TS01 Time Station London

by David Evans

  What was disturbing to Arkady and had to be immediately passed along was what a search of timelines nearer to 1940 had discovered. Beattie/Bewerber was about to do something that would create a great rift in the future.

  He and a group of five other German agents, with the assistance of Sir Rupert Cordise, were going to assassinate Churchill. The first disturbance was logged as beginning April 11, 1941. That’s the day Clive Beattie would blow the brains out the side of the head of Winston Churchill.

  Time: 2017, GMT, July 10, 1940

  Place: Rule’s, Maiden Lane,

  London, England

  Brian and Dianna went out that night for dinner and dancing. Brollies and bowlers, on knobbed wrought-iron and brass hangers, lined the paneled walls of the foyer in the famous restaurant that had been founded in 1798. Neither the address, the decor, nor the menu had changed since the establishment first opened its doors. Being new to the era, Dianna noticed a decidedly forced gaiety in the conduct of the denizens of London’s nightlife. Over a huge wedge of Stilton cheese and biscuits, she and Brian discussed the fact that at the least he had exposed himself to the enemy, and to the rogue travelers, as an agent of MI-5, if not as a Time Warden.

  “You’ve made yourself a target. And you well know, if you die here, you’re dead for good and all time.”

  Brian made little of it. “I think you are overreacting. Spies, professional espionage agents, rarely kill one another. That is one of the reasons Arkady gave me for my assuming this persona. A young, healthy, physically fit man not in uniform would stick out glaringly in the midst of all this.” He gestured to the plethora of uniforms in the central dining room.

  Their discussion of the topic was interrupted shortly after by the wall of sirens and shrill of whistles. The Germans had taken up night bombing lately, and even though the bombing was restricted to military targets, precautions had to be observed in the event of stray bombs. Brian and Dianna spent an hour and a half huddled in a nearby station of the London subway, the Tube, as it was lovingly called. For half that time the tile floor under them shook from repeated explosions in the distant industrial district.

  Over the next two days, he mulled over that tense ninety minutes. Although Dianna had afterward agreed that it was necessary for him to have believable cover employment to function as Resident, she seemed unshaken in her worry about his safety. The third day after, he had this forcibly brought back to him.

  Time: 1347, GMT, July 13, 1940

  Place: Victoria Way, London, England

  In early afternoon of a bright, sunny day, Brian walked along the sidewalk outside Victoria Station. On his way to meet with Tony and three other MI-5 agents, he took the usual precautions. That allowed him to be aware of something strange, that had the potential for being ominous.

  For the past two minutes, Brian had noticed a sleek, black Aston-Martin that idled along the curb, headed the same direction as he. He increased his pace. The vehicle moved faster. At the next intersection, he abruptly turned the corner and cut diagonally across the street. The sports roadster followed. Brian slid his hand under his coat and gripped the butt of his .45 Webley. He walked even faster.

  Suddenly the Aston accelerated and raced up alongside of him. Two shots blasted the silence of the early morning scene. One cracked past Brian’s head, close enough he felt its passage. By then he was on one knee, the Webley coming up and out. The second slug screamed off the building front behind and above his derby hat. With a shriek of rubber, the Aston-Martin rocketed down the street.

  Brian stepped off the curb and fired three rounds, two of which went through the double rear windows. At once a bobby’s pipe hooted shrilly. A moment later the tall, stout officer in his blue-black uniform and high domed helmet bore down on Brian.

  “Here now, I’ll have that pistol, if you please,” he demanded in a rumbling bass, confident of immediate unquestioning obedience.

  “It’s all right, I’m MI-5, with the Home Office. Please get out of my way, I can stop them.”

  To his credit, the bobby stepped slightly to the side. He continued to glower at Brian. “Wot d’you mean, stop them? You’ve already fired five bullets from that thing. Don’t you know that’s against the law?”

  The Aston-Martin disappeared around the next corner. “Damn it! They’ve gotten away. And I fired only three rounds. They fired at me, first.”

