His heart pounded in his chest. Almost at once, however, reason asserted itself. He was a scientist. He had set up an experiment with strictly delimited parameters. He had eliminated the possibility of user error, of uncontrolled variables. If he tried to duplicate his experiment now, it would be a haphazard attempt, a fly-by-night attempt, an unprofessional attempt. He grimaced at the thought.
He was a scientist. He had the potential to see his name beside that of Newton, Einstein, and Bohr. He would not compromise his methodology. He would have patience regarding the return of the fountain pen. He would await the ordinary conclusion of the experiment he had set in motion.
After all, what did he have if not time?
He was making the right decision. However, just because he wasn’t going to use the singularity device to duplicate the fountain pen experiment, that didn’t mean he couldn’t use the device for some other purpose. For recreation, for example. Khan tapped the fountain pen against the edge of his desk. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had fun. Well, apart from watching Littlewood fume over the loss of a jacket, keys, and a pen. Once again, he rose and paced the perimeter of the lab, intoxicated with possibility. Of course he had to use the machine while Littlewood was away.
After the fourth hour since Littlewood’s departure had passed, Khan had made his choice. He’d always wanted to see ancient Rome in all its glory, to walk along the Via Sacra through the Forum Romanum. Or was it Forae Romanae? His Latin was a bit rusty.
He spent two more hours researching where he might “land” so as to attract no attention and a half hour after that digging up a handful of Latin phrases that might come in handy, should interactions prove unavoidable.
Having plotted the geographic coordinates of an out-of-the-way location where the Basilica Portia hugged the Curia and Comitium, he set his arrival for three in the morning in 53 BC, when Rome was still a republic. Republican Romans weren’t known as party animals, so Khan felt three in the morning ought to be safe enough. He then chose a night with a full moon, so as to afford him the best viewing possible. Finally, after helping himself to a shot of the rather exceptional whiskey Littlewood kept under lock and key (Khan had snatched the key weeks ago), the man from 2001 stepped onto the platform of the singularity device and sent himself to ancient Rome.
21
· JILLIAN ·
Berkeley, the Present
Less than a month after Khan’s death, Jillian had accompanied Halley and Edmund on a return to the basement laboratory because Edmund had insisted they must bury Khan’s remains. Prior to the burial, Jillian had been the only one to venture back into the abandoned estate. It had been Jillian who rented the giant fans needed to dry the floors and furnishings dampened by the automatic sprinklers following the basement fire. It had been Jillian who had hired undocumented workers to refinish the ceiling damaged by the fire. Jillian had a new appreciation of the challenges facing the undocumented, thanks to Edmund, and she paid both promptly and well.
At the time of the burial, Jillian had suggested they remove from the lab everything that identified the time machine’s function, in case someone ever came looking. Not that this seemed likely. Khan seemed to have automated most of his payments. Water, electricity, and Internet remained turned on month after month. He had a bookkeeper who paid things that weren’t automated, with the eventual exception of the pool service.
When they’d buried Khan, Halley had grabbed the scrapbook with costume pictures, and Jillian had grabbed Khan’s laptop and notebooks. It was her acquisition of these items that led Jillian to become the world’s foremost living expert on the use of the machine, so far as she knew. Khan had made oblique references to the research of one Dr. Arthur Littlewood, but from what Jillian could find, Khan had worked alone, a veritable recluse.
Or so she’d always assumed.
Lately, this assumption had been troubling her.
During Jillian’s second-to-last week at Berkeley, she had a few sleepless nights. It took her all week to pinpoint the source of her unease, but eventually she found it: it was the evidence of an algae shock treatment that had been applied to Khan’s swimming pool. Just prior to Jillian’s Sunday-after-Thanksgiving trip to 1908, she’d observed a pool that, if not sparkling, had at least been clearer, no longer a murky green.
It hadn’t struck her as important at the time, but she realized now it was very important. Who had treated Khan’s pool after nearly a year of neglect? And why? Did Khan have colleagues? Or was the manor going to be sold? What if she couldn’t access the machine again, couldn’t put her now-complete plan into play? How was she going to conquer her fear of flight?
