actions. The only changes we want to make are the ones we’ve planned on making in Sarajevo and Berlin. Now, granted, you staggering around Constantinople taking in the sights is unlikely to change anything significant. But to be honest, you’re a loose cannon at the best of times. I don’t know what you might say or what you might do, particularly half concussed and ordering vodka for lunch. So I’m afraid you’re coming with me.’
‘But—’
‘And I am telling you now that until we’ve succeeded in preventing the most catastrophic war in all history, you are going to do exactly what I say. Because if you don’t – and please listen very carefully to this, professor – I’ll shoot you and dump you in the Bosphorus.’
17
THEY LEFT CONSTANTINOPLE the following day, first class to Paris on the Orient Express. McCluskey, of course, could scarcely contain her excitement, muttering in wonder at everything she encountered, from the newspapers she bought at the Sirkeci terminal bookstall to the luxurious appointments of her own private compartment. Stanton had decided that they should book their tickets separately. He was still extremely nervous about McCluskey, whose very presence was testimony to her lack of conscience and reliability. If she did do something that drew the eye of officialdom, he didn’t want paperwork to exist that linked them together.
On the other hand, it was fun having her along. He couldn’t help smiling when he joined her in her compartment as the train pulled out of the station. She was just so utterly thrilled.
‘Oh Hugh, Hugh,’ she said, leaning back into the soft leather as the great steam locomotive eased its way through the Imperial capital. ‘How good is this? No, I’m serious. How good is this? Are we not living, right now, the most delicious dream on the planet? We are tourists in history! Everybody’s favourite fantasy. And we have our own private compartments. Private first-class apartment on the Orient Express.’
‘We’re not tourists. We’re on a mission—’
‘I know, Hugh, I know. But we can’t do anything about it now, can we? Not travelling through Europe on a train. You’ve got your wish. We’re out of harm’s way. No butterflies in here. Let’s enjoy it! Look at this exquisite porcelain basin – you pull the strap and it just drops down. How absolutely lovely. That is quality. Not even billionaires experienced that kind of quality in our time. Everything in this beautiful little carriage is made of brass and polished wood and porcelain and leather. Real beautiful things, not plastic and hydrocarbon. And look! The window opens! An opening window on a train – we can actually let in the fresh air.’
She pulled down the window and let out a whoop of pleasure.
Stanton laughed. She was right. It was a pretty fantastic prospect. During his months of training with Chronos he’d never allowed himself to dwell much on the possibility that it might actually happen, that he might find himself living in the past. But now he was. And not just any old past, but early-twentieth-century Europe. A time when the miracles of technology were still virile and exciting: steam engines and flying machines, not smart phones and cosmetic surgery. When there were still wildernesses left to explore and mountains left unclimbed.
‘You’re right, prof,’ he said, speaking louder over the noise of the rattling train. ‘It is pretty exciting.’
‘And a girl can smoke!’ she exclaimed delightedly. ‘I can sit back in my own seat which I’ve bloody paid for and have a bloody fag without some PC jobsworth claiming I’m killing a child in the next county. Go on, have one! You used to smoke like a chimney when you were an undergrad. I can remember bumming one off you at the back of the chapel in about 2006.’
She leaned back and drew, happily, luxuriantly, on her cigarette. Not a hand-rolled one this time either, but factory-made. She’d been like a kid in a sweet shop at the hotel tobacconist’s that morning, buying a dozen different, long-forgotten brands.
‘Players’ navy cut, untipped,’ she said, coughing slightly, ‘made in the days when we really had a navy. Think about that, Hugh. We are living in an age when the Royal Navy is twice as strong as the next two navies put together! Pax Britannica! Britain’s back on top! Feels good, eh? And once you’ve put paid to the Kaiser, Britain’s going to stay on top.’
‘Prof, I’m warning you. Shut up.’
‘Sorry! Sorry. You’re right. Won’t happen again, must keep shtum about the mission. But go on – have a fag!’