TS01 Time Station London

by David Evans

  With Plumm secured between them, they marched him off the beach. Out of earshot of the mildly curious bystanders, a smiling Brian turned his head to Dianna.

  “That about wraps up our time interference cases, except for a few in Canterbury and Clive Beattie.”

  Dianna answered him sweetly. “We still have to deal with Sir Rupert.”

  Brian groaned. “Oh, yes, there is still that.”

  Time: 2235, GMT, August 19, 1940

  Place: The West End, London, England

  Clive Beattie moved with practiced precision in the darkness between the crowded buildings of London’s West End. His small cadre of agents would be busy to the south and east parts of the sprawling city. Soon fires would flare in both areas. Gelatinite bombs would explode, shattering building fronts and driving the fire brigades and police mad. Also drawing them away from his immediate vicinity.

  Well-pleased with his plans—they had worked perfectly every time before—he raised a gloved finger to scratch idly at the sandy, bristle-cut hair atop his head. Any time now, he judged. In fact, the fuses should already be lighted. From far off, a faint jolt reached the soles of his shoes. Moments later, he heard a dull rumble. His thin lips formed a sharp V, his best effort at a smile.

  Soundlessly he glided to the back door of a ground-floor jewelry store. He considered diamonds nearly as easy to transport as germanium. By the end of this war, he would be able to go back in a single trip and never want for anything the rest of his life. Beattie applied the electronic lock-pick and had the door open in seconds. He went directly to the vault in the rear of the store.

  Another no-challenge task. The suction cup of the electronic stethoscope fitted into place on the face of the thick door. With the fingers of a surgeon, Beattie worked the dial. The first click sounded loud in his ear, enough so to cause him to jerk. As always, the second tumbler fall did not catch him unprepared. Beattie reversed direction of the dial for the third.

  It came sooner than expected.

  Now the last. Clop! Clive Beattie let out his pent-up breath in a long hiss.

  Removing his pickup, he spun the wheel that released the six thick, steel bars that guarded the contents of the vault. With a small grunt of effort, he swung the door away. Inside rested velvet-lined trays on wheeled carts. Each section in every bin gave off blue and white spears of twinkling brightness in the beam of his flashlight.

  Time: 2137, GMT, August 31, 1940

  Place: Bomb Shelter Below MI-5 Building,

  Bayswater Road, London, N.W. 1, England

  At the end of August, Brian Moore witnessed the beginning in earnest of the Battle of Britain, with raids around the clock. What had triggered the escalation had been an error. Late on the evening of August 24, a German bomber squadron made a premature bomb release. Instead of their intended, obvious military target, their load fell without warning on civilians in the heart of London. Churchill’s immediate reaction was to schedule a retaliation raid.

  At sunset the next evening eighty-one twin-engine Halifax bombers took off. Their target: Berlin. Only twenty-nine reached the German capital, the rest got lost on the way. The primitive nature of their navigation instruments could be blamed for most of those who went to the wrong place, Brian reasoned. To the relief and pleasure of all, this diminutive raid cost the RAF only eight killed and twenty-eight wounded. Unfortunately, it momentarily cost Hitler his tenuous grip on reason.

  Hadn’t Göring assured the whole nation that no enemy bomb would fall on German soil? Now the British had bombed Berlin! He immediately ordered that London be given the same treatment as Rotterdam and Warsaw. The occasional accidental bombing of civilian targets disappeared under the smoke, shattered brick and mortar, and gouts of powdered earth as 330 tons of bombs fell on the city during the day and night of September 7.

  The raids went on and on. Hitler and Göring turned their backs on their stated objective in the directive of August 1 in order to maintain around-the-clock terror raids on London. To the relief of the War Ministry, this took the crushing pressure off Fighter Command. The squadrons rebounded quickly and began to take a more aggressive stance in the skies over England. At once, aircraft of both sides began to fall out of the air in greater quantity. That did not deeply concern Churchill and the War Ministry.

  Production of fighter aircraft was no longer seen as a problem. With his foreknowledge, Brian could only agree. Only 157 fighters had been built in January, output had grown to 496 in July of 1940. The focus of the problem had changed. Now the most serious worry was to put trained pilots in the cockpits of the Hurricanes and Spitfires.

  On July 13, Fighter Command, led by Air Chief-Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding, had only 1,341 trained pilots. To challenge the day and night waves of German bombers and escorts, he would have to rely heavily upon the pilots of Coastal Command and the Fleet Air Arm. He also organized and commissioned four Polish and one Czech squadron in the first three weeks of July. That had at the best 620 RAF Hurricanes and Spitfires against 1,137 German fighters. Losses began to mount rapidly. Brian knew that the darkest days of the war lay ahead for England. And for Brian Moore.

