Vauxhall Cross (London, England)
10 Days After Initial Deployment
Alex Younger has been a busy man. In the course of only two weeks, he has had to bring his new Prime Minister up to speed with droves of top-secret classified matters, a quantity which would usually be spread out over months of introductory briefings. He was also given the pleasant task of broaching the subject of their Chronos artifact - which they refer to as the Lawrence Chronos for coherence's sake - twice, whereas the average PM would never be told of it at all. Cameron, in fact, had entered and left office without ever hearing it mentioned, even in passing.
During the first Chronos briefing, he'd given her a bit of a British covert history lesson and introduced her - conceptually anyway - to the Lawrence Chronos while alerting her to the existence of the IS Chronos. Then, only the day before, he'd had to inform her that there appeared to be a third at large, one his analysts are calling the Moscow Chronos before a more specific name can be determined. Why all of this had to come together at precisely this moment - the emergence of what would ordinarily be an earth-shaking change in the balance of arms capabilities while Britain and her allies are occupied with an imminent mutual threat - he'd never be able to guess.
But making conjecture is below his duties anyhow. Others play those sorts of games. His field operatives do the grunt work of gathering intelligence, his analysts assimilate and make sense of the incoming data, his advisors propose methods of acting on that analysis, and he makes the final decisions and answers to the Foreign Secretary and the PM for them.
One such decision had been made the evening before, and he and his most trusted subordinates had been working overnight to put together a suitable operation. It involves one of their core agents, one who works closely with a case officer at the SIS station in the British embassy in Ankara, Turkey. Their only hope of preserving their superiority through possession of one ancient time-slowing instrument, they'd determined, would be to confirm that both the Islamic State and a Russian in Islamic State territory had one and, ultimately, to destroy the Lawrence Chronos' competitors.
They'd decided that they would need an experienced, resourceful, independent agent to do it, and the employee in Ankara had been chosen. Once that had been finalized and the proper orders been sent down the pipe, he'd sent his colleagues home under the rising sun for some well-earned rest. He'd stayed behind, knowing that once the mission's wheels were set in motion, he'd need to be on hand to deal with the intricate complications that always arose.
Now, standing at one window of his office and gazing down on the calmly rippling surface of the Thames, Younger feels the fatigue from lack of sleep and mounting stress and judges that caffeine would be quite appropriate at a time like this. He'd sent one of his minor secretaries to get him some, in the form of the most concentrated black tea he could find.
If his orders are being carried out - and he has confidence that they are - the operative is already en route to Syria, where both artifacts had surfaced. He ought to be there in just over an hour if he had managed to travel by plane, and he would hit the ground running if his past work was any indication. Younger knows that speed of operation can sometimes lead to haste, and haste almost always leads to errors, some minor and rectifiable, others fatal. He follows the river with his eyes and fantasizes that life could be as simple and predictable as its unhindered flow.
He hears someone knocking at his office door and calls for them to enter. His secretary slips in, closing the door softly, with a concerned look on his face.
"Sir, have you slept at all?" he asks with genuine worry.
Younger takes the tea from him with a grateful smile and attempts to lighten the atmosphere.
"My work is like a colicky infant, Charlie. It doesn't sleep and it's always crying for attention. What's a man to do under those circumstances?"
Mallet-Bompard International Academy
Returning to the school, I'm amazed that it continued functioning. I had imagined that it would be shuttered, abandoned, but I suppose that in this part of the world, resilience is the ultimate form of defiance.
Some parts of some buildings are cordoned off and - if you look at the right moments - you can catch a glimpse of Syrian soldiers slipping through those darkened halls, doing whatever it is that they do. I also expected them to shun me like the plague, which I would have completely understood, but I was allowed back in as if nothing had happened. They did, however, request that I do not leave any building except to pass classes and that I remain in my dorm outside of instructional time. But that precaution seems to be more for my safety and security than the school.
I can guess that if they'd known that I'd been the instigator of the attackers' anger and I hadn't been the savior, the reason not a single person in the school who remained loyal to it had died, they wouldn't have been so willing to let me walk their halls again.
I'm grateful for their generosity, but my body aches and I feel as if I've been cheating death. Neither circumstance makes for easy sleeping, and as I lay in bed, I stare dully out the window at the night sky. For the first time - likely in years - my mind is completely blank. I can't focus on forcing myself to sleep, but I can't find it in myself to make this time useful by mentally planning my next move, either. Whenever a thought starts up, it moves sluggishly, then quickly dies away.
Despite the amount of physical fatigue I feel, the mental stagnation is much harder to bear. I roll out of bed and decide to take a bit of a midnight walk about the halls. I won't leave the building, so I leave my jacket and the Chronos behind me as I close the door to my room, confident that they'll be safe in my few minutes' absence. I stand by the door for a moment, closing my eyes and opening them, finding a strange peace in the negligible difference in lighting. I set off in a random direction, letting my feet go where they please but being careful to stay clear of the stairs.
When I feel like the monotony of the dark halls and identical stretches of tile have straightened things out well enough for me to be able to at least sleep lightly for an hour or two, I look up and find my way back to my room. I round a corner and stop. Even from this distance, I can see that the door is slightly open, resting in its frame without the latch engaged. I try to remember if perhaps I'd pulled it in without hearing it click or if I had in fact left it ajar. I shake my head slowly and give up on that, but still approach cautiously and enter the room soundlessly.
