by Allen Steele
As the train emerged from beneath the Potomac, the crowd began to gradually thin out with each stop. Pentagon, Pentagon City, Crystal City, National Airport, Braddock Road, King Street . . . as the stations went by in turn, a few more people got on while even more got off, until by the time the Yellow Line reached Eisenhower Avenue there was no one left standing and there were empty seats here and there. When the old pensioner who had shared his seat got off at Eisenhower, Murphy was finally able to open his newspaper, yet he didn’t bother to do so. The next stop was Huntington, where he had parked his car this morning. Why bother to read when he was getting off soon?
Fatigued, idly hoping that Donna had fixed meat loaf and mashed potatoes for dinner and that Steven wasn’t going to be too demanding tonight, he absently gazed around the half-empty train. Across the aisle, a businessman read a John Grisham thriller. A little farther away, a couple of Latino teenagers in hooded sweatshirts muttered to each other in Spanish, loudly laughing every now and then. A middle-aged black woman stared listlessly out the window. A pretty girl with long red hair flowing from beneath her black beret caught his eye; she was easy to look at, and he found himself studying her until she noticed him. She regarded him coolly, her hard eyes challenging his intrusion, and he quickly glanced away, self-consciously shifting his attention to the window beside him.
Murphy might not have noticed the old man sitting in the rear of the train, had he not looked at the window at just that moment. Captured in its dark reflection, three rows back on the other side of the aisle, was a tall, gaunt man. Long brown hair turning gray, white beard covering his face, he wore an Army-surplus parka, its collar zipped up to his neck, a blue Mets baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Another one of Washington’s countless derelicts, easily ignored until they try to beg change from you . . .
Yet, in the instant Murphy spotted him, the bum was staring straight at him. Watching him.
Murphy instinctively glanced away. Then, uneasily, he turned his eyes toward the window once more. The man in the back of the train was still watching him, apparently unaware that he himself was being surreptitiously observed.
No, it wasn’t the pseudo-Benford; this guy was a bit shorter, his build less solid. A complete stranger . . . and yet, in some unfathomable way, his face seemed vaguely familiar. If you shaved off the beard, perhaps gave him a haircut . . .
The train lurched, began to slow down. Streetlights swept into view, distorting the window reflection. They were coming into the next station. “Huntington,” the recorded voice said from the ceiling speakers. “Doors opening on the right.”
The businessman put away his paperback, picked up his briefcase. The black lady sighed wearily, shifted her feet as if getting ready to stand. The Latino kids sullenly watched Murphy as he nervously moved his briefcase into his lap. The reflection disappeared behind the jaundiced glare of sodium-vapor streetlights as the train rushed into the elevated station. Through the window, Murphy could see a dozen or so people waiting on the platform, but no sign of a transit cop.
Faking a sudden cough, Murphy raised a hand to his mouth, then stole a glance behind him. The old man hastily looked away, yet he had one foot already in the aisle. Yes, he was planning to get off here.
For an instant, Murphy had an impulse to stay seated. Yet this was where he had parked his car. Unless he wanted to ride the Metro all the way to the end of the line, then buy another farecard and double back again, he had to get off here.
It’s only some wino, he told himself. Some poor homeless bastard. Maybe a little crazy. Likes to watch people on the train, that’s all. . . .
The train trundled to a stop. The businessman and the black lady stood up, moved toward the door. Murphy hesitated a moment longer, then as the doors slid open, he quickly rose from his seat, rushed down the aisle. The black lady stared at him in mute surprise as he pushed past her, and the businessman muttered an obscenity at his back when their shoulders briefly collided. Then he was off the train, walking as fast as he could for the platform exit.
At the top of the stairs, he stopped briefly to peer over his shoulder. He couldn’t see the bum, yet the crowd was so dense, it was impossible to tell for certain. Holding on to the handrail, Murphy turned and began jogging down the stairs.
Just beyond the turnstiles, past the gated steel-mesh fence, lay the parking lot.
