TS01 Time Station London (8 page)

“You’re teasing me.”

“Yes, and I love it, Brian. You look so… so stricken.” This time the titter escaped.

They ate in silent appreciation of the excellent meal. The wine was superb and, after dessert, they enjoyed coffee. Brian called for the check and they departed. Samantha would be leaving at the end of the week. In spite of that, Brian found himself reluctant to rush her off to his apartment. He took her on a stroll through Hyde Park instead. A sidewalk orator had attracted a smattering of crowd and began to wax eloquent as Brian and Samantha approached.

“Hitler’s a monster, yes,” he bellowed. “He is also not truly a Socialist. Real Socialism as defined by the Communist Party International, and the leadership of our friends in the Soviet Union, is the natural champion of the working class. Not until you English drag down and exterminate the decadent aristocrats who oppress you, will you throw off your chains and join the liberated workers of the world.”

“Shut your pinko mouth!” a burly, broad-shouldered, muscle-bulging ironmonger shouted at him. “I own me own business an’ am proud of it. I couldn’t do that in any country run by you communist-socialist scum.”

“That’s tellin’ him, Alf!” another spectator encouraged him.

“I love the King, too, God bless ’im. You talk about our draggin’ him down an’ killin’ ’im. I oughta come up there and knock yer block off.”

“Do it, Alf. Do for him right now!” a man near the front urged.

“Running dog of the capitalist vermin. You are a part of what’s wrong with England today.”

“Get stuffed,” Alf snarled. “Or I’ll up an’ do it for you. Look at yer. Yer a sorry piece of work.”

“Good on yer, Alf.”

Samantha looked up appealingly to Brian. “Oh, dear, haven’t we, as a people, something better to get excited about?”

Brian thought over the hundreds of years of history that spanned the gulf between himself and this perceptive, sensitive young woman and sighed. “Sometimes I wonder.”

Time: 1800, EST, June 30, 1940

Place: Jagdfliegerführer II, Beauvais,

Occupied France

At long, long last. Colonel Werner Ruperle climbed eagerly aboard the Ju-52 transport. An improved model of the old Fokker Tri-Motor, the powerful three-engined aircraft had become the workhorse of the modem
Wehrmacht,
providing cargo transportation and a platform for paratroopers. He fitted his frame into one of the webbing seats and leaned back against the sparse padding affixed to a metal strip that ran the length of both uninsulated outer walls. Sighing, he stretched his legs full length across the duckboard deck. Only he and three couriers would be aboard.

After a week and a half delay, his leave papers had come through.
Damn well about time,
he thought again angrily. A short hop to München, the train home, and he would be in the arms of his family before nightfall. His only regret seemed insignificant. to that prospect.

He felt badly about leaving the squadron in the hands of Captain Ludwig von Gruder, replacement for Captain Ferdy Kleiber, who had been promoted and given a squadron to acquire command experience. Musing, Ruperle noted that Ferdy saw it as a demotion. Metal clanged as the passengers climbed in the wide side door. A moment later, the starter cartridge ignited with a bang and the fuselage-mounted center engine coughed to life, the throttle came out, and the three-bladed propeller spun lazily.

His heartbeat increased. To him he was headed the correct way. In their last raid, his aircraft had taken several terrible tears in the fuselage. A fragment of shrapnel from one of them had slashed the throat of his waist gunner. The poor boy had died before the squadron reached the coast of England. For an irrational moment, fury had bridled Col Ruperle. It drove out reason and caused him to wish fervently he could release his load of bombs over the nearest English city.

Immediately ashamed of himself, he had said a prayer for young Reisheimer, a Catholic boy from near-to-home Prier, on the opposite side of the Ammersee. Then he had so perfectly led his squadron to the target, his fifth beyond leave eligibility, that not a bomb fell off the factory complex. On the way back to France, he allowed himself a brief time to grieve for Reisheimer.

It all came flooding back now as the engines began to throb and the Ju-52 rolled onto the taxi strip. He had written Reisheimer’s parents. Perhaps a personal call would be in order. After all, the boy had been on
his
aircraft. Yes, that is what he would do. It would make them feel better, he knew, even if it would not erase the tiny, cold spot of misery in his own heart.

Time: 1321, GMT, July 5, 1940

Place: Coventry, Warwickshire, England

Back in Coventry Samantha set up surveillance on a man suspected of operating a directional beacon for the Luftwaffe. For two days she tagged along through the streets of the city from his home to the shop where he worked as an accounting clerk. She even ate her noon meal from the same greasy fish and chips stand. On the third day, his routine changed unexpectedly.