Her back-up plan—because Applegates always had back-up plans—had included desensitization therapy. This meant things like borrowing cars for drives to SFO or the closer Oakland International. She’d gotten to where her heart rate stayed steady as she crept slowly through curbside, but the one time she’d entered the building, hoping to buy a ticket home for Christmas, she’d panicked. Later the same day, she’d reserved a rental car to drive home.
Now, with final exams taken and only one paper left to turn in, it was becoming impossible to think about anything but her phobia. The baking course started just after New Year’s, and she was no closer to flying than she had been when she’d bought her ticket to Italy. If anything, she’d gotten worse. In her sleep, she found herself trapped in nightmares where she was flying and the captain announced the wheels wouldn’t descend; or where she seemed to be the only passenger to notice the engines had cut out. Sometimes Everett showed up, blue eyes twinkling as he ordered kindergarteners to serve ginger ales and Bloody Marys to the passengers.
On her third-to-last day as a Cal student, she woke up from one such nightmare, recoiling from Everett, who looked toxically handsome as he strode down the aisle of a plane, demanding to know where Jillian Applegate was sitting because she’d kissed him.
“Not likely,” she grunted, sitting up in bed. No matter what he smelled like, no matter how blue his eyes, Jillian would never in a million years have kissed that pompous, entitled, arrogant, Connecticut Randolph.
Sighing, she crawled out of bed. Her apartment was empty except for boxes the movers would collect in two days. She was living out of a duffel now, her bed linens the only thing that still needed to be boxed up. She took the elevator down the ten flights from her top-floor apartment (she might just miss the view of the bay once she’d gone) and walked out into a foggy morning in search of caffeine before one last read-through of the term paper for her History of Ethics in Business. She’d written on the uneven enforcement of child labor laws in the early twentieth century, and in her imagination, all the villains of the piece had eyes the color of glacial ice.
Just as she pushed inside Philz Coffee, blissfully warm after the cold, dripping fog outside, she got a text from DaVinci.
Remember the Mercedes Cabriolet I told you about?
Last week, DaVinci had told her she’d seen a silver Mercedes-Benz Cabriolet (just like Jillian’s mom’s Mercedes but without the vanity plates) entering Khan’s abandoned estate on two occasions.
Khan’s bookkeeper contacted Khan’s lawyer seven months ago because he couldn’t reach Khan. Ever since then, the lawyer has been looking into Khan’s disappearance. The Mercedes belongs to Khan’s attorney. Jesús Torres.
Khan’s attorney? Jillian frowned and her heart began to beat faster. Maybe that explained about the pool being cleaned.
Another text came through.
Halley was questioned yesterday about Khan’s disappearance. Thanks to the Mercedes-driving attorney.
Jillian’s pulse shot through the roof. She didn’t need caffeine to wake up anymore. Exiting Philz, she raced back to her apartment. They’d all known this day would come: eventually someone would try to find Khan and figure out he was MIA. DaVinci sent another text.
They asked Martin Nieman questions, too.
Nieman? The gallery owner?
&nbs
p; And he said Khan had been acting nervous before he disappeared, and that he’d had connections in the black market art world in LA. We have lots to talk about when you get home. See you in TWO DAYS!!!
Jillian texted back a row of smileys, even though she was feeling anything but happy. This was terrible news. If Khan’s lawyer was hanging around the property, it would be much trickier to make her trip back to 1908. She had no time to lose. She had to try as soon as possible. Tonight. Yes, tonight. The longer she waited, the more her chances of getting caught would increase.
She tried to imagine explaining to her parents what she’d been doing breaking into Khan’s abandoned residence. Tried to imagine explaining to the FBI that she’d been time traveling using property that didn’t belong to her. For a few minutes she wallowed in these despairing thoughts, but then she gave herself a mental shake. Applegates didn’t back down when they had plans. Applegates kept it together. Jillian threw back her shoulders. Damned the torpedoes. And got to work.
