TS01 Time Station London

by David Evans

  After Frank Matsumoto escorted Marvin Burroughs out of the basement torture chamber, Samantha glanced questioningly at Brian. “He’s half Chinese,” Brian explained away Frank’s Japanese origin.

  Auburn curls shook violently. “No, that’s not what I’m confused about. There’s—there’s two of you. Are you twins?”

  Neither Brian had given thought to that; they had simply gone in to get her out. Brian II gazed at her uneasily. Brian I thought faster. “No, Sam, we’re not twins. It’s something extraordinarily secret, genned up by MI-5. Sorry, but you are not on the Need-to-Know list.”

  Both Brians wondered if she would buy it, as Brian I lifted Samantha to her feet. He had to support her as they climbed to the street floor shop. He turned the penlight on and located the telephone. He limped over to it and called the local MI-5 office. He had a short, urgent conversation. When he finished, he turned to Samantha.

  “They’ll be here in five minutes.”

  “Good. I’m hungry,” she added with an impish expression. Then she giggled. “Oh, dear, I think I’m in shock.”

  Then Brian took her in his arms and kissed her with an intensity that astonished the both of them.

  Brian II cleared his throat. “If everything is under control, I think I’ll collect Frank and Burroughs and head back to London.”

  A grinning Brian I agreed. “Good idea. You can let Frank go on back; you know where to take Burroughs.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  After Brian II departed, Brian I gently kissed Samantha again, sat her in a chair, smoothed her hair and stroked her neck. All the while he made the same ineffectual sounds a man uses when a loved one is hurt. It seemed no time until two Home Office agents arrived to take charge. They quickly and efficiently dressed Samantha’s burns and bruises. Then the ranking one nodded toward the basement and its gory content.

  “We’ll dispose of those bodies in a flash, sport—er—sorry, Colonel. How about you, Lieutenant? Feel up to coming along?”

  Samantha shook her head. “No. I think I’ll ask Colonel Moore to take me around to my flat and fix myself something to eat. I haven’t had a decent meal in three days.”

  “I’ll see to her needs,” Brian suggested, his mind relieved at not having to fit four people into the two-seater MG.

  Time: 0415, GMT, July 8, 1940

  Place: The Pig and Garter Club, Coventry,

  Warwickshire, England

  Sgt. Wendall Foxworth and Sandy Hammond climbed the cast-iron stairs to street level. The cellar club they had just left stayed open after hours. They served breakfast of choice, the most popular being bangers and mash. Foxworth had consumed two helpings of the thick, pork link sausages and mashed potatoes. Sandy had dabbled daintily at a serving of bacon and scrambled eggs. Fortified by the food, Foxworth summoned the reserve to address a subject he had dreaded to bring up.

  “I won’t be seeing you for a while, ducks,” he informed Sandy.

  “Why, Wen?”

  “We’re for a school at Teddingham. Aerial gunnery refresher course. Be there two weeks.”

  Sandy pouted, her lips vibrant without the need of cosmetics. “I’ll miss you awfully.”

  “Ain’t my idea to go. You’ll be on my mind all the while I’m gone.”

  Sandy twined her arm with his. “That’s sweet. Why do you have to take this course right now?”

  Foxworth hesitated, torn between his love for Sandy and his sense of duty. “It’s… it’s ... We’re not to say anything about this, but promise you’ll not say a word to anyone?”

  Sandy gave his arm a squeeze and bumped her hip against his. “Of course. You know I won’t.”

  “We’re getting new aircraft. More and different armament. The Jerries have cannon in those Messerschmitts. The new planes will even the odds somewhat.”

  “I’ve never heard of any British airplane with a cannon.”

  “These are American, P-40’s. Fifty caliber machine guns in the wings and a fifty-seven millimeter cannon in the nose. Real beauties. We check out in them first, then learn the guns.”

  Sandy’s scowl wrinkled her nose. “You sound as though you like these terrible machines of war.”

  Nonplused, Wendall Foxworth responded with genuine enthusiasm. “What I love is being a pilot. They say these planes are a dream to fly. Very maneuverable, even at high speeds. Only drawback is they have a lower top speed than the 109’s.”