At noon, he left the shop, as usual, then bypassed the wheeled barrow of the fish vendor and went directly to his house. There, a short while after he entered, a dim light appeared in the small window of the attic. Samantha made note of the time and kept watch from half a block away.

When the half hour of his usual lunch break passed without his leaving the house, let alone returning to work, Samantha felt a thrust of interest. Another ten minutes went by. Then she heard the all too familiar, distant drone of aircraft engines. The Germans were coming. And Samantha did not need a radio or radar to know that they would bomb the rail yard at Birmingham again.

Nazi squadrons passed by close enough to Coventry that Samantha could make out the shape of the individual aircraft and name them. Once they had gone by, the sudden appearance of her subject on his doorstep caught her by surprise. He left, walking briskly, and she set out to follow.

Samantha tailed him to a narrow alley, between tall, brick buildings. That stopped her momentarily. She knew she dare not enter directly behind him. It went against all her training. Gnawing on her lower lip, she forced herself to walk past the alley. When she reached the mouth of the dark passage, she gave a quick glance down its length.

Her man had completely disappeared. Quickly she turned into the opening and advanced along the alley. Walking on tiptoe to avoid the loud ring of her low, sensible heels, she neared the midway point. Suddenly a hand and arm flashed out of a dark, recessed entryway and yanked Samantha off her feet and into an unlighted room. She hadn’t even time to cry out before a chloroformed gauze pad clamped tightly across her nose and mouth.

Time: 1520, GMT, July 5, 1940

Place: High Street Jail, Thameside,

London, England

Brian Moore returned to the High Street Jail. He had been sweating David Cowerie for three days past a week. So far the results had been far from productive. Any ordinary man caught in the act of what could be called treason might be broken down easily. Not so this traitor from the future. One by one, his other interrogators had dropped out, convinced that nothing would be gained, short of a little old-fashioned torture. Brian entered Cowerie’s cell alone, certain that today he had the leverage that would break the man.

He began without preamble. “Tell me, how much did you expect to make for this?” Brian produced a glassine envelope that held a three-gram piece of germanium. “And when?”

Although obviously shaken, Cowerie tried to bluff his way past the surprising disclosure. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“There aren’t any computer chips in 1940, Cowerie. You’ll have to wait a good forty more years to peddle it in the here and now.” Cowerie blanched an even sicklier white and his rat face grew more drawn and narrow. “I’ve been told it’s worth a quarter million an ounce in our Home Culture. I imagine you’re looking for a similar payoff?”

Cowerie swallowed hard and his mouth worked a moment before he could force words past his protruding, buck teeth. “Y-you’re not from
now?”
It came out more an accusation than a question.

Brian shook his head. “No more than you are. I’m with the Temporal Warden Corps. You have been a bad boy, Cowerie.” Brian raised one closed fist and ticked off Cowerie’s crimes with his fingers. “Use of unauthorized, bootleg Beamer; buying up artifacts that will be priceless in your Home Culture; operating a navigational beacon for the Germans; and, worst of all, trading secrets for germanium with the Nazis.” He made to add more when the slam of iron bars behind him interrupted.

A ranker entered with cool efficiency. “There’s an urgent call for you from Coventry, Colonel.”

“Thank you, I’ll come at once.”

Out in the office, which had once been the squad room for the Beefeaters, Brian lifted the handset from where it lay on a much-stained blotter. “Moore here,” he announced.

“Colonel Moore. This is Agnes Whitney, at the Coventry office. Miss Trillby has failed to make her routine check-in call.”

“For how long?”

The disembodied voice gave him the bad news. “For the last two. It’s been an hour since the second was missed.”

“What was she on to for today?” Brian asked tightly, aware of the danger that lurked out there for anyone in their trade.

“Same as the past four days; surveying these blokes suspected of spying.”

Brian thought for only a moment. “I’ll leave at once.”

Time: 1535, GMT, July 5, 1940

Place: Le Paradis Restaurant, Covent Garden,

London, England

Sir Rupert Cordise entertained guests at a luncheon in a small, semiprivate restaurant off Covent Garden. Most of those attending could usually be found this time of year taking the baths at Brighton. But with the U-boat scare, they had remained in the city. One figure stood out as an odd choice for inclusion—Neville Chamberlain, with whom Sir Rupert was conversing when the maitre d’ approached with a small square of paper on a silver salver.

