She had made it back from time-fractured Dallas to her family’s timestream, fighting with the plane’s programming all the way. She stashed her timestreaming plane, which she supposed broke the time barrier, rather than the sound barrier, in a barn in Woodbridge, Virginia, which was on a thirty-acre property with a long stretch of flat ground: an airstrip. She bought the property instantly, meeting the owner’s asking price without haggling, and gave the county property tax assessors a way to access an account she set up, explaining that she would probably be overseas for several years.
It had taken her two weeks to recover, in an old motel on Route 460 near Pearisburg, in southwest Virginia, which had a view of a mountain called Angel’s Rest. She climbed Angel’s Rest twice that week, feeling as far from angelic as possible, since she had recently killed two men. They were not the first she had killed in her long career as a spy, but she had decided that they were the last.
Now, she could play out her plan. She had plenty of financial resources. Money dropped into the lap of spies, as it had hers, throughout the forties, fifties, and sixties. She had carried hers with her, in the form of diamonds, across timestreams, and much of it was now in Switzerland. Within weeks, she would be able to produce millions of the space dolls for cereal companies, all of them imbued with Hadntz material, which would radiate and link with one another, continuing that mysterious, ever-evolving brain-changing process Hadntz had created. Money from the cereal companies would go back into the shipping process, which would be mostly automatic. Any excess would go to the development of teacher-training centers in remote regions of the world. Someday there might be a generation that removed the obscene profit war brought to so many people, who might be able to throw a rod into the civilization-crushing gears of war.
She had not been able to come to terms with her personal situation, though. At first, she had been jubilant, euphoric. Sam. Jill. Brian. Megan. They were
here
. She had made her way back.
She was afraid to contact them, badly frightened by finding herself in a world where they did not exist. She didn’t want that to happen again. That was not the main problem, though.
She was now a very obvious target to those who had passed, with memories intact, from the Kennedy assassination time line to this. She’d thoroughly blown her cover. The CIA knew where she lived, though she’d been officially out of the game for years. They also might know their long-held suspicions were true: that Bette knew about the legendary, shadowy device they’d been after since the end of the war, certain it would give the nation, or whoever held it, even more power than the atomic bomb. How had this all started?
* * *
On November 8, 1938, Bette Elegante was in the Staatsoper, the Vienna State Opera House, in a particular seat, as instructed. At least, the strange note she had received contained a very strong hint to be here.
She disliked Vienna. Yes, it was a beautiful and cultured city, with narrow, winding streets bounded by neatly kept shops. The Ringstrasse, a broad avenue encompassing the inner city, was cosmopolitan and seemingly inviting.
But the huge swastika flags draped from balconies and in parks revolted her. Germany had annexed Austria in March, threatening to send in troops if the Austrian chancellor did not agree to the takeover. He had welcomed the Fascists, with open arms and a celebration, and the city was now a muted shadow of its former self.
Bette still did not know why she was here. So she was annoyed with herself when the jasmine-perfumed woman who had been sitting next to her the entire time said, “Come,” as the orchestra swelled for a finale, which Bette was pleased to escape.
The woman did not speak as Bette followed her through the opulent gallery and into the smoke-filled night, and grabbed her arm and pulled her back as a mob of people ran past wielding sticks and clubs.
“What’s going on?” asked Bette, in German.
The woman didn’t reply, just nodded at Bette to follow the mob at a safe distance, and set off.
She was about five feet three inches tall, and wore a tight, fashionable red dress and an ocelot coat that flared out behind her as she strode along. A broad-brimmed red hat swept aslant her face, preventing Bette from reading the expression in her eyes, but enhancing the intensity of her red lipstick.
“Who are you?” asked Bette, in German.
“My name is Eliani Hadntz.” She spoke in strongly accented, oddly stilted English.
“Who sent you?”
“No one.
I
asked for
you
.”
“Again.”
“The code name you so quaintly ask for is Amarin Konisky.”
“I don’t make the rules.”
