“She never set foot here, if that is what you were wondering. She has similar holdings in London, Seattle, Boston and Paris. All the better to support our efforts to reunite you with her.”
“What about Rome and… er…” he reached for the words to describe the times and places he’d been afore that sojourn to Paris.
“It was not possible to secure property in China or on the orbital platform,” Koffler said quickly. “Miss Cadence always thought it prudent to concentrate the efforts of the Society on your most recent destinations.”
Smith nodded but said nothing.
Koffler rubbed at his face like a man exhausted.
“I apologize for my shortness of temper, Mister Smith. This has been an affair of hours for you, but a lifetime for me and I cannot quite believe it has come to pass. There were times I doubted my sanity. Many times I wished I could speak with somebody about all I knew. But I could not. The Society has rules, very strict rules, for maintaining our secrecy. If you had spent much time in Berlin of late you would understand.”
“Oh, I understand,” Smith said. “Don’t you worry none on my account. You just go do what you gotta do now. I’ll circle the wagons here.”
Koffler looked relieved.
“And do not leave the house,” he repeated.
Smith used the time alone to familiarize himself with the gun he’d taken from Gerhard. It was neither a revolver nor one of the slide-action pistols he’d seen in use around Cady’s era. A magazine sat in the stippled wooden grip and the action used a sort of jointed arm in a complicated toggle lock arrangement that took him some time to work out. There were seven rounds in the magazine, which would’ve made for an eight-shooter if’n that big dumb lug back in the Gestapo wagon hadn’t taken one in the melon. The whole arrangement was a deal more complicated than his trusty Colt, but Smith had lost that back in Salem, and this was the only substitute weapon he’d been able to lay his hands on. The intense concentration needed to break down, comprehend and rebuild the German sidearm kept him from worrying overly much on Cady.
Koffler said she was dead near enough to two hundred years as made no difference, but saying that didn’t make it so. Smith and Cady themselves had proved as much with Georgia and this scheme of Koffler’s or Cady’s, or the damned History Society or whatever, weren’t no more than the practical expression of that fact. They might be separated by an ocean of time, but oceans could be crossed and those put asunder reunited. Smith was determined he would effect such an ending to this damnable misadventure, at the cost of his own life’s end if needs be.
Having satisfied himself that he had attained a working familiarity with Gerhard’s pistol, he overcame his natural reticence to abuse a trust and searched Koffler’s hideout from top to bottom. He found nothing of note or suspicion. The icebox was a refrigerated locker, and in it he found milk, butter and cold cuts of some unknown meat. He was not hungry, and it was not his to eat anyway, so he closed up the store without disturbing the contents. Two rooms downstairs and two up were divided among bedrooms on the upper floors and a sitting room and small library on the ground. The library was stocked almost entirely with monographs and periodicals on early Colonial America. The shelves climbed from floor to ceiling, with the upper reaches served by a stepladder on wheels, which ran along a fixed rail. Smith searched for Koffler’s own titles but could not find them. The only other publications were local magazines and newspapers, which he did not bother with.
The day had been long and full of exertions. Smith sat himself in the single armchair that dominated the small library to wait for Koffler to return and promptly fell asleep.
The professor’s return woke him from a dreamless slumber sometime after sun-up. He heard the keys rattling in the lock and came to quickly. Smith was used to sleeping alone in dangerous country, and it was not unusual for him to pass from deep hibernation to sharp wakefulness in a moment. In his line of work, any who did not cultivate that particular skill were liable to find themselves awakened by the cold kiss of a knifepoint sliding between their ribs.
Koffler looked freshly shaved and even bright-eyed. He carried a bread stick and a small paper bag from which wafted the unmistakable aroma of fresh coffee grinds.
“Did you go home?” Smith croaked, blinking the crust from his eyes.
“No,” Koffler replied. “I assured myself we were safe to remain here. And I did not wish to disturb your rest, Marshal. But now we must prepare to make our exit.”