Hastily, she e-mailed her history paper to her professor, minus the final read-through. She shoved her bed linens into a box, not bothering to seal it. The movers could do that. She made a quick call to the rental car agency, booking the car for today—right now, yes, thanks—instead of two days from now. And then she caught an Uber, picked up her rental, and drove south.
22
· KHAN ·
Rome, 53 BC
Khan had forgotten how hard time travel was on the inner ear. He had only six point six minutes to spend in Rome, and he spent most of the first two recovering his balance and trying not to puke. And then, because he really did want to walk on the Via Sacra, the Sacred Way, he attempted to orient himself using the Curia. The white-ish facade of the building gleamed in the moon’s light, making him squint ever so slightly until his eyes adjusted. The problem was, there was more than one roadway in the vicinity. For a moment he wasn’t sure which way to turn. Where were the signs? But then he noted a substantial building to his left, with a covered portico that might be the Basilica Fulvia.
Correctly oriented, he raced to the paved surface of Rome’s most important road: the Via Sacra. Without pausing, he strode forward, suppressing a small laugh. He was doing what no man had done for thousands of years—he was walking on the very stones where Caesar had trod. Was treading, actually. Or was Caesar in Gaul right now? Khan couldn’t remember his history well enough.
Now that he thought about it, he was doing exactly what every guidebook-toting tourist had done in the centuries since the area had been excavated. Well, at least he wasn’t toting a guidebook. He could feel superior in that regard. As he pulled his cell from a pocket, it occurred to him that his clothing—shorts and a short-sleeved button up—would appear very odd to any Romans in the area. Fortunately he saw no one.
He checked the time. Two minutes to go. It had been remarkably smart, choosing the hour he had. Rome was asleep. Feeling smug, Khan continued up the Sacred Way to catch a glimpse of the Temple of Vesta beside the House of the Vestal Virgins. The real temple and not Mussolini’s partial reconstruction. He picked up his pace to a slow jog—only one hundred seconds remaining.
The buildings were larger than he’d expected, and the portico of the Basilica Fulvia seemed to stretch on and on. He increased his pace. He needed to get to the end of the basilica, after which the Temple of Vesta should be visible to his right. He ought to have picked a landing spot closer to the temple. The Via Sacra was deserted enough; he could have started here. He reached into his pocket and grabbed his cell phone. He thought it would be very good fun to snap a picture or two. Maybe even set a print out somewhere in his mother-in-law unit. How many months or years would pass before Littlewood spotted it? Snickering to himself, he snapped a selfie. The flash created blind spots in his vision.
Moonlight glanced off nearby columns, creating a sharply delineated world of black and white. He hoped the image on his phone would be printable. Would that mean letting someone else see the image? Or would Littlewood’s color printer do the job? He was just checking how many seconds he had left when he heard someone—or something—shuffling toward him. Were there wild animals wandering the streets in 53 BC? The coliseum wouldn’t be built for another century or two, so it wasn’t an escaped beast of the games at least.
Khan suddenly felt very foolish. And scared. He was wearing twenty-first-century clothing, and he hadn’t brought so much as a Swiss Army knife with which to defend himself. He dashed back toward the vestal virgins complex, hoping whatever was heading his way would continue down the Via Sacra.
“Servus! Quid facis?”
The voice echoed in the silent street. He’d been seen.
23
· KHAN ·
Rome, 53 BC
His heart pounding with fear, Khan crashed through some sort of shrub and headed for the base of the Temple of Vesta, planning to slip between the massive supports at the base of the temple. He had just crouched between two of them when the voice cried out again.
“Servus! Ostende te!”
He glanced at his watch and then cursed. He couldn’t read it hidden here in the dark. He let his breath out as slowly and noiselessly as possible. The footsteps seemed to be retreating. Reaching for a button on the side of his watch, he risked pushing it to light the face. Thirty-two seconds to safety.