“Perhaps someday you will. In the meantime, you should learn to trust your judgment. I am not any part of your organization. I got that password through subterfuge.”
“Why?” asked Bette, and stopped walking.
Hadntz wheeled around to face her. “By the end of this night, I might tell you.”
“Fine.” They resumed walking. This woman was not exactly a spy. She wanted to strike some kind of deal, for reasons unknown to Bette. Okay. That was her job: to gather information.
Hadntz took her arm and steered her down a side street, staying half a block behind the shouting men. The leader pointed to a shop front, and those behind him rushed forward, smashed the window, and swarmed inside. Books flew out the window. One shadowed man sprinkled gasoline on them from a large can and tossed a match; the books caught fire with a
vroomp!,
followed by hoarse shouts of approval.
Part of the crowd circled a man who reached into a flour sack and withdrew something. The circle broke with applause, and the man with the bag threw a rope over the bookseller’s sign and hoisted a collection of rags so that it swung above the street. It vaguely resembled a human being, as it had a rag-stuffed sphere where the head should be. A large sign hung below the sphere:
MARIA MONTESSORI
. The effigy, once lit, flamed up and further illuminated the mob.
“Maria Montessori?” asked Bette. “I don’t understand.”
“You visited one of her many schools in Vienna, as I suggested?”
“That note was from you?”
“Yes. Did you?”
“I did.”
“And what was your impression?”
As she watched the terrible blaze in the alley grow stronger, and devour the chairs and shelves shoved out of the shop through the broken window, Bette said to Hadntz, “I was surprised that such young children were reading, writing, and doing mathematics. But who is Montessori?”
Hadntz said, “An educator. She has given us a stunning revelation of human possibilities. We know very little about our own potential as humans. What you saw the children doing should not seem amazing, because it is very normal. What else could we be doing, if we were not wasting our time with the other nonsense, like wars, that being human seems to require? It appears that the developing child passes through discrete stages, during which she focuses deeply on learning about one facet of the environment, then moves on. Perhaps the whole of humanity is going through a larger stage of learning about our environment, as a whole, as one organism. For thousands of years, we have been learning about conflict. Perhaps we are ready to move to the next stage.”
Tendrils of Eliani Hadntz’s hair, black and curly and wild, surrounded her strong-featured face, half-shadowed by a streetlight. Her eyes, too, were black, and Hadntz’s gaze was commanding, yet calm. Her low tones had an impact that wakened something in Bette, showed her a tantalizing glimpse of a path both radical and revolutionary, one she had never before considered.
They walked through darkened, narrow streets lined with stone and brick buildings, through which roamed many more packs of riotous men, some in suits, some in Nazi uniform. Bette passed one side street, then backed up to get a better look.
A group of men, shouting
“Juden!”
had backed one man against the brick wall of a town house. The beleaguered man raised his fist. One assailant darted from the crowd, grabbed both of his arms, and held him against the wall. Another moved in and battered the victim’s face and abdomen. His groans, and the dull thud of the punches, sounded clearly, along with the jeers that followed each blow.
Bette ran down the alley, the clip of her heels like shots from a pistol. Hadntz followed, shouting, “No!”
Bette edged along the building, working her way in front of the jeering men. She pulled her revolver from her purse, widened her stance, and held it with both hands on his assailant. “Stop!” Bette cocked her revolver, which sounded a deep, threatening metallic snick. “Leave! Now!”
The attacker got in one last punch to the man’s kidney, glared at Bette, turned, and walked away. One of his cohorts spat on the man’s face. Bette kept her gun trained on them until they turned the corner, then slipped it into her coat pocket.
The shop owner’s white shirt shone, slick with blood, as he slumped to the pavement and vomited.
A woman, her face pale, opened the door, glanced at Bette and Hadntz, and helped the man to his feet. “Thank you. I—didn’t know what to do.” Her voice was hoarse. Tears started from her eyes, and she let them flow. Her teeth chattered. Hadntz picked up the man’s ruined jacket from the street and wrapped it around the woman.
