TS01 Time Station London (7 page)

To that end, he began at once when a sixth agent entered through the street-level cellar door. “Alfred, Hermann, you are to take a boat down the Thames. The bomb will be waiting for you in it. After dark, Hermann will go over the side and take the magnetic mine to the keep of the frigate
Trafalgar.
Attach it and set the timer. Then swim back to where Alfred will be waiting.”

“At vaht time am I zetting it?” At the best of times, Hermann’s English was heavily accented.

“Ten-thirty. That’s 2230 hours. Make certain it does not go off sooner. Now, Holst, you and Dieter will take care of that warehouse fire. It is to go off at precisely 10:45.

“Manfred, you and Jergen are to plant explosives on the Dover line, to take out the bridge outside Battersea, with the Night Flyer, loaded with military supplies, on it, at exactly eleven o’clock.”

“Vaht is the purpose of such prezise timing?” Dieter asked. His low, jutting brow and deep-set, black eyes gave him the look of an ape.

Clive fought down his flare of irritation. “It is intended to cause a great deal of inconvenience to the Home Guard and the fire brigades. That is why.”

It will also direct attention away from the center of London, Clive thought smugly. In particular that jewelry store on the first floor of a certain building in Piccadilly Circus, with that large collection of diamonds of which he intended to avail himself.

Time: 1025, GMT, June 25, 1940

Place: Office of MI-5, Bayswater Road,

London, England

Although not a Time Warden, Samantha Trillby proved adept in her intelligence tradecraft. Brian brought her down from Coventry on Monday of the last week of June. She remained unaware that the Nazi agents they sought were in fact rogue time travelers, although it did not diminish her enthusiasm for the work.

“The first one is the most important and a bit of a mystery. All I have on him is his
Abwehr
code name, which is
Freiadler,
or Free Eagle. We will have to concentrate on getting a name and description. Never fail to ask any of those our dragnet hauls in about him. Here’s the second.” Brian showed her a grainy black-and-white photograph of a rat-faced, balding man outside a storefront. “His name is David Cowerie.”

“Does he work there?” asked Samantha.

“He owns the place. He’s a pawnbroker.”

“It looks rather seedy.”

“It is. His business with the Germans is his main occupation. Cowerie doesn’t take in more than a dozen legitimate items for pawn in a week. Tony and Hank are watching him now. They’ll call in if anything important happens.” Brian handed her another 8 x 10 glossy. “The third on our list. Brian Gallager. He’s not German, obviously, just an angry Irishman, out for revenge. We’ll find him in Liverpool. No hurry, he’s small fish really. Now comes a tough one. We have a name for him, but no photos. The problem is that he’s so well fixed, we don’t dare put a hand on him at present.”

Samantha looked at him sharply. “Oh?”

“Oh, yes. Friend of prime ministers, invited to Buckingham Palace, a real charmer. He’s also selling information to the Nazis in wholesale quantity. His name is Clive Beattie.”

Tony Bellknap and Hank Simmons slouched low on the front bench seat of the Humber panel wagon, bored, though attentive. A light mist shrouded buildings along the Soho street. They had consumed all the tea in the thermos jug with the resultant strain on their bladders. Tony touched a match to his tenth Players and sucked smoke into his lungs.

“I’d give a fortune for a trip to the loo,” Tony sighed out through a cloud of smoke.

“What’s the matter? Tiny bladder problems?” Hank quipped.

“Get stuffed.”

“My croaker says cigarettes aren’t good for you,” Hank observed. He eyed the dapper, patrician young man beside him. Looked the right proper bloody lord, he thought, though not with rancor. Dressed the part, too. Oh, well, it got them in lots of places they would otherwise not.

“Does he?” Tony responded as usual to the frequent remark by his partner in MI-5. “And does he smoke?”

Hank frowned, recalling. “As a matter of fact, yes, he does. Like a bloody factory stack.”

“There you are then. If it was really that bad, would he be doing it?” Tony stiffened then, raised the brim of his slouch hat. “Uh-oh, don’t we know that chap?”

Across the street and down half a block, a slightly built man who looked to be in his mid-thirties, with a dark smear of beard stubble and wearing a leather trench coat, paused outside the pawnshop. He furtively glanced both directions along the street, then entered.

“Yes, indeed,” Hank gloated. “It’s the one we’ve been calling Hans. Wonder what he’s up to?”

“He’s here to pick up some information, I’m sure.”

Hank opened a notebook. “I’ll log his arrival and departure.” He touched a pencil lead to thick lips to wet it and lowered long, blond lashes over his cobalt eyes.