Sonntag, Mai 2, 1937—2147 CET
At first the city could not be seen, its environs hidden by a dense blanket of rain-swollen clouds, then the Oberon penetrated the overcast and suddenly Frankfurt appeared as a sprawl of urban light, its luminescence divided into unequal halves by the serpentine trail of the River Main. The infrared scopes picked out the most prominent landmarks: the high Gothic spire of St. Batholomäus Dom, the banks and office buildings of the central financial district, the immense shell of the Hauptbahnhof train station.
“Over there.” Standing next to Metz in the control room, Franc pointed to a small, irregular blotch of darkness just northwest of the Cityring, the narrow greenway that surrounded the oldest part of the city. “Near the Alte Oper . . . see it? That’s the Rothschild estate. Put us down there.”
The pilot peered at the screen. “No way. Too small, and way too close.” He pointed to a larger park several kilometers farther away, at the edge of the city just north of the Goethe-Universität. “I’d rather set down there. Less chance of being spotted.”
“That’s the botanical garden. You know how far we’d have to hike to get from there to the Frankfurter Hof?” Franc shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. So long as we’re in chameleon mode, no one’s going to see us. The streets are nearly vacant this time of night.”
“So you take a long walk.” Metz remained unconvinced. “An old man like you needs the exercise.”
Franc scowled. He was still getting used to his changed appearance. Now the apparent age of sixty, he had thinning gray hair and a slight paunch around the middle, along with an unaccustomed set of wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. Although his nanoskin disguise wasn’t uncomfortable—it was his own epidermis, after all, reshaped at the microscopic level to provide a living mask—the period outfit he wore was nearly unbearable: a stiff black tuxedo with archaic tails over a cotton dress shirt and white tie. The sort of thing a gentleman would wear to the Sunday night opera in a European city. For all intents and purposes, he now resembled John Pannes, the American businessman whose place he would soon take aboard the Hindenburg.
“The farther we have to walk, the more likely we are to get into trouble. Just put us down there, all right?”
“Well, but . . .” Metz shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
“Good.” Despite his anxiety, he found himself eager to leave the Oberon. He was getting tired of quarreling with the pilot. “Give us about ten minutes. I’ll go check on Lea.”
He left the flight deck, walked down the passageway to the monitor room. The hatch was shut; he slid it open, and was immediately greeted by an outraged scream:.
“Franc! Knock first, for God’s sake!”
“Entschuldigen,” he murmured, grinning despite himself. Lea had apparently just emerged from the replication cell. The cylinder rested on one side of the compartment, steam rising from its open hood. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Sorry. I just don’t . . . like the way I look, that’s all.”
No wonder Lea was embarrassed; although he had seen her nude many times, as the forty-five-year-old Emma Pannes she looked completely different. The replication cell had added about ten kilos of artificial flesh to her body, giving her larger breasts, broader hips, a little more roundness to her tummy and thighs. Emma Pannes wasn’t an unpleasant-looking woman, but she certainly didn’t possess Lea’s svelte figure.
“You better get used to this,” he added as he gallantly turned his back. “We’re an old married couple from Long Island, remember?”
“Never mind.” Behind him, he heard the rustle of fabric as she began to get dressed. �
��Have we made contact with the Miranda?”
“Vasili spoke with Hans about ten minutes ago.” Although Franc kept his back to her, from the corner of his eye he could see her figure half-reflected on the wallscreen, like a ghost superimposed above the nightscape of Frankfurt-Am-Main. “The advance team picked up the Pannes about an hour and half ago, shortly after they left the Frankfurter Hof on their way to the opera. They were alone, and nobody saw them. They’re at the safe house in Griesheim, and Hans will pick them up outside town tomorrow night after the Hindenburg departs from the aerodrome.”
“And our bags?”
