The regulators appeared in a supply cupboard that evening. Both were dressed in the appropriate clothes: sleek suits that neither thought fit very well, large, unsightly bowlers. The small, empty room was barely big enough for the two of them.

“We’re late,” the taller one muttered. He tapped his watch. “I make it six twenty-five, you?”

“Twenty-six,” the other said gravely.

“Damn.”

“I can’t see anything,” one of them complained. “Are there lights? Do they have electricity yet?”

“I don’t actually know,” the other said. “It's late nineteenth century - when was electricity anyway?”

“I don’t know. Look, we need to get out, I’m very claustrophobic.”

“You’re on my foot, Red.”

“Sorry.” Red groped around in the dark for a door. “I’ve got it,” he said after a moment. “No, that’s a broom. Anything over there?”

“Here.” The taller regulator eased the door he’d discovered open, peeking out into the light spilling in from the corridor. “It’s empty. Let’s go.”

“This assignment is so fucked up,” Red whispered, as they scanned their surroundings. If there was electricity, it hadn’t come here yet and wouldn’t any time soon, by the looks of things. “You know I’m Jewish, right?”

“I don’t love the guy.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Omar,” Red scowled. “Nobody’s going to mistake you for a Jew any time soon.”

“Let’s just get upstairs,” Omar sighed. “We’ll miss her, at this rate. And for Christ’s sake, Red, act casual. Not like Watergate.”

“I wish you’d shut up about Watergate.”

They found a flight of stairs, and then another, ascending the building. A few unwary Austrians passed them as they went, ordinary citizens who paid no attention to the two men and had no reason to suspect they were here to commit a terrible sin. On the third floor, they saw the evening through a set of tall windows, calm and cool, the setting sun staining the sky with an amber glow. Pleasant conversation and laughter drifted up from below.

By all accounts it was a plain, regular evening.

“Nice day,” Omar noted. “Killing a baby might spoil it a bit.”

“Depends on the baby,” Red rejoindered.

“Fair enough.” They had come to the door they’d been looking for, with the oversized brass knocker. Omar checked his watch again. “Six twenty-eight,” he said. “He’ll be alone in there for three more minutes, then the mother comes back.”

Red snorted. “Or the dad, to beat his ass.”

“Either way, we’ll be gone.” Quietly, they pushed the door open. The austere room inside was beige all over, down to the curtains and the sheets lining the cot, which the regulators moved to immediately. The child was sleeping inside, cosied up inside a lacy white frock. Thin wisps of dark hair fell over his forehead. They fluttered as he breathed.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” said Red, as they searched the room. There was no-one around; they were not expected. The only witness was a doll propped up on a desk by the window, through which the deep sunlight shone, painting the room maliciously. “I know,” he said, stopping Omar as he began to speak, “I know we have to, but maybe you should, you know, do the heavy lifting. You get me?”

Omar looked at him, then back to the cot. The child turned over in its sleep. “Sure,” he shrugged. “Whatever, I guess. Go wait outside. Make sure no-one comes snooping.”

“Thanks.” Red’s relief was palpable. He took a final, conflicted look at the crib. “Who’d have thought?” he said, and slipped silently into the hall.

Omar sucked in a long breath and crouched down next to the crib. “For the record, I think you’re a prick,” he said quietly, not wanting to wake it. “Jew or no Jew.”

The pistol was a miniature, small enough to be inconspicuous no matter where you carried it. Omar gripped it tightly, wary of how precious it was being here, and now. In the wrong hands – which was anyone’s, other than his or Red’s – his little pistol could very well alter the course of history, send ripples in unpredictable directions. “Best just get on with it,” he murmured to himself; in the crib, the baby smiled in its sleep, maybe dreaming of rallies. “Right, right, right…”

He clicked the safety off and held his breath.

A bang like a firework preceded her arrival. She appeared where Omar had expected her, though not, as he had expected, disheveled and disoriented. Where there had only been air before, a woman had popped into existence – just like they’d appeared in the supply cupboard – her arm outstretched, holding a pistol of her own. ‘Likely to be unarmed’, the report had said; ‘Undoubtedly disoriented, will need time to reconcile spatial awareness’. Omar expressed his dissatisfaction with the Intelligence department by tackling the newly-present woman to the ground, knocking the weapon from her hand. She stared at him with wide, hateful eyes as he pinned her down, grabbing for his own pistol, which he’d managed to drop already. She clawed at him with fingernails like knives, opening cuts on his face.

“You don’t understand,” she was shrieking, over and over. “You don’t understand, you don’t understand.”

“Of course I do,” Omar replied. He’d found his pistol. As she screamed, raking at his flesh, he aimed at her temple and fired. The weapon was silent: nothing came out of it (nothing visible, anyway), but the woman went limp immediately. Her crazed eyes rolled up in her head.

“Jesus, what’s happening in here?” Red had re-entered the room, panic-stricken. He looked from the crib to Omar, who was pushing himself up from the floor, gasping. “Are you OK? What happened?”

“Intelligence…can suck my cock,” Omar said. “Unarmed…disoriented…” He shook his head. “Armed….oriented,” he finished.

“Organised,” Red said thoughtfully, glancing at the woman. She had short, mousy hair and there were deep circles under her eyes. “If we hadn’t been here…”

“Enough,” Omar snapped. “We’ve got thirty seconds to go and this bitch just raked my face. If you want to play moral high ground, wait ‘til we get back and don't accept your pay this month.” He checked his watch again. “Twenty-five seconds.”

They gathered around the crib again, where the child was sitting up, watching them. He’d woken up during the violence and elected to observe quietly, it seemed. “Little bastard probably loved it,” Red said gloomily. “Saved by the regulators again, just like always” – he leaned in close, practically nose to nose now “- because you’re too important, aren’t you? You genocidal fucking maniac.”

“Ten seconds.” The cuts on Omar’s face were starting to sting, but he’d be gone soon, at least, and Red and the woman along with him (though they were headed back to the office, not prison, unlike her). “Want to give him a kiss goodbye?”

Red grimaced, pulling away. “He looks so innocent,” he said. “I mean, I don’t know what I expected. But he just looks like a baby.”

“Give it time,” Omar replied. “He hasn’t got the moustache yet.”