The Night The Clocks Went Forward

“The target will emerge at exactly 1am. Since the last attempt on his life, Muskelliovic has upgraded his security tenfold. They will scan the rooves 10 minutes before he emerges, and then again 1 minute before. Once the final scan is complete, we will have approximately 30 seconds to assemble the Remington M20 and position ourselves in the CCTV blind spot before he emerges. When he does, he will be surrounded by security but there will be a moment as he’s entering the car when there will be a clear shot on the target’s head. I will take the shot. It will be your responsibility to activate the distraction charge simultaneously. All being well, the resultant confusion will enable us to get away. Any questions?”

“Just one sir,” murmured Tom.

“Go on,” barked Sturmer impatiently. In this line of work, things were rarely as they seemed. Sturmer was the exception. He looked every inch the cold-blooded killer as his dead, black eyes bore into Tom’s very soul.

“If the target is emerging at 1am, aren’t we a little late?”

“What?” Sturmer’s face was marble but, at this, a flicker of irritation appeared to cross it.

“Well, according to my watch it’s 1am now so…. aren’t we.... a little late?”

Irritation gave way to contempt as his porcelain features contorted into a sneer. “You moron. The clocks went back this evening so it’s 12am.”

“Actually, sir I think they went forward.”

“No. They went back.”

“Spring forward, Fall back.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“At springtime, the clocks go forward.” Sturmer stared back at him appraisingly. Tom could swear he’d never seen the man blink.

“Either way, my watch says 12am and it changes automatically.” There was a long pause as Tom weighed his words. Surely, he was right, how could it still be 12am if the clocks had gone forward? Evidently, however, Sturmer was not a man who responded well to provocation – Tom knew he had to tread carefully.

“I could always grab my phone and do a quick search?”

“No phones,” came the curt, impatient response. “Too easy to track.”

“We could go and ask Benji in the lobby?” That’s it Tom, keep digging.

When the response came, it was quiet and measured, yet imbibed with a note of menace that froze Tom’s blood. “Listen Tom, I am a professional killer. I am wanted in more jurisdictions than you could name. I have taken more lives than you could possibly imagine. I will not compromise this mission by asking Benji for the fucking time.”

Time passed slowly. Painfully slowly. They sat in silence. The curtains of the hotel room were drawn, and the lights dimmed. Tom could hear the hum of the city beneath them. An entire world from which they were insulated. So close, yet so far away.

Increasingly, he’d begun to dream of something more. When the syndicate had recruited him, the novelty and excitement had allowed him to overlook the nastier parts of the job (namely killing people for money). Now, with several missions under his belt, perhaps enough was enough. He had to get out soon or end up like…

“Hey!” With a start, Tom realised Sturmer was looking right at him. “Did you change the time on your watch after leaving London?”

“No,” Tom hissed, “but my watch does it automatically.” Even as he said the words he wasn’t sure. “Did you change yours when you flew in from Tehran?” Was there a trace of doubt on Sturmer’s face?

“Of course not,” he barked. “My watch does it automatically.”

“How do you know the clocks didn’t go forward in Iran?”

“What?”

“If the clocks went forward in Iran before you boarded, that might explain why your watch is off.”

“Moron. If my watch went forward in Tehran, my watch would be ahead of yours.” The silence resumed as both men wrestled with the uncertainty. It remained unspoken that, if Tom’s watch was correct, Muskelliovic would be safely ensconced in his armoured fleet of SUVs and headed for his compound in the Italian countryside. They would fail. Without warning, Sturmer rose from his armchair and marched towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Tom leapt up from his stool and scurried after him.

“I’m going to ask Benji for the fucking time.”

When they entered the lobby, it was deserted but for a tired receptionist, a young couple stumbling through the door, and a lonely figure in a black suit tapping away at a laptop in the corner of the bar. Sturmer strode across the marble floor without making a sound, scanning the room as he moved.

Tom imagined Sturmer might sit in the booth behind Benji, order something from the bar, and wait a few minutes before surreptitiously engaging him in whispered conversation, but clearly Sturmer’s patience had worn sufficiently thin to dispense with any precautions – or maybe that stuff only happened in the movies.

“Benji, we need to know the time.”

The tall, slender figure turned to look at the two assassins standing over him, his expression shifting from shock, to surprise, to bemusement, to derision – the four faces of Benjamin Dumouriét. His thin, pale lips now stretched into an odious smile. “You need to know the time?” each syllable was elongated, as though he was savouring the question.

In sharp contrast, Tom has never seen Sturmer look more uncomfortable, and he’d watched him swim through a sewer pipe in Bangkok. “Yes. My watch says 12:17; Tom’s watch says 1:17. I need you to confirm that mine is correct…” at this Benji’s smile became a mocking grin. Could a man look anymore smug? “…as quickly as possible.”