“They’re on the way right now. Oh, and one more thing . . .” He reached to the high collar of his shirt, pressed his thumb and forefingers against his throat to activate the subcutaneous mimics implanted within his vocal cords. When he spoke again, his voice was gravelly and lower-pitched, with a distinct American accent. “We’ve received the voice patterns from the extraction team,” he said, and watched when she jerked her head in surprise. “I’ve already downloaded mine from the AI. Remember to get yours.”
“I won’t forget.” She let out her breath with relief. If one of the most risky parts of the mission had been the extrication of John and Emma Pannes from the city, then successfully obtaining their vocal patterns had been one of the most delicate. “So where’s Vasili going to put us down?”
“He wanted to put us down in the Botanischer Garten, but I held out for the Rothschild estate.” When the German members of the Rothschild family fled the country earlier this year, the grounds of their Frankfurt home had been claimed by the Nazi government; already it had been turned into a public park. “It’s much smaller, but we shouldn’t have any trouble.”
“No radar, and this side of the city isn’t known for its night life.” An irritated sigh. “Button me up, will you? I can’t reach behind me.”
She was wearing an ankle-length white evening gown of the late-1930s style. Artifacts Division had done their usual thorough job of researching contemporary fashions and tailoring authentic replicas, but he hoped that this style was close to what Emma Pannes had worn when she and her husband had left the Frankfurter Hof earlier this evening. Franc buttoned up the back of her dress, and she turned around to face him.
“How do I look?”
“Like my wife.” He couldn’t help but grin.
“Give up.” But she smiled when she said that, and it was a testament of the effectiveness of her nanosurgical treatment that her cheeks reddened slightly. “Get through this, and I might reconsider your proposal.”
“I”ll remember that.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Ready?” he asked, and she nodded as she picked up her overcoat. “All right, then . . . let’s go.”
They joined Hoffman in the passenger compartment and watched on the wallscreen as the Oberon fell toward the city. Metz brought the timeship down until it was two thousand meters directly above Rothschild Park, then paused to sweep the area with its infrared scopes. It was a drizzly Sunday night; as they anticipated, few people were on the streets, and the park was deserted.
Only the gentle stirring of tree limbs signaled the Oberon’s silent descent upon a broad clearing in the park’s center. Its hull now matte black, the timeship was virtually invisible to the naked eye. A few seconds before touchdown, its landing flanges spread open. The negmass drive whisked dead leaves aside as the saucer settled down, then everything was still.
As Hoffman opened the airlock hatch, Franc hastily turned off the interior lights. “Just to be on the safe side,” he murmured before he climbed down the ladder to the ground. He waited until Lea had come down the ladder, then he looked back up at Hoffman. “See you in New Jersey,” he added.
“I’ll be waiting. Good luck.” Hoffman gave him a quick thumbs-up, then the hatch irised shut.
Franc took Lea’s arm as they trotted away from the timeship. Once they were clear of the landing site, they turned and watched as the Oberon lifted off. The timeship was little more than an oval shadow as it silently ascended into the overcast sky; for a few moments, they heard the muted hum of its negmass drive, then even that disappeared.
The night was cool, the crisp air redolent of pine and oak, the grass moist with dew. A short distance away, from the top of a low rise, rose an ancient stone tower, a solitary remnant of the battlements that once surrounded the city in medieval times. Beyond the trees bordering the park, lights glimmered within the windows of nearby houses. All was dark and quiet.
“Let’s get out here.” Lea shivered within her coat, pulled it more tightly around her. “This place makes me nervous.”
If he had time, Franc would have lingered here for a little while longer. So much space, so many trees. On the Moon, nature was a luxury deliberately cultivated within subsurface habitats. Here, on Earth at this time, it could be found everywhere, even in the largest of cities. And the night was so full of secrets . . .
Yet Lea was right. The opera would be ending soon. Like the last act of any great drama, timing was everything. “Very well,” he said. His eyes now accustomed to the gloom, he spotted a nearby gravel path. “This way, I think.”
