by David Evans
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 aft
ernoon.
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.”
And too bad more of them can’t make it, Werner Ruperle thought bitterly. “They are devious vermin, nicht wahr?” He forced a chuckle.
“Oh, yes. You are going to Diessen am Ammersee?”
“Yes. To my home.”
“Heilsam Reise, Herr Hauptmann.” The Gestapo agent wished him a good journey and gave him the straight-arm, Nazi salute.
Although the platform swarmed with people, he found the train to the resort lake country scantly occupied, and his first-class compartment blessedly to himself alone. By dinnertime, he would be home. He could almost taste the potato soup—his favorite—he knew Hilda would have for him as a first course. Then some Kassler Ripkin, potato pancakes with apple sauce and Buskohl. For dessert, Sachertorte. He would stuff himself! It seemed that all their Luftwaffe cooks knew how to prepare was sausages, boiled potatoes, and black bread. Outside the car, the blare of a loudspeaker banished all thought of food.
“Achtung! Achtung! All passengers who have boarded trains, please have your travel documents ready for inspection.”
Liebe Gott! Where is my Germany? Werner wondered.
Time: 0945, GMT, July 6, 1940
Place: Rumpole Street, Coventry,
Warwickshire, England
Brian Moore thumbed the bell push again and looked around the neighborhood from his vantage point on the stoop. So far the street showed no more sign of liveliness or occupation than the residence of Bertram Hudnutt. From inside, the dim sound of what must be an irritating buzzer came to Brian’s ears. Next door, a roller shade flickered to reveal a swatch of white, lace curtain. Brian shoved the button again.
“Pardon me.” The voice, somewhat shaky and hesitant, came from the porch next door. “Are you looking for Bertram, young man?”
Brian turned to find himself facing a silver-haired woman, her face a road map of years. “Yes, I am.”
“He’s not home. Has not been for three days now.”
“On holiday?” Brian asked.
“Oh, no, he died suddenly.”
That sat Brian back joltingly. “Heart trouble?”
“No. I’m not sure what caused it. Only that a constable came by, with two men in suits. I suppose from the CID. They entered his house, and when they left I asked what the trouble might be. They told me that he had died.”
“I see. Thank you.”
Brian left. He had nothing else he could do. At least not in daylight, with a nosey dowager right next door.
A phone call to the local CID office informed Brian that Hudnutt had not died of natural causes. Although they had not handled the case, they had been included in the distribution list for the rep
ort. Brian said he would be over to see it.
After producing his identification, Brian was allowed to read the report. Bertram Hudnutt had been shot by a sentry at Hamphill Aerodrome. Hudnutt had scaled a fence and entered the airfield illegally. He had explosives with him and an incendiary device. Brian put the brief report aside and looked up at the CID inspector.
“Would you have any idea why I was not on the list for this?”
Showing an indifferent expression, the CID inspector replied neutrally. “This came down to us by the usual channels. I assume it originated with your superior.”
When Brian returned to the office, he asked about the report of the shooting incident. Agnes left her desk to check the file cabinet. After rummaging through dozens of folders, in several drawers, she came up with a copy.
“Here you are, sir. It had been misfiled under military bases. It is so hard to get competent help these days,” she added by means of explaining all failings. “It should have been in the file on the dead man.”
Half a day wasted, Brian thought angrily. Brian took it from her and read it rapidly. As an internal memo of MI-5 the brief report contained far more detail. Bertram Hudnutt had been climbing a fence when a watchdog alerted sentries to his presence. Hudnutt resisted, shooting one man before being shot dead. The explosives he carried had detonated and there was not enough of him left to bury in a matchbox. Brian decided to access his second suspect.
Time: 1510 GMT, July 6, 1940
Place: Horn and Star Pub, Coventry,
Warwickshire, England
Liam O’Doul strolled off the campus of the University of Warwick and angled down High Street toward the center of Coventry. He remained unaware of Brian Moore, who had picked him up outside a lecture hall and followed discreetly. Liam led Brian to the Horn and Star, a pub on the riverfront. Although late in the afternoon, the contrast between outdoor brightness and the dark interior of the public house gave Brian the impression he had walked into a cave.