“… so you see, Neville, it wasn’t German agents like the sensationalist journalists claimed. I have no idea who the hit-and-run driver was, and the police have been of not the least assistance. I remained in seclusion last year after my release from hospital and am only now getting out and around again. Truth is, I might even stand for Parliament again…”

“Pardon me, Sir Rupert,” the head waiter purred. He offered the notepaper.

Sir Rupert took it and read, then turned to the former Prime Minister. “Excuse me, Neville, it seems there is someone who rang me up on the telephone that I simply must speak with.”

He strode away, back erect for all the discomfort it caused him. Across the room, Clive Beattie watched with interest as their host departed for the hallway. No one who knew him would have recognized him. He had a thick, leonine shock of snowy white hair, deeply receding into a dramatic widow’s peak; the dark skin of an East Indian; and eyes made indistinct and watery by black, round spectacles.
What could that be about?
he wondered. Something important to take the old rogue away from his flattering bevy of young women, surely. Beattie made note to find out if he could.

In the hall, Sir Rupert lifted the handset of the French style telephone from a small, round, Queen Anne table and dialed a number. When the party answered, he spoke crisply, albeit in a low voice. “Cordise here.” Words crackled in his ear.

“Tell me all you can about this woman.” He listened briefly, then ordered, “Find out everything you can from her. Who has been compromised, how much is known by MI-5, if my name has come up. Then dispose of her promptly.”

Time: 1610, GMT, July 5, 1940

Place: M-43 Highway, London to Coventry

On the road to Coventry, Sergeant Wigglesby had the poor timing of being in a chatty mood. The topic of his monologue was his eldest child, a boy of thirteen. Distracted by his thoughts about Samantha, Brian paid his driver scant attention.

“Little Ralphie’s up for his Confirmation come Sunday next. It’s at St. Mary’s of Bow Bells, which is good since it will also confirm him as a Pearlyman, sir. The missus has got him a right proper suit, white it is, and shoes to match. Thing is, the little blighter has up and taken himself off to his uncle Tom on our family’s cockle barge.”

“Is that so?” Brian muttered distractedly.

“Sure as I’m drivin’ this car, sir. What makes it hard, sir, is that they’ll be dredging cockles off Sprit Head for a good two weeks. Tom’s got him an icehouse hold aboard and can keep his harvest until it amounts to a great many guineas, instead of a paltry few coppers.

“But it means the boy’ll miss his Confirmation class, what’s put the missus out a goodly bit. Tom’s wife and our mother cook up the sea snails and me missus sells them from a barrow, half a crown the paper twist, along with chips, of course, and a fiery Jamaica sauce that would blister a proper Englishman’s tongue, it would.” Wigglesby paused a moment. “Funny,” he observed, “how all these foreigners and wogs crowdin’ in because of the war ragin’ here and yon, always bring along their tastes in food, and it’s us what’s got to adapt.” Wigglesby’s voice sang with a Cockney accent that grew thicker with each word.

Brian’s concern over the disappearance of Samantha overrode his usual amusement with the rambling tales of his driver, When Wigglesby momentarily ceased his verbosity, Brian broke in brusquely.

“Why don’t you take a day’s leave, go to Sprit Head, and hire a boat? Then go out and bring the boy back. That would make your wife happy, and maybe give you a little peace of mind.”

That apparently didn’t sit well with Wigglesby, He worked his mouth into a shape of rejection. “I’m not all so sure that would work, Ralphie would not be too keen on it either. And, after all, the boy is near a man grown. If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll have to work out something else.”

Time: 1630, GMT, July 5, 1940

Place: Hamphill Aerodrome, RAF Base,

Warwickshire, England

Sgt. Wendall Foxworth sucked the stick back into his hard, flat belly and watched the green fields of Warwickshire tilt away as the nose of his Hurricane swung into a near-perpendicular angle and the wind screamed off the wingtips. As starboard wingman to the assistant squadron leader, he looked to his left at the calm face of Lt. Ramsey.

He always seemed so unconcerned. Yet they would soon be mixing it up with Messerschmitts and bombers and… some of them would not be coming back. Wendall always thought of that. But not Ramsey. He lived to fly and to fight, to drink, and boff all the good-looking girls for miles around the aerodrome. Well, there would be fighting enough for anyone this afternoon.