  The bobby remained unswayed. “I didn’t see it that way.”

  “Then you need glasses.”

  Abruptly the bobby gave Brian a gimlet eye. “Just exactly who is this ‘they’?”

  “German agents,” Brian offered.

  “Bloody rot. You’re coming along with me.” Again, he blew into the tin whistle, one that did not warble, rather gave out a two-tone note much like a flute.

  Another bobby appeared and relieved Brian of the revolver. Together the policemen frog-marched him to the station house. There Brian faced the humiliation encountered by any common felon.

  They searched him first. Then he was photographed and fingerprinted. At last, the desk sergeant and a lieutenant studied his identification. While he wiped off the ink that smudged his fingers, they consulted a list and placed a phone call.

  Twenty minutes later, Sir Hugh Montfort came through the door. He cast only a casual, indifferent glance Brian’s direction. “That’s my man, right enough. What possessed you to detain him? There is a war going on, you know. The police are supposed to be on our side. Especially the London Metropolitan Police.”

  Looking half unconvinced, the arresting officer tried to save face. “But he was shooting at a car on my beat. Five shots he fired.”

  “Three!” Brian shot back angrily. “Did it ever enter your mind to examine my weapon?”

  If the bobby experienced any embarrassment, he hid it well. “Wot for? You’re the bloody fool did the shooting.”

  Sir Hugh stepped between the glowering men. “I think it a good idea if that were done, Patrolman.”

  The lieutenant did so and found only three expended cartridges. His face held enough embarrassment for himself and his officer. “That’s right, only three fired. He did claim they shot at him first.”

  Sir Hugh produced a thin, condescending smile. “They missed, didn’t they? I’m sure he did not.”

  Brian had still not cooled down. “One more bullet through that rear window and I would have popped the driver.”

  “Good heavens!” the young lieutenant exclaimed from the doorway to his office. “We could have had a disaster on our hands. Crashed cars and injured civilians.” Then he realized he did not know the identity of this other gentleman and inquired.

  “Sir Hugh Montfort,” the director of counterespionage snapped. “Now, be so kind as to release Colonel Sir Brian Moore here.”

  Outside, Sir Hugh broke into unaccustomed laughter. “Did you see their faces? A right proper dustup that, wot?”

  Brian compressed his lips. “I didn’t think so. I was on my way to meet Tony Bellknap.”

  “I know. And when you didn’t show, and he heard the shots, I was notified. We were expecting something when the police chappies rang up.”

  Brian put heat on his irony. “Glad you could spare the time. Now I had better find Tony.”

  “He’s at the Star and Yardarm. He’ll have a pint waiting for you.”

  Time: 2013, GMT, July 14, 1940

  Place: The Bold Stag Pub, Soho District,

  London, England

  With Dianna Basehart on the scene, Brian experienced a twinge of conscience as he sat opposite Samantha Trillby at dinner the next evening. Dianna had feigned indifference when he had explained that he had what he called a business dinner appointment. Well, it was more or less true. He and Samantha had discussed her progress against German agents and sympathizers around Coventry. Now, as they dawdled over cordials, he made up his mind to bring
her into the major problem facing them.

  “Sam, there’s something hot come up. Don’t ask me the source, but I have it on excellent authority that our elusive Clive Beattie is in the process of planning the assassination of Winston Churchill. How, or with the help of whom, the Service does not know.” He kept Sir Rupert Cordise out of it. Dianna was handling that aspect. “For the time being, the two of us will work on it alone.”

  Samantha’s face drained of color. “That’s horrible.” Then she flushed hotly with anger and resolve. “We simply must stop him. Only, how are we going to locate him? I have descriptions of Clive Beattie that range from a portly, white-haired old man who prefers white linen suits; to a young man with long, black hair and gray eyes; to a clerk type of middle years, blond, with his hair parted in the middle. That’s quite a range of discrepancy for but a single man. Even given the inaccuracy of eyewitnesses.”

