TS01 Time Station London (6 page)

Yeah,
Brian reminded himself,
primed by several centuries of hindsight.
“Only time will tell,” Brian dismissed. “Let’s finish for now and leave.”

“Good. We can hit the Pig and Whistle.”

Brian had a pint of Watney’s, Samantha a glass of muscatel. The pub was unusually crowded today, the conversation swirling around the dual air raids. Both of the MI-5 agents kept their agreement to hold off talking about it until after dinner, A jolly, red-faced man, the butcher from down the block, tried to get Brian into a game of darts. Wanted to put a half crown per point on it.

Smiling, Brian reached into his inside coat pocket and withdrew a slim velvet case. He opened it to reveal a set of three superbly machined, perfectly weighted, titanium darts. Although an anachronism, Brian had no worry that they would create a Paradox. “Made out of aircraft metal,” was his simple explanation whenever anyone inquired about them.

“Sounds fine to me, old boy,” he cheerily informed the butcher. “Only let’s make it five shillings.”

Gordon, the meat market mogul, had already started to back away, hands before him. “Sorry. I just saw my wife signaling me through the window. Must have a late, emergency customer. Some other time, eh?”

“What’s that all about?” Samantha inquired.

“He somehow got the impression I’m a hustler. It’s not every Johnny pub crawler who has his own custom-made darts.”

Samantha’s eyes settled on the nestled, shining projectiles. “What
are
those?”

“Some special connecting rod material from the Sopwith that invalided me out of the RAF. A friend, one of the machinists on the base, made them for me while I was in hospital.”

Samantha reached for one. “Do you mind?”

“No. Go ahead.”

She hefted one for a moment. “Remarkable balance. Makes it feel almost featherlight.”

“You throw darts?”

“Yes, Brian. Since I was a little girl. My father taught me.”

“We’ll have to play sometime. Why don’t we down these and get out of here. It’s too crowded for my liking.”

“Me, too.”

Oliphant’s, in the Hotel Splendide, turned out to be everything Samantha had promised. Samantha and Brian ate like royalty. Each course came with the appropriate wine. The processed vegetable protein that most persons ate in the distant future could not hold a drop of wax, let alone the whole candle, to it. The roast beef and Yorkshire pudding were delicious, yet Brian would have still preferred roast bison hump.

Shortly after being seated, Brian made note of a young man in mufti at a table across from them. He was so obviously in the military, and likewise madly in love with the attractive young woman with him. His conversation was animated, punctuated by the sweeping hand gestures of the inveterate pilot. The girl seemed to hang on every word.
Young love,
Brian thought from the advantage of a good five years.

“Is it someone you know, Brian?” Samantha asked.

“What?”

Samantha’s smile softened her criticism. “You’ve been staring at that young couple over there with such intensity, I only wondered if you knew one or both of them.”

“No. I’ve never seen either before. But they are so obviously in love. Reminds me of two other people I do know.”

“Oh?”

“You and me,” Brian teased.

Samantha made a long face. “Well, now, it’s true you are dear to me, and I think you feel the same toward me. But ... love? Do you think we can actually call it love?”

Aware of the droll quality of Samantha’s humor, Brian played along. “Perhaps you’re right. What say we go somewhere and test it?”

Samantha gave him a sweet, teasing smile. “Perhaps.”

Across the room, Sgt. Wendall Foxworth nodded toward the table occupied by Brian and Samantha and spoke to Sandy Hammond. “That older couple over there,” he prompted. “They’re very much in love, aren’t they?”

Sandy studied the woman indifferently, estimating her to be about three years older than herself, perhaps twenty-eight or so. Then she examined the man. “I’d say you’re right. Only he’s not aware of how much she is in love.”

“Why do you say that?” Foxworth demanded.

Sandy produced a wicked grin. “Because he doesn’t lean across the table like he wanted to eat her with a spoon.”

Wendall flushed slightly in spite of himself. “Naughty girl. When you talk like that, you make my blood boil.”

“Then maybe we should go somewhere and do something about it?” Sandy hinted strongly.

After a dessert plate of Camembert and Stilton cheeses and a rich port, Samantha suggested a walk through “Old” Coventry. Obligingly, Brian took her arm and they walked off into the night. She pointed out buildings that had contained the same type of shop when Shakespeare and Roger Bacon had trod the smooth cobbles of the street. Abruptly, she brought up the subject they had so far tactfully avoided.