They broke their fast on fresh bread, and cold cuts and cheese from the icebox, washed down with black coffee. It was a fine repast, Smith thought, knowing that Cady could not possibly be enjoying anything as pleasant.
She’s dead, you durn fool. She cain’t eat. She’s food for the worms.
Even though he knew from experience that, in a very real way, Cady was not, that there were ways he might reach out for her as readily as he might lay hands on anything in this tiny kitchen, Smith despaired of doing so. Even though he’d repeatedly slipped the iron shackles of time, it felt as though every minute away from her, every second spent at the remove of long centuries, doomed Cady to…
“Smith? Are you ill?” Koffler asked.
Smith put down the hunk of bread and cold meat he’d been holding. With a start he realized he’d been holding it for a good long time, wallowing in self-pity. His hand was shaking. That in itself was a pitiful show for any man, but truly lamentable in his case. After all, he was not trapped in a dark age.
“My thoughts have run away from me, Professor. I apologize.”
Koffler nodded. “To that undiscover'd country from whose bourn no traveler returns, I should imagine, Marshal. But turn away from melancholy. We shall soon rejoin Miss Cadence. To that end,” he said, rising from the table, “come! And we shall adorn ourselves more fittingly for our destination.”
Smith frowned.
“I passed just fine last I were in Boston of the day,” he said.
“For a trapper or an Indian fighter returned from the frontier, perhaps. If you were also dipped head-to-toe in mud and none paid any heed to the machine-stitched precision of your garments’ tailoring, or the inexplicable sophistication of your instruments and materiel.”
Koffler pulled Smith’s possibles bag out of a cupboard.
“And this, I am afraid, must stay here. The Society will dispose of it.”
Smith bristled at the suggestion.
“Those are my possessions, sir, and I will thank you to unhand them. Ms Cady herself did choose all of my equipage for this trip and…”
“Miss Cadence made it clear that any member of the Society who encountered you, Marshal, was to secure the contents of this bag and dispose of them in such a fashion that they could never fall into the hands of the Nazis. It would be an unparalleled disaster. I cannot allow it. Can you imagine these creatures empowered with the knowledge of the advanced science and technologies contained within?”
For a moment Smith said nothing.
Finally he relented. “Well, she does hate Nazis.”
“As do we all,” Koffler said, sounding relieved. “I will secure this bag. The Society will dispose of it. And we will repair to Massachusetts properly outfitted for the period.”
Properly outfitted meant Smith giving up his clothes for trews and a smock of simpler, plain-woven linsey-woolsey and a heavy, coarse twill jacket. He was resentful of Koffler’s confiscating his pack and the goods within, and they argued volubly over whether he might keep his boots. The German reluctantly acceded after Smith promised to scuff and muddy them some more. He did not let Koffler know he still had Gerhard’s pistol, and took some care to conceal the weapon at the small of his back in the waistband of his abominably itchy new pants. The historian likeways objected to Smith’s Bowie knife—an artifact more than a hundred years out of place—and Smith likeways gently but firmly gave Koffler to understand that he could take a long hike, and when he got back, Smith would still be wearing the big chopper. He strapped
the knife to his hip.
“Wear this over your ensemble,” Koffler said, producing a large overcoat from a hallway cupboard. He fetched another for himself, having changed into similar clothing that would allow them to pass unnoticed in colonial Boston or Salem, but which would seem an oddity here in Berlin.
At least the feller practiced as he preached, Smith thought.
“And finally, this,” Koffler announced, giving Smith a small leather coin pouch. “Currency of the day. The less trading we do to sustain ourselves, the better.”
Smith hefted the pouch. It had some weight. Loosening the drawstring and peering inside he found a solid fistful of coins but of how much value, he could not say.
“Will this sustain us through our whole journey?” he asked.