And then the unthinkable happened. The footsteps paused. Changed direction. Came toward him. The flash of light—the completely twenty-first-century flash of light from his watch had betrayed his location. He could make a run for it through the shrubs, or he could remain. Adrenaline coursed through him: Fly! Fly! Fly! He was as good as trapped here. He couldn’t tell which direction his pursuer was going now. Twenty seconds. As another jolt of adrenaline shot through him, Khan’s body made the decision for him. He stood and bolted from the base of the temple, crashing through the undergrowth and straight into the arms of a very tall, very solid, very armed Roman.
Khan’s limbs froze in place as space–time pulled him forward, along with his unintentional hitchhiker.
24
· JILLIAN ·
Montecito, the Present
Exactly nine hours after receiving DaVinci’s text about the Mercedes, Jillian pulled into her driveway, so intent on her plan that she’d forgotten to drop her rental car off at the Santa Barbara airport. She decided to keep it, for now. Her parents were paying the bills through the end of the month, and she might need a car.
It was 7:15 p.m. on December 16—an auspicious date. December 17 happened to be the anniversary of the Wright Brothers’ first successful flight, and Jillian would begin her travels just after midnight, technically on December 17.
Her revised and improved plan required two visits to 1908. First, she would visit Le Mans to secure an introduction to Wilbur Wright with Everett’s help. She reasoned that simply getting the introduction might take most of the twenty-six and a half minutes she had to spend. Certainly any time left for questions would be inadequate; possibly she would be left in the awkward position of having to dash off like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight.
To avoid this, on her first visit she would ask for a quarter hour of Mr. Wright’s time on a future date convenient for him, allowing herself plenty of time to make an escape before the rift in space–time pulled her home. It was, if she said so herself, a solid plan. Possibly an ingenious one.
The Applegate family mansion was empty, her parents off at meetings in New York and Los Angeles (she wasn’t actually sure which parent was in which city). Not even Branson was home, since there were no mouths to feed, and Jillian wasn’t expected for another two days.
Too nervous to eat anyway, Jillian spent the next four hours reading up on the 1900s, reading up on the Wright brothers, and going over her plans again and again until she was sure she knew exactly where she needed to be at any given point. She had decided to arrive fifteen minutes after her previous visit had finished, giving the crowds surrounding Wright time to disperse. Sh
e would stroll back onto the racetrack meadow and find Everett, as if she’d changed her mind about that coffee after all. She wasn’t going so far as pretending she remembered their supposed meeting and . . . kiss, but she figured an apology for not remembering him would go a long way toward getting him to introduce her to Mr. Wright.
A twinge of guilt pinched at her. She should have texted DaVinci to let her friend know she’d come home two days early. She decided not to, however, because DaVinci might try to talk her out of what she was planning. If Khan’s lawyer was spending time at the property, it was risky, but Jillian reasoned the lawyer would hardly be spending his nights at Khan’s. Of course she would check for the presence of the Cabriolet first. She wasn’t stupid.
She ran through her timetable again for her first and second planned journeys. She reorganized the order in which she would ask her questions on the second journey. And then she reorganized them again. And then told herself to stop overthinking it. By undertaking the operation in two visits, she would have time between the trips to gather her thoughts. This downtime between visits was also essential for avoiding the risk of sizeable earthquakes, if Jillian understood Khan’s notes on the subject. He seemed to have been experimenting with lengthening his visits through a technique he referred to as a “repeating loop.” Jillian didn’t understand the finer points, but she’d picked up that there should be downtime between journeys.
At last midnight arrived, and Jillian allowed herself to change into Aunt Beverly’s cashmere traveling costume. She wanted to grab the large overcoat Halley had labeled as a “motoring coat,” but after a moment’s consideration, she decided to leave it behind. She was supposed to be reappearing on the same day, so she should dress identically. She rummaged for a few minutes, looking for gloves, but Aunt Beverly’s hands had been smaller than hers, so gloves were out. She wondered what her great-great-great aunt would say about appearing in public without gloves. All Jillian really knew about Aunt Beverly was the enduring love between her and her husband, who’d flown in the First World War. There was a family story of how, when he’d been shot down over Germany, the thought of her waiting kiss had been what kept him going.
A Flight in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 2) Page 12