According to the briefing they received in the pilots’ ready room, there would be three echelons of German bombers, escorted by four squadrons of Me-109’s and Fokwulf 84’s. A flicker of movement came from the cockpit to the port side. Ramsey gave the thumbs-up signal and they leveled out. That provided Wendall time to marvel over the superb source of intelligence that let them know when the Jerries were coming and where they would bomb. Did they have a spy right in the heart of Göring’s office? Wendall liked the idea of that. It would serve the Nazis right if we had a way to know their every move. How else could they get such reliable information? Sgt. Foxworth broke his concentration to search the sky. He’d get plenty of the Germans soon enough.

More stray thoughts came to him. He’d see Sandy tonight at the Blind Goose. He could not believe that only three weeks ago she had allowed him to reach inside her blouse and touch her gorgeous breast for the first time. It had been so soft, so yielding, so silken. He had trembled with arousal as he cupped it and squeezed gently. Now they had slept together. Often and energetically. What’s better, it had happened every night for the last six nights. He felt a growing tension in his loins and sought another, safer subject to think about.

He soon found it. Swiftly, he raised a trembling hand to his throat mike and keyed it. “Messerschmitts! Bombers at one o’clock high.”

Time: 1720, GMT, July 5, 1940

Place: Rooming House on Gloucester Street, Coventry

Warwickshire, England

Sandy Hammond hurried home from her air raid duties and climbed the stairs on past her room to the door to the attic. Hastily, she unlocked the door. Inside, she went immediately to a low shelf, behind a rank of apple boxes. There she crouched on the dusty floor. With exaggerated care, she reached up and disconnected two alligator clips from the leads to an antenna laid out on the bare rafters of the house. She used equal care when she turned off and wrapped a small, black metal box in a discarded blouse and replaced it in the wooden shell of an old foot-treadle sewing machine.

Wonderingly she looked out the dormer window at the columns of black smoke rising in the distance. “Lor’ love a duck,” she said aloud in awe. “If these raids continue to increase in number and frequency, I’ll soon have more money than I can ever know what to do with.”

Where could she go to spend her new wealth? Where could she be happy again? Could she dare take Wendall with her? No, that would be impossible. He could never handle the truth.

Time: 1745, GMT, July 5, 1940

Place: Warwickshire Movers’ (MI-5 Office), Coventry,

Warwickshire, England

After the air raid ended, Wigglesby returned to the road and drove on to Coventry. Brian arrived at the office of MI-5 as the people were thronging out of the underground shelters. He recognized Agnes Whitney and walked to meet her.

“You certainly made it quickly, sir,” she advised him.

“Would have been sooner, if the Germans hadn’t paid a visit. Now, what is the latest on Trillby?”

“Not a word, sir. At least up to the time the air raid whistle blew. Shall we go to the office?”

They walked along silently. Inside the small cubicle that served Samantha Trillby as an office, Brian went through her daily journal, to see what she was working on. A meticulous person, she had made excellent entries. Brian jotted several names and addresses in on a notepad. Principal among them was Marvin Burroughs. Then he read the last lines.

“Well, sir?” Agnes prompted.

“Not so simple as that. No smoking gun or pointing finger. I have several leads, but none of them solid enough to go right out and find her.”

“I do hope there is nothing seriously wrong,” the plain-looking civil servant in her mid-thirties declared.

“Sorry, I’m afraid that’s bound to be wishful thinking. The first one on the list is Bertram Hudnutt. D’you know anything about him?”

“Can’t say that I do. His name carne from a list provided by you, didn’t it?”

“Yes,” he replied with relief. Samantha was not unnecessarily spreading around the names of the suspected rogue travelers. “I’m going to go have a look at him.”

Time: 1810, CET, July 5, 1940

Place: Munich, Bavaria, Germany

Colonel Werner Ruperle tightly clutched the briefcase that contained his leave papers as he deplaned from the Ju-52 transport plane to München. A
Gefreite,
a pudding-faced youth actually, drove him to the railroad station in a
Panzerkampfwagen,
one of the ubiquitous, light-armored, open-topped scout cars, which Ruperle considered incongruous. Werner thanked the young corporal and handed him a five mark note.

“Buy yourself a beer.”

Right outside the
Bahnhof
he was stopped by the Gestapo, who questioned him about his destination and checked his papers.

“Only routine,
Herr Hauptmann,”
the sallow, gaunt-faced, mustached man in black leather trench coat and slouch fedora explained. The bleak smile he offered failed to reach his eyes.

“We’re winning and you have to worry about deserters?”

“No,
Herr Hauptmann,
it’s the
Juden.”
His lips twisted with distaste. “These rich Jews seek every means to get out of the Reich.”