Tony stared intently at the pawnshop. “I’d give anything to be inside there, hear what they are saying.”

Hank looked up from his pad. “Fly on the wall, eh? Not by half, chum. We haven’t even radios for our cars, let alone equipment to listen in on these traitorous scum.”

Tony caught at his partner’s coat sleeve. “He’s out already. Going down toward the tube station. Wasn’t in there five minutes.”

“How long does it take to pass over a piece of paper or two, Tony? It’s not like this pawnshop’s doing fabulous business, now is it?”

“You’ve a point, Hank. We’ve one fish in the net. Good thing we know where Hans lives.”

“That indeed. If we can’t land him here the next time, we can scoop him out of his digs. I wonder how that Chelsea Square flat compares to wherever he came from in Germany.”

Tony pursed his full lips. “A lot better, I’d say. Most of these
Abwehr
types are the dregs of the Munich beer halls.”

Hank laughed, a short, sharp sound. “The sewers, more likely, And a good thing. They’re not motivated enough to use those cyanide capsules old Canaris issues them. We’ve learned quite a bit out of them.” “A good thing, too. Let us hope this is a busy day for Mr. Cowerie.”

By closing time, Tony Bellknap had his wishes fulfilled. Two more known Nazi agents entered the pawnshop during the day. One shortly before noon, the other only five minutes ago. He had not as yet come out. Bellknap glanced uncertainly at Simmons.

“What do you think, Hank?”

“We had ought to report in. I’ll get out and keep watch for Ludwig; you go find a call box and ring up the colonel.”

“Sounds reasonable.” Tony started the engine.

Hank opened his door and stepped onto the sidewalk. The rain had ceased and blue sky vaulted over Soho, while buildings cast dark shadows toward the east. Tony rolled away down the street. and Hank settled in a doorway. At the far end of the block, the proprietor of the news kiosk was shuttering his establishment.

Five minutes later, the Nazi agent MI-5 had nicknamed Ludwig stepped out on the walk and turned toward Hank. What should he do? Follow Ludwig or wait for Tony to return?

Brian Moore received the call at 5:25. He listened to what Tony had to say, then spoke crisply. “Might as well scoop up Cowerie now. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” When he rang off, he turned to Samantha. “That was Tony. Three German agents visited David Cowerie today. One is believed to still be there. Want to come along?”

“You’d have to fight me to keep me away. I’ll be going back to Coventry next week, to seek the ones on your list. I want to know how to handle it properly.”

“Good on you, Sam.”

They left the Home Office building five minutes later. With Wigglesby driving, the Austin weaved its way through the evening crush of buses, cars and pedestrians. Wigglesby delivered them in Soho only a minute off Brian’s estimate. Hank climbed from the panel wagon.

“Ludwig flew the coop, Colonel. Cowerie is in there alone.”

Brian stepped out of the rear seat of the Austin. “Why don’t we join him?”

Samantha trailed only a short distance behind as the three male MI-5 agents crossed the street diagonally and paused only a moment outside the door to the pawnshop. Brian reached into his suit coat and produced his .45 Webley revolver. Hank and Tony drew their Belgium 9mm Browning autoloaders. Brian gave a curt nod.

It appeared to Samantha that Brian took a deep breath before he swung the door inward and the trio crowded inside. She closed the distance to the portal before it shut in her face. In her hand she competently held a Walther PPK in 9mm
kurtz.
From inside, she heard a whiny voice raised in complaint.

“I’m sorry. We’re closed for the day. Say, what are you doing with those? Is this a robbery?”

Brian Moore’s voice crackled with intensity. “David Cowerie, you are being charged with espionage. Come with us, please. Men will be sent to search the premises.”

“You can’t do that,” bleated Cowerie. “I’m a British subject, I have my rights. You police cannot arrest me without a warrant, nor search my place.”

Brian stilled him with a glare. “We’re not from the police. We’re with Home Office.”

“OhmyGod. You c-can’t do this.”

“We’ll take him out the back. Sam, keep watch here until some fellows show up to toss this place.”

She had to smile. He knew she had not stayed outside but had entered. “Right, Colonel.” Dreary place, she thought as she looked around.

Led by Brian, Tony and Hank hustled Cowerie out a rear door. Wigglesby had anticipated them and was waiting with the Austin sedan. Brian entered the rear. Tony shoved Cowerie ahead of him and took the other door seat. Hank got in up front.

Wigglesby looked over his shoulder to Brian. “Where to?”

“High Street Jail, I think,” Brian instructed.