  Although they walked slowly, Wendall and Sandy had covered most of the distance to her apartment. Thinking quickly, she sought to keep him on the topic. “Come up for a glass of wine?”

  Wendall freed his arm and put it around her waist. “Love to. We have to make the most of it. These two weeks are going to seem like forever.”

  Upstairs, Sandy poured two glasses of rich ruby port. They sipped off half of it, then kissed. Wendall needed no coaxing to proceed from there. He reached out and turned off the light to the accompaniment of Sandy’s approving murmur.

  Time: 0613, GMT, July 8, 1940

  Place: Time Station London, Thameside,

  London, England

  Dawn washed the sky a pastel pink. The splendors of the rising sun could not be witnessed from the small, stone-walled cubicle where Brian Moore towered over a diminished Marvin Burroughs. They had returned to the London Time Station, rather than to MI-5, two hours earlier. So far, Burroughs had proved most uncooperative. At last Brian resorted to the naked truth to shake his prisoner.

  “I’ll not mince words, Burroughs. This is not an interrogation cell at MI-5. This is a Time Station. If you cooperate, I might reconsider not sending you back to your Home Culture.”

  Burroughs remained blank-faced. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Oh, but you do. Your real name is Martin Niebhoff and you came back here to muck around a little. But mainly to profit from the war.”

  Although he blanched alabaster, Burroughs remained tightlipped. Brian tried another question. “Do you know of a German agent named Free Eagle—Freiadler?” Again, Burroughs said nothing. Brian balled the front of Burroughs’s shirt in both fists and yanked the man off his chair.

  “I’ve had enough of you. The next stop is in the future.”

  Panic at the immediacy of that threat loosened the tongue of Burroughs. “You can’t do that. You don’t even know when I came from.”

  Brian’s smile formed in a nasty line. “That’s the trouble with you bootleg Beamer users. You know absolutely nothing about Time Travel theory. When you are transported with open coordinates, you go back exactly to when you should be. Now, get moving.”

  In the central room of the basement under the travel agency, Brian stood Burroughs before the Beamer and gave the high sign to Vito. An enormous surge of energy activated the Time Field. It pulsed and hummed and formed a shimmering curtain inside the framework of the Beamer. When the containment field stabilized it, Brian gave Burroughs a shove toward it.

  “No, I...” Stumbling toward the iridescent swirl, Burroughs finished his sentence hundreds of years in the future.

  Time: 1012, GMT, July 10, 1940

  Place: Offices of MI-5, Bayswater Road,

  London, N.W. 1, England

  At mid-morning, Brian received a surprising phone call. Sgt. Parkhurst entered his office as he was lowering a half-eaten, cream-filled Danish to the plate. Quickly Brian wiped his lips and sipped from a satisfying cup of coffee he had brewed himself. “There is a Lady Allison Wyndamire on the blower for you, sir.”

  Brian had never heard of a Lady Allison Wyndamire before. Frowning, he reached for the handset of his telephone. “I’ll take the call.”

  Static crackled in Brian’s ear as Sally Parkhurst connected the line. “Is this Sir Brian Moore?” an all too familiar voice inquired before he could speak.

  Brian brightened instantly. “Dianna!
What’s the occasion?”

  “Meet me for lunch and I’ll tell you.”

  “Where?”

  “The Admiralty Inn. Eleven-thirtyish?”

  Grinning broadly, Brian promised, “I’ll be there.”

  “There’s a small, stand-up bar on the top floor. You’ll find me there.”

  “I think I can locate it.” Brian hung up and stared out the window.

  Something must be about to happen that is terribly wrong for Arkady to have sent in Dianna Basehart, Brian reflected. She had been in Brian’s class at the Temporal Warden Corps. They had been friends and frequently partners in the physical training phase. A year after their graduation, they had become closer than casual friends. Then, after a particularly hazardous mission, they had become lovers. Over the years, due to the nature of their occupation, it had become more of an infrequent affair than a torrid romance. Their friendship had endured. Brian found himself looking forward to their lunch date with growing expectation. Meanwhile, he had MI-5 work to attend.