“Well, the good news is you haven’t missed the hit.” Despite himself, Sturmer’s face visibly relaxed. “The bad news is that you ignoramuses are equally moronic. The time is currently 11:18pm. Now if that’s all, I think you two have a job to do.” Sturmer huffed and turned away, preparing to march back to the lift when Tom cleared his throat.

“S-sorry to bother you again Benji but weren’t you in New York yesterday?”

“I was. Why?”

“Well…. Is there any chance…. I mean, could you have erroneously changed your watch to be an hour, or even two hours, behind the time zone we’re currently in?” The slender man turned around once more and looked Tom in the eyes for the first time.

“No. There is no chance of that.” Leave it Tom, don’t keep digging.

Well…. If all our watches have different times, is it worth calling Number One just to make sure?” Idiot.

Benji’s face did not do ‘angry.’ He was far too refined for such base emotion, but at this, his long, thin lips bristled. “Young man, I have not one, not two, but three degrees in advanced computer science. I went to Oxford, then Cambridge, then Oxford again for good measure. My brain is that of the most powerful crime syndicate in Europe. I will not compromise this mission by asking Number One for the fucking time.” He turned back to his computer. “Besides, my watch does it automatically.”

Tom nodded vigorously and turned to scurry back to the lift. But Sturmer remained. “Hang on Benji. What you’re telling us is that the clocks haven’t gone forward yet?”

“Obviously,” came the exasperated reply.

“Then when do they go forward?” Benji was poised to deliver another withering retort, but now he held back.

“Well, it’ll be midnight, won’t it?” He’s unsure.

“Don’t they normally go forward at 1am?”

“They certainly go back at 1am,” Tom interjected.

“Tonight, they’re going forward, moron,” Sturmer sneered.

“Yes. Spring forward, fall back,” agreed Benji.

“I know. I told you that!” Careful now, Tom. “My point is that it might be the same when they move forward.”

“So… the time skips from 1am to 2am?” Sturmer’s brow furrowed as he wrestled with the problem.

“No, no that would be counter-intuitive, it would surely go from 12am to 1am,” Benji asserted. “That way, it reverses the clocks going back.”

“Surely if they wanted to reverse the clocks going back, they’d skip forward from 11am to 12am. That way you start the new day where you should be.”

Benji paused for a moment, assessing whether he was sufficiently confident to challenge Sturmer’s argument. “If that were the case, why does my watch say 11:26?”

“Your watch is wrong.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“What does it say on your computer?” Benji glanced down.

“10:27, but it’s on Icelandic time.”

“Why?”

“The server is located in Iceland.”

“Well, how many time zones behind is Iceland?”

“One, of course.”

“Are you sure?” Sturmer’s voice hardened as confusion gave way to menace. There was a pause.

“I’m 90% sure.” Benji’s eyes flickered furtively. “Maybe 80%.”

“Christ,” Sturmer looked like he was about to throttle the slender man, but Tom interjected once more.

“Look guys, as I understand it, the time is either 11:30, 12:30, or 1:30. Why don’t we go up to the roof and wait for Muskelliovic now. That way we won’t miss him, and we can pull off the hit either way?” Look at me, the adult in the room.

“Moron,” hissed Sturmer.

“Idiot,” agreed Benji. “They’ll scan the rooves before he emerges, you can’t just hang around for hours in a CCTV blackspot with the disassembled components of a Remington M20. It looks suspicious.” Another pause.

“Listen, I’ve done hundreds of these jobs. Tom’s a fucking child and Benji, well you’re basically tech support.” Sturmer glanced down at his watch, “a man needs to die in half an hour, so I’m going up to do my job.” He held Benji’s gaze for a moment. Empty brown met electric blue as Sturmer dared his colleague to object. When no response came, he started to march away. Tom was about to scurry after him when Benji spoke.

“Of course, he may already have left.” Benji turned back to his laptop, letting his words hang in the air, baiting Sturmer back into the fray.

“He leaves at 1:00, Benji,” Sturmer muttered without turning around.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” came the reply. Then a mighty sigh as Sturmer came storming back to the table.

“What do you mean?” Each word was a bullet, fired through Sturmer’s gritted teeth. Benji remained unfazed.

“You see, if the clocks move forward at 12:00 then 12:00 will instantaneously become 1:00 and it’s unclear whether Muskelliovic will factor this in and effectively leave at 12:00 as it becomes 1:00, rather than proceeding as though the clocks are not moving forward, thus effectively leaving at 2:00.” Sturmer’s hand was shaking. Someone will die tonight either way, thought Tom.