  Brian touched her arm lightly in assurance. Then he quoted from the information provided by Arkady. “He’s only one man, be certain of that. And we now have a photograph of what he really looks like. Though that might be of little help. Beattie is a master of disguise. He can look, talk, and act like anyone he chooses to study long enough to perfect his impersonation.”

  “Master of disguise,” Samantha repeated. “It sounds like something out of one of those American gangster flickers.” She sipped on her white crème de menthe.

  “Believe it, Sam. He is that good.” Since the subject was assassinations, he reluctantly decided to tell her about the attempt on his life the previous morning. When he concluded his recount, her reaction totally surprised him.

  She was furious. “Brian, you are taking entirely too many risks. You are supposed to be a deputy director. You should stay in your office and—and direct.”

  “No,” Brian countered. “I can’t work that way. I need to be in the field. I’m new at this job, nearly as much so as you. Sitting behind a desk and sending others out to take chances with their lives doesn’t sit right with me.”

  “But you must. It is your job.”

  “Which I have held for only eighteen months now. I can’t, I won’t be relegated to the position of a coordinator.” Brian found himself glowering.

  Driven as much by her love for him as her sense of the rightness of her reasoning, Samantha would not let go of her position. Their discussion rapidly turned to an argument. By the time coffee came, it had grown to a quarrel. Suddenly, Samantha sprang to her feet and stormed out of the restaurant.

  A baffled Brian watched her leave. Only to be more confounded ten minutes later when she came contritely back to their table. “I’m sorry, Brian. It’s only that I—I love you so, I can’t bear the thought of losing you. You were magnificent when you saved me from those Germans. Now that I’ve been spared, I want us to have as much time for ourselves as this damned war will allow.”

  “Which requires me to stay out of the way of stray bullets, right?”

  Samantha forced a smile. “Don’t be so touchy, dearest. If you insist on working in the field with the rest of us, who am I to say otherwise? After all, you are the boss.”

  Greatly relieved, Brian put an arm around her shoulders and gave a squeeze, much to the consternation of the other patrons. After settling the bill, they left for Brian’s apartment, where they made deliciously long, sweet love until four in the morning.

  Time: 1621, GMT, July 15, 1940

  Place: The Tiffin Shop, Trafalgar Square,

  London, England

  Late the next afternoon, at the stylish Tiffin Shop, Dianna Basehart sat across a small, rosewood table from a buxom dowager with a whitely powdered, overly made-up face that failed to hide the basic iron-hardness that so accurately described her personality. In pursuit of an introduction to Sir Rupert Cordise, Dianna had to endure this high tea time in a patience-trying meeting with the society page editor of the Times. She smiled vacuously and watched Helene Carstairs-Upton from behind lowered lids. Carstairs-Upton gushed when she spoke.

  “Lady Wyndamire, it is so nice to see you back in London,” the gossip columnist prated over the rim of her teacup, although she hadn’t the faintest idea who this person might be. “Where have you been keeping yourself?”

  “In Canada, and please, do call me Allison.” Resuming, Dianna followed the cover story created for her. “The family has farm properties in Alberta. Although I must say, I spent more time supervising affairs from the shops in Victoria and Vancouver than out on that dusty plain.”

  They shared a girlish laugh, although the society editor had to be twice Dianna’s age. “Allison, may I inquire what could have brought you back to England during this terrible time?”

  Dianna formed a sad smile. “Father was suddenly taken ill in Canada. With my brothers and husband in the armed forces, I am all he had left to manage the home front. I came as soon as I could book passage.”

  “Your husband, Lord Arthur…?”

  “Archibald, my dear,” she corrected, with a hasty invention. “Lord Archibald Wyndamire. I suppose I should say Commodore Lord Archibald, R.N. He’s with the fleet out in the Far East.”

  Carstairs-Upton reacted swiftly to cover what she saw incorrectly as a social gaffe. “Oh yes, that Wyndamire. Will you be in London long?”