“It is not meant to,” Koffler said. “As explained, we will all return to Seattle, from where you and Miss Cadence began your common misadventure. Once there, she would have you reconsider this whole affair.”
Smith’s face darkened.
“You would have me abandon my daughter?”
Koffler held up his hands, as though to ward off the very suggestion.
“I did not say that. But Miss Cadence had many long years to think about how you might effect your return to little Elspeth and, quite obviously, this first attempt was ill conceived. Thus, she would have you reconsider how you might achieve your ends. That would best be done in the Seattle of her day. I am sure you would agree.”
Smith grudgingly conceded the point.
“I reckon so, yes.”
“Excellent,” Koffler said, clapping his hands together. “And so we are away.”
He was virtually floating off the floorboards he was so excited.
“You will forgive me my exhilaration, Marshal, but for me this is the culmination of a life’s work. To think, I will soon meet the remarkable young woman who made all of this possible? You yourself must be excited at the prospect of reunion.”
“I just want to get gone,” Smith said.
“And so we shall.”
He had slept later than he realized. They had to hurry to the street where he had arrived in Berlin in order to depart during the final minute before the first twenty-four hours elapsed. They could always return tomorrow, but Koffler was concerned that after the Nazis dealt with their erstwhile allies in the brownshirts, they would find time to turn their attention to the killing of Director Gerhard and his men.
“We do not want to be here for that,” he said, looking very concerned by the prospect. A veritable Grand Canyon of a worry line appeared between his eyebrows at the thought of it. “Such a pity,” he muttered to himself.
They arrived at Ebertstraße with a few minutes to spare, and this time Smith was able to pick out his landing spot; the stretch of sidewalk in front of the wallpaper emporium. But it was not the same.
“You are certain?” Koffler said.
“I am,” Smith frowned. “But…”
“But what?”
“That.” He pointed to a gang of city workmen who had erected a temporary fence around the wobbly manhole cover. “They weren’t here yesterday.”
Koffler’s voice took on a worried timbre.
“It is important, Smith. Are they working exactly where you arrived? Does their barrier prevent us from leaving precisely from your entry point?”
Time was running out as they argued the matter.
“I… I cannot fairly say, Professor,” Smith admitted. “I was not possessed of such a sanguine disposition yesterday. I may have moved around some afore fixin’ my bearings more distinctly.”
“Moved around some? Smith! Good grief, man. Take hold of your senses and recall as best you can where you arrived. This is important.”
“About here,” he said. This felt uncomfortably like the conversation he’d had with Cady back up in Seattle. “I think…” he pointed to where the large iron manhole cover had been removed and laid aside behind the folding barrier. “I’m sure of it. Behind that a little yonder.”
Koffler checked a watch he produced from within the folds of his overcoat.
“It is time. The golden minute is upon us. We must go, Smith. Now. Take my hand,” Koffler said, reaching out to shake Smith’s hand as though they were old friends who had met by accident. Smith looked for Wu’s watch. He patted a pocket where he thought it was, couldn’t find it, and started to remove his overcoat, but got an elbow caught in one sleeve.
“Hurry!” Koffler admonished him. “The watch. Don’t forget the watch.”
Consarn it!
Smith hurriedly searched for the watch in his other pockets. He found it, fumbled it out, got his arm back through the sleeve of the overcoat, and pressed the crown twice, firmly.
Just before remembering that he had not used Mister Wu’s timepiece to escape Massachusetts.
He’d used Chumley’s.
20
After a miserable couple of hours, the Herald passed out of the storm. Cady had tried to ride it out squeezed into the corner of the captain’s bed, or what she assumed was his bed, a padded bench beneath the cabin windows. She’d quickly abandoned that post, worried that a chasing wave would smash through the frail-looking glass and suck her out into the ocean. There were times she couldn’t see the sky for all the water towering over her. So instead she jammed herself into the corner of the cabin farthest from that structural weak point, and hung on for the ride.
It was horrific.