“The raids are getting worse. Every day, the Germans come,” Samantha spoke the obvious. “They’re getting closer. Thank God Coventry is a university town. Nothing here to bomb.” She sighed heavily.

“I can have you transferred,” Brian suggested.

“Oh, no. This is my home. My parents are buried in the churchyard.”

Brian clutched her upper arm. “Sam—Samantha, if you are worried, I’m worried. But perhaps you are right. Without a strategic target, the Germans will never bomb here.” Because he knew better, his reassuring smile looked weak.

Samantha’s random course through town brought them to her apartment. Without words she led the way, an eager Brian in her wake. She entered and put on a teakettle. They kissed in the kitchen.

It began mild and friendly, grew to firm and hungry, When their embrace ended Brian kissed Samantha on the tip of her nose, her cheeks, neck, and the cleft of her bosom. Samantha writhed against him as he reached back to turn off the gas ring under the kettle.

“Oh, yes, Bri, yes. Let’s … go to my room.”

After coffee early the next morning, Brian left for London. He felt remarkably refreshed.

Time: 1133, CET, June 20, 1940

Place: Hauptquartier des Abwehr,

Unter dem Linden Strasse,

Berlin, Germany

Sunlight filtered through silver-green leaves on Linden Street. In the third floor, Berlin headquarters of the
Abwehr,
German Intelligence, its director, Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, sat in the high-backed leather swivel chair at his desk. Through his round, steel, wire-rimmed spectacles, perched on the end of his aquiline nose, he read from a top secret report that had arrived only moments before.

It had come, by way of clandestine radio transmitter, from an exceptionally well-placed German asset in England. Admiral Canaris frowned as the meaning of the content became clear to him. Most fortuitous that this came into our hands, he mused. The admiral reached out and turned the bell crank on the ultramodern intercom. The earpiece buzzed at him when his summons was answered.

“Rudolf, come in here, please,” Canaris spoke sharply, his aristocratic features grave.

His deputy arrived a moment later from his office across the hall. Tall, spare, and scarecrow-lean, Colonel-General Rudolf Drucker paused in the doorway, his uniform crisp and razor-creased as usual. He parted his black hair in the middle and combed it back on the sides.
“Jawohl, Herr Admiral?”

Canaris waved to a chair. “Come, sit down, and leave the formality at the door, eh, Rudi?”

“As you wish, Wilhelm.”

“I have only now received a very important communiqué from
Freiadler.
It foretells of grave consequences for the
Kriegsmarine.”

“And what is that, Wilhelm?” Colonel-General Rudolf Drucker asked.

“The English Parliament and the War Office are working on new plans to intercept our submarines in the open and clean them out of the North Sea. Admiral Raeder will be interested in that, I’m sure.
Freiadler
will, of course, try to get a copy of the completed plans, and any subsequent operations orders.”

Drucker looked surprised. “He can do all of that?”

Canaris projected confidence. “Certainly, Rudi. He is placed in an ideal position to accommodate us. See that a copy is made of this and sent to Raeder at once.” He handed over the message form.

Rudolf Drucker remained a few minutes, during which the two intelligence experts discussed the current situation inside and outside the Reich. Poland was going well, and the Russians had not raised a single objection. Holland and the other Low Countries still had some sporadic resistance units active. Shipment had already begun there for “undesirables.” In particular Canaris emphasized the need for the Gestapo to be tasked with breaking up the resistance cells that were springing up in France.

“They call themselves the
Maquis.
Since the capitulation, they are becoming an embarrassment to the Fuhrer. Actually, so far we have lost only a few soldiers. And these French fanatics have blown a couple of trains off the track. It would be best if this were nipped in the bud, so to speak.”

“What about Pétain?”

Admiral Canaris drew his thin lips into a moue of contempt. “The President of the Vichy government is as much a figurehead as anyone in the Vichy government. No, my dear Rudi, it is we Germans who must bear the burden of rooting out these misguided patriots. Draw up orders for my signature to our operatives in France to the effect they are to cooperate with the Gestapo. And do see that Raeder’s headquarters receives that before noon, Rudi.”

After the departure of Colonel-General Drucker, Admiral Canaris made a note to see that funds would be placed in the Swiss bank account of
Freiadler,
that superlative, noble Briton, Sir Rupert Cordise.