The man spat out a tooth. “Do you believe me now?” he asked his wife. He put one hand on his nose.
Hadntz said, “Please. I am a doctor.” She examined his nose, put one arm on the small of his back to steady him, and pushed on his abdomen here and there. “Your nose is not broken. You may have internal injuries, though.”
“Dr. Isaak will come,” said the woman.
“There’s no time for that. You must leave this minute,” said Hadntz. “Before they return. Take only what is absolutely necessary.” She gave him a small card. “Please get in touch with me if you have difficulty. Go to this address, show the woman there this card, and she will shelter you, get him medical care, and help you with the necessary documents.”
“We have visas,” said his wife. “For the whole family.” She sighed. “My grandfather started this store. I didn’t want to leave. It’s not right.” She helped her husband into the stairway. Bette heard her shoot the bolt.
Hadntz said, “You took a great chance.”
“Not really. They were obviously a bunch of cowards. Ten against one. I was sure they would run.”
“And you do look like Hitler’s own avenging Aryan goddess, with your blond hair. That probably confused them.” They moved quickly down the now-dark street, the
click
of their heels mingling with the distant
pop-pop
of random gunfire and the high notes of glass as shards hit the pavement.
A German officer ran from around a corner a hundred feet from them and stopped when he saw them, holding his pistol aloft. “Halt!” he shouted. He lowered his pistol and took aim at them from a hundred feet away. One of the men from the mob Bette had run off stood behind him, pointing and shouting.
Bette drew her pistol from her coat pocket and shot the officer in the leg. He collapsed onto the cobblestones, screaming. The other man disappeared into the alley.
Bette grabbed Hadntz’s arm and pulled her across the street, down another alley, a map springing instantly to mind. A storage shed, full of old junk not worth locking up, was around a corner—this one!—she pushed open the door and dragged Hadntz in behind her; shut the door and waited as they crouched in what might have been a stall. Distant running footsteps of men who may have been looking for them or randomly hunting for new victims. After a few minutes, Bette said, “Let’s go.”
When, after twenty minutes of an angling course they emerged from a network of tiny streets onto a boulevard, Bette said, “I think we’re safe.”
Smoke billowed down the street, and looters dashed from shop to shop in anarchic disarray, boots pounding on bricks, shouting with rough voices and wielding bats, hammers, and crowbars. They moved through the chaos in their theater finery, unmolested, almost as if they were invisible.
“You are a cool one,” said Hadntz.
“Reflex. Training. I haven’t seen anything quite this bad before,” said Bette. “Just a lot of threats and intimidation and firings. Not any direct violence.”
“This is Goering’s test. He’s been planning it for some time. All over Germany and Austria, a few men are to deliberately begin the attacks. As you see, others are not reluctant to join in.”
“It’s a test? Do I understand correctly?”
“To see how the public reacts to the outright, public humiliation of Jews and the destruction and theft of their businesses. Obviously, Goering will be pleased with the results of his test, at least here. Already, of course, Jews have been thrown out of academic positions and jobs in Germany, but many here hoped that Vienna might remain safe.”
“How do you know this about Goering?”
“You need to ask yourself why you did not know why it was going to happen tonight. Your intelligence network is useless.”
A blast of heat and noise met them as they rounded a corner.
Across a square, a synagogue door stood open. The synagogue’s arched roof collapsed, timbers groaning, and the flames licked overhanging trees. The stained-glass windows of the still-standing walls were lit from within; two were broken, and conflagration surged outward, blackening what remained of the building. Outside, a band of children cheered at the collapse and hurled rocks at the remaining windows.
“Do you want to know why people do such things?” asked Hadntz.
“I’m not sure I want to,” said Bette.
“You need to know. Because you, or I, or anyone, could do such things. This way of seeing other groups is what human history is built on. A seemingly endless round of hideous barbarity. I believe it has something to do with brain chemistry.”
“Brain
chemistry
? What do you mean by that?”
“We are simply exquisitely imprintable.”
“Imprintable?” Just then a German soldier approached.
“Papers.” He held out his hand.