Free Time and Time Again by Ben Elton Page A

I said, where’s the bloody brandy?’
    Stanton rose to his feet and picked up his bag. He knew he had to leave because he really wanted to confront these men and that would be a very stupid thing to do. His first and only duty was to pass the time until his business in Sarajevo as quietly and with as little impact as possible. His whole mission depended on the key events he was tasked with influencing remaining unchanged from when they had first occurred in time. Confronting gangs of semi-drunk posh boys in Old Stamboul was
unlikely
to affect the diary plans of the Austrian royal house, but it might.
    The movement brought him to the attention of the five men.
    ‘You, sir,’ the man who’d been at the wheel of the car and who was the most vocal of the group said, ‘you don’t look Turkish. English? Français? Deutsch? We want some brandy. Do you speak dago?’
    He should have just said no and walked out.
    ‘You’re in Stamboul,’ Stanton said quietly, ‘so have a bit of respect. This is a Muslim establishment. Obviously they won’t have brandy. It’s morning, so go back to Pera and sleep it off. But don’t try to drive or I’ll take your keys.’
    For a moment the five young men stared in astonishment.
    The leader collected himself first. ‘And you would be …?’
    Stanton still could have turned around and left but he didn’t.
    ‘I’m a British army officer and I’m telling you that you’ll get no cognac here because alcohol is proscribed under Islam, as even imbeciles like you must know. So why don’t you just clear out and go home – but I warn you, don’t try to drive.’
    Five jaws dropped open in front of him.
    This was stupid and Stanton knew it. These men hadn’t killed Cassie and he was crazy drawing attention to himself.
    ‘I know who he is,’ another member of the party shouted. ‘He was on the bridge this morning. He’s the chap who nearly made us crash.’
    ‘So he is! Wish I’d damn well hit him now.’
    ‘I’m the chap,’ Stanton replied firmly, ‘who saved you from being under arrest for the manslaughter of a mother and her young children.’
    Now finally he did try to leave, taking a step towards the door as if he’d said his piece. But he was already in too deep. The five young men were having none of it.
    ‘The wogs can’t arrest Englishmen,’ the leader said. ‘Or weren’t you aware of that?’
    ‘Funny sort of army officer,’ another remarked. ‘What’s your regiment?’
    Stanton bit his lip. He knew from the research he’d done in Cambridge that Turkey had traded sovereignty for foreign investment. No British officer was going to rot in a gaol for knocking over a few locals and this comfortable arrangement would have been second nature to the British in the city.
    ‘Who are you, damn you?’ the leader of the group demanded. ‘I haven’t seen you before.’
    ‘I don’t think he’s army at all. I’ve never seen him. Anybody seen him?’
    Stanton was feeling stupid. Why had he said he was a soldier? The foreign groups clustered around the embassies and hotels of the Pera district must inevitably be small and insular; the five men facing him would expect to know all their comrades in the city.
    ‘Who the hell are you?’ the one who had been driving demanded once more. ‘I asked you what’s your regiment.’
    Well, it couldn’t be the Special Air Service. That would not come into existence for decades to come. Or perhaps now not at all.
    ‘I’m just a territorial,’ Stanton replied, belatedly trying to blend into the background from which he had irrevocably and so stupidly leapt. ‘Not real army at all, I’m a tourist really.’
    But he knew he didn’t look like a tourist, or at least not the type of British tourist usually to be seen gently taking in the sights of Old Stamboul. He was tall, tough and rugged-looking, dressed for action in his thick socks and boots, grey moleskin trousers and tweed. The five men were eyeing him with growing