Time: 1640, GMT, June 20, 1940

Place: Office of Sir Hugh Montfort, MI-5 Building,

London, England

Brian Moore swallowed down the Earl Gray tea in the fragile bone china cup given him by Sir Hugh Montfort. He sat facing his superior across a wide expanse of age-darkened oak desk, in a corner office of MI-5. Patiently he endured this obligatory ritual of British society, wishing for a good cup of coffee. At last Montfort got to the purpose of the summons to his lair.

“We have bloody hell breaking loose around us, Colonel Moore. German agents keep cropping up all over the place. So, as the most proficient rat catcher, I’m putting you in charge of sniffing out the Huns and bringing an end to their dirty tricks.”

Brian hid the elation he felt. He would have given himself this task, in order to gain access to the rogue travelers who dealt with the Nazis. “That’s ... a big assignment. I hope I shall not give cause for you to lose trust, sir.”

Sir Hugh smiled warmly. He actually liked this young man. “Oh, I daresay I shan’t. I’m afraid there aren’t many active files on these bleeders. You’ll have to do those yourself. Pick as many of our people as you need. Up to five, that is.”

Brian repressed a smile. What with the capitulation of France, and Hitler’s boasts of invading England, there never seemed to be enough manpower to go around. Up at Sandhurst, in a special area, MI-5 turned out counterintelligence agents by the dozens. Yet training took time, weeks in fact. Those shortages reflected in the availability of men and women for permanent assignment. Brian felt flattered to be offered five.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll make do.”

“I’m sure you will. Ah—this Miss Trillby, Lieutenant Trillby? How’s she working out?”

For a moment Brian wondered if everyone in MI-5 knew he and Samantha were sleeping together. Then he realized that Sir Hugh must be referring to her professional ability.

“Fine, sir. She has expressed the opinion that she is merely spinning wheels in monitoring for unauthorized radio transmissions. Though what actually annoys her is doing background checks on military and government personnel with Germanic surnames. She says that most of their families came over here back in the time of Ger—er—George Third.”

Brian bit his lip. He had almost let slip
German Georgie,
an anachronistic, purely American sobriquet for the most despised of English kings. They still taught that bit of historical trivia when a thoroughly confused half-breed Brulé Sioux boy named Steven Whitefeather had been suddenly transported more than a thousand years beyond the time Sam Adams had coined it for one of his broadsides against the Tyrant King. He recalled his bewilderment in that Temporal Warden novice school, as he sat in the eighth grade classroom, wearing the uniform of white shirt and short pants. It brought a red tinge to his coppery complexion. Montfort appeared not to have noticed the slip.

“Nothing to worry about. All new agents enter the Service fired up and ready to take on whatever enemy is out there. I’ve read your summaries, but I’ve not had opportunity to see one of her reports, get the flavor of how she thinks and draws conclusions. D’you think she would work well with you on this new task?”

Even better than he had hoped for. “Yes, I do. Might get her out of her doldrums, too.”

“Fine, then,” Sir Hugh said by way of dismissal. “Cut orders to that effect.”

Time: 1800 GMT, June 20, 1940

Place: Time Station London,

Thameside, London, England

Vito Alberdi looked up when Brian Moore entered the Time Station. “We have a line on one of the rogues, Brian.”

Brian nodded. “That’s good. I need to access the communications terminal.”

“Something come up?”

“You might say so. I’ve been assigned to tracking down new German agents involved in espionage. And we know they are dealing with the rogues. This makes our job easier. We can go after the ones we want without raising questions about who disappears.”

“Makes a neat package,” agreed Vito.

Brian sat at the terminal and logged on with his personal identity code: 8668MRE. The monitor screen blanked and came back with the Temporal Warden Corps logo. Quickly Brian keyboarded his route address for Arkady Gallubin. Again the screen blanked and came on in MSGFRM mode. Brian keyed in his information about his change of assignment with MI-5. When he cleared the monitor, he made ready to leave.

Vito stopped him on the way to the stairs. “Oh, by the way, do any of you James Bond types have a line on a German agent named
Freiadler?”

“No, why?”

“You do now. This came through during the night.”