Time: 1810, GMT, June 25, 1940

Place: High Street Jail, Thameside,

London, England

An eighteen-foot curtain wall surrounded a three-story keep on a low knoll overlooking the Thames, near the Tower of London. Early evening fog drifted lazily off the oily surface of the river, mantling the light posts along the railing of Tower Bridge. Sgt. Wigglesby pulled the Austin up to a high, iron gate and sounded the horn only once. A gatekeeper appeared and opened a smaller hinged section of the barrier and waved them in.

David Cowerie had recovered himself enough to try bluster. “Where is this place? What is it? Where are you taking me?”

“That is no concern of yours,” Brian Moore told him coldly. “Suffice that you are in our charge now.”

“This is not under jurisdiction of Scotland Yard or the Home Office. Not even the Foreign Office uses dungeons like this,” Cowerie bleated, his stormy mood deflated.

“Get out, Cowerie. Or I’ll have Tony here drag you out.” Brian exited and stalked off toward the heavy oak door to the keep.

Wouldn’t Dr. Ogilve like this place, he mused. The subterranean jail below the keep had once been a dungeon used to interrogate members of the nobility suspected of being disloyal to the monarch. And it had been so from the time of the Lancaster kings through those of the House of Tudor. “Bloody Mary” had kept Lady Jane Grey here for a while, and Elizabeth I had imprisoned Sir Francis Drake here until he accepted her usurious share demands on the booty and prize money he obtained from the sale of captured Spanish ships. Then, to show her gratitude and generosity, she had him moved to the Tower. Nice lady. He turned back to the others.

“Bring him on down. We have a lot of questions to ask him.” Once we get what MI-5 wants out of him, Tony and Hank can be dismissed, Brian figured. Then he can be made to give up his Home Culture and sent back.

Time: 2200, GMT, June 25, 1940

Place: Spencer’s, Trafalgar Square,

London, England

Brian Moore took Samantha Trillby to Spencer’s for a celebration dinner. A string quartet played discreetly in an ornate alcove, filling the famous restaurant with mellow tones. Muted conversation made surf sounds among the elegant and ennobled who numbered among the clientele. Among them was Sir Rupert Cordise. Brian recognized the corrupt peer immediately and switched chairs so his back was to Cordise. To cover his action, he took Samantha’s hand and caressed it.

Her eyebrows arched at that. “I hadn’t expected public romance with dinner,” she teased.

“There’s someone over there by whom I don’t want to be seen. I doubt that he would recognize me, but it’s not worth the risk.”

Samantha probed. “An old enemy? A rival for some young woman’s affections, perhaps?”

Brian shook his head and bent to kiss Samantha’s hand. “Nothing of that sort. Sometime I’ll let you see his file. It is quite enlightening.”

“Who is that?” Samantha persisted.

“Sir Rupert Cordise.”

“You mean we have a file on him?”

“That we do.”

Samantha looked levelly at Brian. “Wasn’t he an MP?”

“Yes, he was in Parliament until a nasty accident two years ago.”

Sudden suspicion clouded Samantha’s words. “Were you involved in any of that?”

“I… don’t think so. I wasn’t even working for the Home Office when that happened. Not until a month or so later.”

Samantha shaped an “O” with her lovely lips. “You’ve certainly risen quickly in the Service.”

Brian tried to look modest. “Sir Hugh says I have a knack at sniffing out Nazis. Remember what I told you the first day, ‘Performance counts.’ That’s quite true, you know. I got lucky; the powers above credited it to phenomenal ability and—
voilà tout!”

Extracting her hand from his grasp, Samantha clapped them together. “You speak French,” she said delightedly.

“No. Not well. German and Spanish, but I’m shaky on French.”

Trying to be helpful, Samantha suggested, “You could go to the Military Language School.”

“What? And be assigned to the commandos and get dumped in France with all those Germans?”

“Bri—an, that’s not like you. You’re not a coward. I know that. And you are good at what you do. You can make light of it if you wish, but I think it’s wonderful when someone speaks another language. Especially a man.”

That proved an unconscious revelation to Brian. “How is that? Is a man supposed to lack the intellectual capacity? Are we all caveman brutes?”

Samantha wrinkled her nose. “It’s not that, Brian. Really, I mean that. It’s just that, as a woman, I see men much as other women do. You are all supposed to be involved in business, or a military career, or science. You know the typical image of the British gentleman.” She closed her eyes and quoted. “They are always saying, ‘If I speak slowly and loudly enough, the blighters will have to understand. The nerve of these native louts, too lazy to learn the King’s English.’ One doesn’t expect to see an Englishman speaking foreign languages.” She stopped to silence a giggle with her napkin.