By the dim moonlight streaming in through the window, I can see that someone has been here. The whole place is a mess - ransacked, turned upside down - and my first thought is that someone's gone for the VS-121 case under my bed, which was left ajar due to the AKM filling the space having a larger build. In the same thought I recall that it hasn't been there for over a week, but then I notice my jacket on the floor and my desk drawers lying where they were tossed, their contents dumped out.
My heart stops and I lurch forward to search for the Chronos. The second I move, I hear the door click and feel something cold at my back. Without turning to look, I know that it's a gun.
"Good evening, Russki," it's wielder growls.
He's British, but I can tell from the sound of his voice that he's trying to hide it for some reason. Either that, or he's been immersed in some other manner of speech for so long that his original accent has begun to erode. I lift my hands from my sides in a sign of surrender as a reflex, but I'm still on edge, looking for an opportunity to gain an advantage.
At first, I try playing the innocent, thinking that perhaps if I can convince whoever he is that he's got the wrong kid, he'll apologize and leave me alone. It's a long shot if there ever was such a thing, but he's caught me flat-footed - unarmed and entirely unprepared - so I essentially have nothing to lose.
"I - I'm sorry sir," I say, making my voice shaky. "Have I - Have I done something wrong?"
He chuckles sardonically, and the sound makes my blood go cold.
"Don't take me for a fool, boy," he snarls. "I'd like to be able to just kill you and get out of this hell hole, but I'm not in the business of violating orders."
Orders? So he's here under someone's command…
I keep up the act, now more to get information out of him than anything.
"Kill me?" I quibble, feigning terror. "W - Why would you need to do that?"
He sighs gruffly and grumbles something about Russians and "useless paper alliances," which I imagine I wasn't meant to hear. I hurriedly scan the debris on the floor to see if, perhaps, he'd come looking for something else and left the Chronos alone. If he had, I'd be willing to take the risk to make a break for it, gambling that if he shot - as he most certainly would - I could duck out of his initial line of fire and activate the device before he got the chance to fire again.
But I can't see it anywhere; my heart sinks; I assume he has it. And if he'd rummaged around looking for it, he likely had come here knowing that I had it and probably understands its significance.
I try to bargain with him, still pretending to be ignorant of his actual motives.
"Listen, I don't know who you are, and I haven't seen your face, and I promise I have an awful memory for voices, so can you just take what you want and go? Anything, just leave me be."
He laughs again, and the guttural sound leaves me feeling frigid.
"You honestly think that I think you're just some innocent student? A stranger in a strange land? Don't insult my intelligence, lad."
I turn my head slightly and manage to see that the only reason he hasn't made any effort to take me down other than pointing a gun at my back is that his other hand is occupied with something he wouldn't dare put down or let go of.
My Chronos.
"Fine," I say, tired of playing this stupid little game, "do you want it or do you want me?"
"I've gotten what I wanted," he snarls. "just haven't yet decided what I'm going to do with you."
So, his orders were to find my Chronos, and probably to take it back to someone. But if Sokolov and his researchers are to be believed - and I know of no reason why they shouldn't - then the British already have their own Chronos artifact. What would they want with another?
Vasily, you really are an idiot sometimes, you know.
It isn't a matter of taking possession of another artifact to multiply power, like stockpiling weapons before a rebellion, but a means of destroying competition, like bombing an enemy's nuclear silos to slow their retaliation. He doesn't want to use it. The fewer there are in existence, the safer it is for his own nation, his own interests, his own colleague who, undoubtedly, operates with their own time-altering machine.
Britain is, ostensibly, an ally of Russia's, and while they rarely align their policies exactly, they are both part of a concerted effort against the Islamic State. Because my target is the same as theirs - and theirs is the same as my government's - I can imagine that Sokolov would want me to cooperate as much as possible with the Brit behind me in the dark. But this is an independent situation, one person jeopardizing my mission and, arguably, the course of this entire war. And if couched correctly, this covert action could be presented to the international community as a vicious deception, the kind that would greatly undermine pleasant relations between the Lion and the Bear.
Whichever way one looks at it, it'd be better if this little confrontation didn't get out of this room.
Judging that if he shot, I'd be dead, but if I lost the Chronos, I'd be as good as dead, I decide to end the standoff on my own terms. I crouch slightly and shove backward. My shoulder lands square in the middle of his chest. I manage to surprise him, so he doesn't fire.
The impact throws him off his feet, but instead of focusing on subduing him, I lunge for the Chronos and manage to pry it from his hand. As I twist it, it clicks and its markings shine. I have the situation under my control before the British agent even hits the floor.
I step back and catch my breath, commending myself for my swiftness, especially at this hour and in my current condition.
I rest on the edge of my bed and watch the intruder falling slowly on the other side of the room. I could take his gun and shoot him - it appears to be silenced - but I don't want blood on my floor. It'd be too difficult to explain.
Instead, I take his weapon, what ammunition he has on him, the scant communications gear he's wearing, and stuff it all into the suitcase under my bed. One never knows when one might need a pistol for close-quarters combat.
I stand over him for a moment, sincerely wondering why he hadn't thought to hide the Chronos on his person when he'd seen me enter the room, and make the obvious choice. I place one hand behind his head, the other on his chin, and jerk them in opposite directions. His neck makes a muffled crackle - a sound I don't think I'll ever get used to - and his face begins to form a grimace of agony. I step back, turn the Chronos to idle, and let him drop to the floor. He stays still, so I leave him alone.
I lock the door and return to bed, too exhausted now to resist sleep. I'll figure out what to do with the Briton in the morning.