  Over the past week, other agents of the Home Office had rounded up some genuine German agents. Brian told Parkhurst to hold all calls and reschedule all appointments for afternoon. Then he left his office by another door and descended to the basement of the building.

  Brian gave a hard look to the first of the Nazi agents. “You know, we generally shoot spies. I think this time is going to be different. We are going to hang you and your friend in there.”

  Blanching, the agent who had been using the cover name Robert York bit at his lower lip. “Hanging is what we did to the Communists in the Fatherland. It is a degrading way to die.”

  “Thought you might see it that way. We see little difference between you and the Communists. All a bunch of bloody tyrants.”

  “Hanging’s a good idea, Colonel,” the other interrogator piped up. “I saw a bloke hanged at Newgate once. All his sphincter muscles let go. Fouled himself right messily, he did.”

  “Yes, well, our little Nazi here is going to get a firsthand experience of it, if I have my way.”

  Thoroughly cowed now, the inexperienced spy made a hesitant inquiry. “What—what do you need to know? Something that would have a mitigating effect on my condition?”

  Brian hid the pleased smile. “To whom do you send your information?”

  “I… don’t know. It’s a receiving station on the coast. Near Calais, I think. From there it is sent to Abwehr headquarters in Berlin.”

  “How often do you transmit?”

  “Whenever I have something.”

  “No, ah, schedule?” Brian probed.

  “Yes. I have to check in every two weeks, whether I have something or not. The reporting day of the week changes each time.”

  Brian went a new direction. “From whom do you collect your data?”

  Their prisoner produced a wry smile. “A lot of it comes from simply reading your newspapers. In the Reich we would never permit such loose conveyance of State secrets.”

  “No doubt. But you communicate with other persons, I’m sure. I want names, addresses, meeting places.”

  Robert York gave them up. Of course it helped that he had been deprived of sleep for five days, fed only once each day, and yelled at and tossed from one burly MI-5 agent to another for hours, all of them former Rugby players.

  When the session ended, Brian arranged for another agent to ask the exact same questions, but in different order, and so on until York’s story checked out. Then he went for the other Nazi. He enjoyed similar results and left the dazed “Germany spy” to the tender mercies of his jailers. Brian climbed to the street floor at a quarter past eleven and hailed a taxi for the ride to Parliament Square and the Admiralty Inn.

  Time: 1134, GMT, July 10, 1940

  Place: Admiralty lnn, Admiralty Lane,

  Parliament Square, London, England

  The Admiralty Inn had been in existence since the Lords of the Admiralty of the Royal Navy occupied offices in the same building. In other words, since the late 1600’s. The ground floor housed a public restaurant of the same name. The first floor was bright and airy, though a bit stuffy to the American eyes of Brian Moore. It had a dining area of companionable tables for six, where MPs from the house of Lords could dine.

  On the second floor was a boarding school style, refectory dining room; complete with dark wood-paneled walls; open beams; trestle tables; and service through the long, narrow opening in a sidebar. Burgundy drapes framed the mullioned windows at the far end. It was reserved for Members of the House of Commons.

  The top floor had a small, private dining room, intimately appointed, and the stand-up bar. There was but room for four at the bar itself, and no tables or chairs. In the crush of the noon hour, with the MPs present, revolving lines formed for the quartet of spaces and the barman did a brisk business. Someone in Commons must be exceptionally long-winded, Brian Moore surmised when he entered and found the accommodations nearly deserted.

  At the top of the narrow, winding staircase, he spotted Dianna at the bar. Her striking, raven hair had been done in the latest style of the upper class. She wore a summer dress of diaphanous pink, with a huge, matching picture-frame hat. The combination set off her cobalt eyes and faintly tanned complexion nicely. Brian winced when he recognized the concoction in a stemmed glass she held in one gloved hand. A pink gin. She saw him and waved the other hand expansively. Brian started forward, then hesitated when Dianna broke the stately silence of the room.

  “Brian… darling!” she called loudly.