“What if they go forward at 1:00?” Benji turned to Tom as though surprised he was still there.

“Well, that would be ideal.”

“Oh good, because actually…”

“For fuck’s sake!” Sturmer was now pacing up and down besides the table. “You’re going to have to call Number One on your laptop Benji.” Now Benji did look nervous.

“Why me?” He hissed.

“If we were allowed to use our phones, do you think we’d be in this mess?” Like a convict sombrely twisting his own noose, Benji donned his sleek, silver headphones and tapped a series of codes into the window at the top of his screen.

“Hello. Put me through to Number One please.” In the cold, blue light of the monitor, Benji looked almost skeletal as he clenched his jaw and awaited the response.

“Number One. Hello sir. I’m sorry to bother you…” Tom was enjoying himself. With Benji squirming in his seat and Sturmer’s icy complexion growing redder by the second, he’d certainly seen it all now. Still, he kept a straight face.

“No sir. All is well. It’s just that Sturmer isn’t certain on the time and wanted some clarification…”

“It is sir, for someone with his level of experience… yes… I think he’s just a bit confused about the clocks going forward…” The smug smile was tugging at Benji’s lips again as Sturmer seethed silently besides him, then it fell away.

“Sorry sir. With respect I think they’re going forward, not back…”

“Yes. Spring forward, fall back…” Benji’s face was completely inscrutable for a short while as he listened to the voice on the other end. Is that frustration in his eyes?

“Yes sir. That you for clarifying that… yes… yes you’re right he is a complete fool…” He smirked triumphantly for a moment, then his face fell.

“No… no… you’re right sir…” he glanced down furtively. “I’m a fool as well…” The line went dead. Benji removed his headphones and closed his eyes for a few seconds.

“Well?” Sturmer hissed.

Benji sighed. “Number One reckons it’s 10:41.” They sat silently, working it through.

“That’s not possible.”

“My dear Sturmer, are you saying Number One has it wrong?”

“Yes, surely.” Sturmer’s eye twitched slightly as he spoke the words.

“A blasphemous statement my friend,” Benji’s eyes twinkled as he soaked in Sturmer’s discomfort, “but a correct one. There’s no way it can be 10:41.”

“Right, that call was a bit pointless then, wasn’t it?”

“Au contraire, it’s always a pleasure to check in with Number One… but yes it was a little.”

“Only one option then.”

“The nuclear option?”

“The last resort.”

“It could compromise the mission.”

“Better than failing the mission.”

“Indeed. Who’s the most expandable of the three of us?” Tom was shaken from his reverie as both men’s eyes turned towards him. Any trace of amusement had left him as, suddenly, he realised he’d rather be anywhere else. What will they make me do?

“Tom, be a lamb and ask that receptionist over there for the time.”

Fifteen minutes later, Sturmer and Tom were crouched behind a ventilator on the roof of the building. The wind had mutated from an arid breeze to a howling gale that assaulted the flimsy fabric of Tom’s overcoat. The shivering had grown worse. Maybe it was the anticipation, maybe just the cold. Probably both. It didn’t matter, he knew exactly what he had to do. Set off the charge, wait for the shot, exit the roof. Set off the charge, wait for the shot, exit the roof. He couldn’t see Sturmer, but he knew he’d be finishing up his ritual. Rosemary beads, breathing techniques, and a nip of vodka. Like clockwork.

Minutes passed and the night wore on. Still, they continued to wait… and wait… and wait…

Across the road in the Boursagne Palace Hotel, an oblivious underling entered the penthouse suite, flanked by a sullen bodyguard with a head like a spade. Muskelliovic lurked in the corner of the room, veiled in shadow as he surveyed the skyline – a king surveying his kingdom.

“What is it?” He rasped, with hardly a hint of the Chechnyan accent he’d worked so hard to extinguish.

“F-forgive me sir but the driver has called, and… well… she cannot collect you as planned.”

“Why?” The eyes flashed with rage as he swung round and trained them on the snivelling young man.

“She wasn’t entirely clear on the phone, but she said she’d overslept, and it would have to be tomorrow.” He glanced furtively from side to side, anywhere but those stony, pale eyes. The silence was deafening, a chasm ready to swallow him up so, despite himself, he continued to speak. “In fact, on the phone she did mention that…”

“What?” He barked, “speak up, boy!”

“Well… she said her alarm didn't go off as planned." at this, the eyes once again lit up with white-hot fury as his long, fleshy face contorted in disgust."

"Why ever not, boy?" He spat the last word like a slur.

"Well... apparently the clocks have gone forward.”