Together, they walked out of the park, at last finding an open gate in the high stone fence surrounding the former estate. Stepping out into the mellow glow of a streetlamp, they found themselves on the sidewalk of the Bockenheimer Antge, across the street from the Alte Oper. The opera house loomed before them as a massive Gothic edifice, a grotesque wedding cake made of marble and white granite. Lights gleamed from within high-arched windows, illuminating the statues on its gabled rooftops and the classical bas-relief on its ornate walls. From somewhere deep within the building, they could hear the muted, melodic rumble of an orchestra reaching its crescendo. Wagner, perhaps . . .
“It’s . . .” Fascinated by the sight of the Alte Oper, Lea searched for the right words. “Beautiful, but in an ugly sort of way.”
“Something like that, yes.” Franc stepped off the curb, then hastily retreated as an automobile’s headlights caught him in their glare. Its horn bleeped a shrill protest, then a sedan swept past them. He caught a glimpse of a woman’s face stoically regarding them from the passenger side, and he quickly looked away.
“Come on,” he murmured, taking her arm again. “We’re beginning to look like tourists.”
Lea smiled at him. “Well, that’s what we are, aren’t we?”
“Perhaps, but this isn’t a good time or place to be a foreigner.” He cautiously looked up and down the street. Now the music had stopped, and he could make out the staccato clatter of applause. “Come on . . . it’s letting out.”
They crossed the Bockenheimer Antge just as the first members of the audience emerged from the Alte Oper’s vaulted entrance. Although a few were plainly dressed, most were decked out in formal evening attire. Franc and Lea melded with the crowd as it spilled out onto the broad plaza in front of the opera house. Deliberately maintaining a casual pace, they sauntered past the central fountain and, ignoring the taxis parked alongside the Oper Platz, headed for the Cityring.
In the Middle Ages, Frankfurt had been surrounded by a broad moat flooded by waters diverted from the Main; within the moat were the walls which further protected the city from invading armies. During the eighteenth century, such fortifications were deemed no longer necessary, so the walls were torn down and the moat was filled. Now Frankfurt’s old city was encircled by a narrow park thick with trees, bordered on either side by motorways.
Arm in arm, Franc and Lea strolled down the cobblestone walkways leading through the center of the mall. The park was dark and densely wooded, its paths illuminated only by the occasional lamp. Every now and then someone quickly walked past, barely acknowledging their presence with a perfunctory nod and the murmured hallo or guten Abend, but otherwise the Cityring was almost completely deserted.
But not quite. As the path turned to the left, they came upon a couple of teenagers sitting on a stone bench beneath an old bro
nze water fountain, their arms wrapped around one another, their faces buried together. They could have been young lovers from any place and any time, except that the boy wore the brown uniform of Hitler Youth, and beneath her overcoat the girl wore the white blouse, blue skirt, and severe black shoes of the Jungmaedel, the Young Maidens. They looked up in alarm as Franc and Lea approached, then got up and guiltily scurried away, vanishing into the night like criminals.
“ ‘In the fields and on the heath,’ ” Lea murmured as she watched them go, “ ‘I lose Strength Through Joy.’ ”
“What?”
“Nothing. A takeoff on a propaganda song.” She gazed sadly after the young couple, then at the small handful of automobiles passing along the nearby Taunusanlage. “How empty this place is. For a late-spring night, you’d think there would be more people.”
Franc nodded. The silence was unnerving, as if an unofficial curfew had been declared. Above the trees, he could see the top floors of offices, banks, and apartment buildings across the adjacent avenues. Almost all the lights had been extinguished, giving them the appearance of cold stone hulks. There was a forlorn, almost dismal quality to the city, as if all humor and life had been drained from it.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to be here,” he said softly. “We’d better hurry.”
A little more quickly now, they strolled down the path, following the mall as it led them closer toward the city center. Soon the path ended where a street bisected the park. A sign beneath a lamp identified the avenue as the Kaiserstrasse. To the right, a half block down the sidewalk, just past a large statue, lay the Taunusanlage, and across the intersection was the Dresdener Bank.