  Brian took a breath, and advanced gallantly. He took the extended hand, kissed the glove. “Di—your ladyship. Imagine my surprise when you rang me up.”

  Her full, sensuous lips curved in a teasing smile, and her deep blue eyes sparkled mischievously. “No doubt.”

  “What brings you to London?”

  “Dark and sinister doings. I’ll tell you all about it over lunch. Do they still make that marvelous steak and kidney pie? You know, with the mushrooms, pearl onions, and garden peas in it?”

  “I’m not accustomed to eating here. But I imagine they do. It’s the main staple for those in Commons.” To the barman, “I’ll have a Glennlivet.”

  With glasses in hand, Brian and Dianna/Allison walked across the room to look out the windows at Admiralty Lane and the small park in front of Parliament House. This time he asked her in a voice so low as to be a whisper.

  “What’s all this about? Why the Lady Wyndamire persona?”

  Dianna playfully patted him on the shoulder. “We’re after big game. Arkady has received disturbing news. If unchecked, it could do irreparable harm to the Timeline. Your old friend Sir Rupert Cordise is going to stand for Parliament again. Commons, of course. And according to the history logs of ’46 and ’47, he is going to win.”

  Brian frowned. “There’s no way he can rally support to oust Churchill. Besides, he disappears entirely in ’41.”

  “No, that will change if he’s not stopped. He’s up to some devilment that’s put some ripples in the fabric of Time, and I’ve been brought back to derail his plans. That’s why the Lady Wyndamire thing. And, with you being a baronet, it lets us mix in the same circles.”

  “How do you propose to counter him?”

  Dianna studied Brian for a moment. “You get more handsome every time I see you, Whitefeather,” she evaded.

  Brian laughed. “Neither you nor I can remember half the times we’ve seen one another. But is that how you’re going to do it?”

  Dianna assumed a coy expression at his innuendo. “It might be that the old monster sex will rear his ugly head. Though there are several other ways. He can’t keep everything in his brain. There will be a journal, or diary files, perhaps. When I have him properly set up, we expose the old traitor and put an end to it once and for all.”

  “Yes, and you’ll be in a Beam
Back and disappear before I can even kiss you.”

  Dianna wrinkled her nose. “Don’t count on that.”

  Yet Brian knew that Dianna had no doubt been fitted with an Automatic Retrieval Implant. She would accomplish her mission and it would be automatically activated. She would vanish in the here and now and go back to the future from whence she came. Brian abruptly ended that gloomy Iine of thought when a change in tone warned him that Dianna had changed the subject.

  “After we eat, you can come back to the travel agency and help me select a suitable wardrobe for Now.”

  “I have a job here, you know.”

  “Of course, Brian. And quite a helpful one. It lets you do your work for the Corps so much more easily. I gather you have something to do.”

  Brian brushed at his bristly regimental mustache. “Yes, I have. Appointments, one with my boss in MI-5.” He would have preferred to spend the afternoon with her, and his expression showed it.

  Dianna read his emotions clearly. She touched a hand to his arm. “You’re sweet. I’ll see you this evening?”

  “Yes. I’ll be around about six.”

  “Marvelous. I’ve a suite at the King’s Court. I can hardly wait.”

  “Neither can I.” He meant it, too.

  Time: 1340, Warden Central Time

  Place: Temporal Warden Central

  Arkady Gallubin scanned the printout that had come from 1940 London. It requested the real name and Home Culture of one Clive Beattie. Also a holograph of his true appearance. They had accomplished that easily enough. Arkady had it in a neat holographic disc on his desk, in the place usually reserved for a plate of his beloved blini. He thought of what the Corps had developed and, not for the first time, it chilled him.

  Clive Beattie had been born Gunther Bewerber, thirty-two years earlier in the Germany of his Home Culture. Clive/Gunther had been well educated, raised in the home of his parents, his father a mid-level civil servant. Gallubin had also found out recently that Beattie also had the uncanny ability to look like and impersonate anyone. But most of this was already known to Steve Whitefeather. He had been briefed on his last visit to Warden Central.