Vito handed Brian two sheets of paper. Brian read the brief bit of information. It detailed transfers of large sums of money from the Deutsches Landwehr Bank of Berlin to the Swiss Bank of Bern. It also referred to a
Freiadler
file in
Abwehr
headquarters. “Any idea who he is?”

“None. Or even if it is a
he.
But if he’s for real, from what they say there, he could make some mighty big ripples in the Timeline.”

“I’m ahead of you on that. Looks like our Free Eagle goes to the top of the list.”

Time: 1830, GMT, June 22, 1940

Place: Rooming House of Sandy Hammond,

Gloucester Street, Coventry,

Warwickshire, England

Sandy Hammond sat on the floor at the feet of Wendall Foxworth in her small flat. She rested the dark brown pile of curls that covered her head against his leg. They had brought home tinned meat pies and heated them in the gas oven in her kitchen. Nothing like homemade, Sandy acknowledged, but hot and filling. Her thoughts drifted to a different place; a different time…

She was thirteen and gawky. Her name was not Sandy Hammond then. And she was not English. She knew the boot of the oppressor, though, when it trod on the backs of her people. Most of them came from an island nation, called the Commonwealth of Great Britain. She hated and feared them with an intensity hard to imagine in one so young. Most of all on this particular day.

She had been forced to stand, along with her parents, in the dooryard of the family cottage to witness the punishment of her older brother. Oh, how she loved and adored Garak. He was strong and handsome, and had a devilish sense of humor. None of it showed now as the occupation troops lashed his arm to the toprail of the picket fence.

Garak made not a sound as the cords bit into his wrists. His eyes glared defiance. Only a white tightness around his lips revealed his true feelings. Bowed horizontally at the waist, head up at an uncomfortable angle, the girl who became Sandy Hammond looked on in horror as the leader stripped the shirt from the back of her brother. Then a burly sergeant stepped forward and raised the lash.

“Twenty of your best, if you please, Sergeant Major,” the foppish officer commanded.

Later, after the oppressors had departed, stripped of his flesh, bleeding, and in shock, Garak died. When he did, there was born in the eventual Sandy Hammond a fierce resolve to somehow even the score…

… And she had found that way. Brushing off her vision, she looked up at her man, smiling even with her hazel eyes, as he reached down and began to play with her hair.

“This is cozy,” she murmured.

His light blue eyes fixed her. “Yes, it is. Though my taster is hinting at a need for a pint or two. What say we take in the Blind Goose?”

Sandy turned slightly to face him. “Do you, really? I thought we’d stay in and ... do other things.”

Wendall’s eyes glowed. For all his trying, she had never let it get this far before. “Such as?”

“Ummmm. Fun things, like we’ve been doing, don’t you know? And ... maybe a bit more?”

Wendall felt his throat tighten. Could it be tonight? He’d only just touched her so far. Stroked one precious melon of a breast, a hand on her thigh. He cleared his throat, though to no avail. His voice came out a squeak anyway. Sandy came to her feet with him.

“I’ll get us a bottle of beer to split.”

“Good. Bring it to the bedroom.”

Time: 2110, GMT, June 22, 1940

Place: A Row House in Soho District,

London, England

Clive Beattie passed his cool, blue gaze over each of the five men seated with him around a table in the basement of a Soho row house. His sandy-brown hair stood nearly upright above a wide forehead and pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. He carefully kept his expression neutral, masking the contempt he felt for these minor Nazi agents he operated for his control, Major Karl Webber.

Three of them were convicts. Dull of wit and long on brute force, they had been released from prison by the Gestapo. One, Dieter Ganger, an arsonist, had to be constantly watched. Clive had detailed Reiner Holst to that duty. Holst was the most intelligent of the quintet. Twice he had reported that he had been compelled to physically restrain Ganger to keep him from setting fire to unessential targets. One of them had been a school.

None of them had any idea about the history of Clive Beattie. Born Gunther Bewerber, in 2575, to parents of German descent, he was an avid reader, of history in particular. He had become a fanatic admirer of Adolf Hitler. In his real persona, Clive/Gunther was the recruiting poster image of the ideal Aryan superman, with clear blue eyes, nearly white blond hair, and fair complexion. At six two, he made the perfect SS type. He also became a rogue time traveler at the age of thirty-one. He made it his goal to “correct” the events of which he did not approve, in order to have a future in which the Germans won World War II.