  “I certainly hope so. Far better than our country place. And I must say that I’d not shy away from the social events, provided a suitable escort could be arranged.”

  An enigmatic smile threatened to crack the cosmetic facade of Carstairs-Upton. “I think that is entirely possible, Allison. All it should take is a word or two in the right places.”

  They chatted through the rest of teatime about inconsequentialities. Dianna did not mind. She had achieved what she had come to do. Considering the reputation of her target, she had little doubt she would soon be close enough to do what her job required.

  Time: 1143, GMT, July 16, 1940

  Place: 10 Downing Street,

  London, England

  On the day after Dianna had her meeting with Carstairs-Upton, following his masterstroke in May of taking off the troops from Dunkirk, Winston Churchill was to be made privy to the most closely held of State secrets. Several months earlier, cipher experts at MI-5 had cracked the codes used by the German High Command. Called Enigma, the encoding and decoding machines enabled the British forces to know in advance every move the enemy made.

  Their successes, triumphs, and more important, failures, defeats, losses in personnel and equipment, troop and ship movements, and the names of commanders and their locations were shared by a limited few in MI-5. Brian Moore came to 10 Downing Street as part of the delegation to impart this achievement to the Prime Minister. He was the most junior of the group, headed by Lord Walter Cuthbert-Hobbs and seconded by Sir Hugh Montfort. They astounded Churchill.

  Surprising to all, rather than his first response being criticism of being kept in the dark, the PM came right to the point. “What can it do for us?”

  Lord Walter quickly supplied an answer. “It provided the operations order for the triumphant parade of General Field Marshal Keitel’s army down the Champs Elysées. It has also identified and positioned the three air fleets of the Luftwaffe that are currently attacking us.

  “They are,” he went on, “Luftflotte Five in Norway and Denmark, commanded by General Stumpff; Luftflotte Two, in Belgium and Holland, commanded by Field Marshal Kesselring; and Luftflotte Three in Northern France, commanded by Field Marshal Hugo Sperrle.”

  Winston lighted a cigar. Blue ribbons of smoke ascended toward the high ceiling. “Could you give me squadron leaders’ names?”

  Sir Hugh took up that question. “Yes, of course, for any of those who have had communications regarding their status. For instance, there is a Colonel Werner Ruperle commands the Thirty-four Squadron located outside of Desvres, in the Artois Department. He recently completed a ten-day leave t
o his home in Bavaria, a resort town on a lake, called Diessen am Ammersee.”

  Stunned, Churchill reached for a brandy snifter. “You get all of that? Such intimate detail?”

  “Yes, sir. That is only a part of what Enigma can do.”

  The PM beamed. “What a brilliant strategic coup. Your men are to be commended.” At last Winston got around to the obvious. “But why was I not informed of this earlier?”

  “It is our most tightly guarded secret. If the Germans found out we knew they would change codes. So access is strictly on a Need-to-Know basis. It would take another year or better to crack a new code. Thousands of lives could be lost unnecessarily. As it is, we know in advance when the U-boats put to sea, every air raid, where it is going and who is flying the mission. Which is the reason we are informing you at this time.”

  “Pray, enlighten me.”

  Lord Walter did so. “With the Huns stepping up the raids, greater numbers of bombers every day, we are able to intercept with ease due to Enigma. Now, speculation is going around that if we are too diligent and efficient in countering them, the Germans will figure out that we have advance information. The result would be the same as though Enigma had been leaked.”

  For thirty long seconds, Winston Churchill paced the confines of his book-lined study. “We don’t want that, of course. What is it you expect from me?”

  “A decision, Mr. Prime Minister,” Sir Hugh offered. “It is the thinking among our espionage mavins that if we continue to put out long-range patrols, who scurry back toward the coast when the Jerries come out to play, backed up by the Spitfires and Hurricanes, who only arrive in time, the Germans will never figure out we knew their destination all along. So what we would like is a directive from you, to all wing commanders and squadron leaders that they are not to take the fighters up until the first wave of German planes crosses over to dry land.”