To the monstrous noise of the storm outside, the ship added its own groans and screeches and occasional wails of pain. She found that swearing loudly helped, but her throat was soon dry and sore from so much cursing at her fate. And her stupidity.
What the actual fuck had she been thinking?
She should’ve known it was a terrible idea, helping Smith find his way home. She’d fooled him and she’d fooled herself about that, but now, facing what looked an awful lot like inevitable death, her delusions fell away and she reflected with real self-loathing that she’d been less interested in helping Smith than she had been in helping herself. It hadn’t taken her long to work out some of the basic control schemes of the watch that had cast him out of his own time and place in history. She’d been certain she could resolve the rest within a few more jumps. And then, sure, she could help Smith get home.
After that, she’d have to work her way back through the timelines to get home.
And when she did… she would have the technology for herself.
The potential had seemed limitless.
Cady huddled in the corner, her legs braced to push her back against the wooden paneling as the Herald plunged and pitched and rolled from side to side on the turbulent sea. She was fatigued to the point of trembling. But she was also morally exhausted by flailing at herself for her arrogance and greediness.
And the meanness and stupidity which had undone her, too.
Smith did not deserve her.
Like, literally.
He was a lovely, honest, simple man, and she was a selfish bitch. And a liar with it. She’d even convinced herself she might have felt something for him. That she might have wanted him.
Pressing herself into the dark corner of that fetid little ship’s cabin, hundreds of years from home, Cady had to accept the unpleasant truth. She’d wanted what she always wanted: a big win for Cadence McCall.
She laughed once, harshly.
She would probably die today.
Smith might be dead already.
If she survived this she was going to have to deal with the reality of her situation. She was stranded with no hope of salvation. Not unless Marshal John Titanic Smith walked through the door of Captain Garvey’s cabin and…
The door flew open with a crash. It was the boy. Pip, they had called him.
“Begging your pardon, mistress,” he said quickly, but clearly. “The captain advises we are pursued by the pirate Quarrel, and all hands are bid to arm themselves and prepare to receive the enemy.”
Ca
dy said nothing. She blinked rapidly, staring at the young boy. He really was just a boy, possibly not even a teenager, and yet he carried a gun that looked like a cartoon blunderbuss in one hand, and a wicked short sword in the other. More blades hung from his belt, and a small axe on a strap poked above one shoulder. Of his little hand-carved flute she could see no sign.
“Ma’am?” he said. “Do you understand? You are to stay here, by the captain’s orders, and not to come out until Mr Bowditch or one of the officers comes for you.”
Cady nodded, and said in a voice so small she wondered if Pip could even hear it, “Okay then.”
The boy regarded her like a puzzle piece that did not fit.
“So you shall remain here?”
“Yes.” She nodded again, this time finding some volume for her reply. “Yes, I will stay here.”
Where the fuck else would I go?
“It will be some time before we come to issue, mistress,” Pip said. “They will not attempt a boarding in these seas. But when the storm swell falls away, they will have at us.”
Pip raised the antique pistol in acknowledgment and then he was gone, pulling closed the cabin door behind him.
Cady listened hard, trying to parse out the sounds of the sea battering at the Herald from the crew’s preparations for battle. Her mouth was dry, her heart racing. This seemed so much worse than the slave revolt at the gladiator school, and she wasn’t sure why. Because Georgia wasn’t here? Or Smith? No, that wasn’t it. She thought it was because, as terrifying and messed up as that Roman fucking holiday had been, they’d at least initiated the battle to escape.
There was no escaping the Herald.
She was trapped on a tiny, waterlogged wooden boat, churning around in a violent maelstrom, surrounded by strange men of unknown repute but observably murderous disposition, on whom she now had to rely for protection from even stranger men with undoubtedly worse intent.
It would make a great cut scene in an Uncharted game, but in real life it sucked ass. With extra servings of salted ass.
The Golden Minute Page 18