  Time: 1620, GMT, September 23, 1940

  Place: Whattling Abbey Church, Coventry,

  Warwickshire, England

  In Coventry, Samantha Trillby still found herself disturbed by her close call with death. She had spent two months in conscious effort to shake the powerful images of torture and grueling interrogation she had undergone. Even the love and support of Brian Moore had failed to let her completely take leave of her horrors and get on with her life. After Brian’s last visit, she decided to do something about it.

  Particularly now, with the Germans bombing civilian targets, she sensed a greater vulnerability. Her nightmares intensified. Which is what brought her here, to Whattling Abbey Church, on the edge of Coventry. The vicar, Rev. Raymond Mull, had long been a friend of her father’s. A kindly gentleman in his late fifties, and far from dotty as yet, he took an immediate interest in her problems.

  Unwilling to reveal her connection with MI-5, and unable to disclose the very real circumstances that engendered her fears, Samantha contrived a story about “dreaming” of being grabbed and tortured, nearly killed.

  “It started about nine weeks ago,” she began. She told it with consummate skill and concluded with a revealing admission.

  “I always wake up before anything… permanent happens, but I am always frightened. It is affecting my work with the movers concern where I’m employed.”

  Kindly Vicar Mull, his substantial girth encased in gray suit, black dickie, and clerical collar, reached for one of her hands, which she had been wringing, and clasped it between both of his. “My dear, I’m afraid we’re dealing with something far more disturbing than dreams. I would suggest that you are not having dreams at all.”

  Shock registered on Samantha’s face. “Why, whatever do you mean, Vicar?”

  Rev. Mull’s dark brown eyes shone with concern, and just a hint of good humor. “You are involved in something very dangerous. Something that you really shouldn’t be mixed up in. Your father, the brigadier, was the last man who would ever willfully divulge secret information, or violate the Official Secrets Act. But he dearly loved you.

  “Shortly before he died, he came to me when you decided upon the course you have followed. It was painful for him, but he told me ... everything.” He paused at her startled expression. “What you should remember is, like a barrister or a doctor, anything you confide to me is privileged. I am not obliged, nay, my vows make it so I cannot divulge it to a soul.”

  Shyly, Samantha raised her eyes to gaze steadily into his. She swallowed hard to force way for the words, then spoke in a low, measured tone. “You’re right, of course. I’ve been working for MI-5. Father tried to prevent it. And you’re correct in saying that it was just before his heart seizure. I sometimes feel as though
I caused that to happen.”

  “Don’t take on an unnecessary burden of guilt, my dear. Your father told me they had discovered an irregularity with his heart at his last physical, a year ago. Talk was he would have been invalided out, had not Hitler invaded Poland. Now, what is it you do for Lord Walter’s office?”

  Surprised that this rural cleric knew the name of the director of MI-5, Samantha covered it well. “I’m in the Home Office, Counterespionage. And, so far, I’ve been compelled to kill several men. German agents, but still human beings.”

  Fully expectant of resounding condemnation from this clergyman, she was completely astounded at his response.

  “Splendid! You are doing a very courageous thing. Though, mind, that does not detract from the danger you are in constantly.” He cleared his throat, poured a bit of sherry for both of them, and leaned back. “Now, tell me the rest.”

  Her surprise complete and genuine, Samantha next found herself telling Vicar Mull about her relationship with Brian and how much she loved him. Mull listened fixedly, then spoke quietly.

  “How did you and this Brian Moore meet?”

  How like her father, Samantha thought. “Through my work.”

  “At the movers?”

  “No, the other. He’s my superior. A colonel and a baronet. He’s quite handsome and very good at what he does.” Samantha paused, tried, to rein in her willy-nilly thoughts. “We ... we have ... sinned together.”

  Vicar Mull pulled a serious face. “Do you wish to confess this before God?”

  “I—I don’t know how I can. If I do, I’ll have to admit that I don’t feel shame for having done so… or wanting to do so again.”

  Instead of disapproval, Samantha heard only low laughter. “You are your father’s daughter. So headstrong and self-possessed.”

  Samantha frowned. “If that’s so, why do I feel so unable to cast off this terrible experience of the kidnapping and torture and get on with my life and my work?”

  Mull shook his head. “That will come. Perhaps with time, perhaps tomorrow.”

  “He’s the one, Brian is the one who rescued me. I don’t know how he could have possibly found me, but he came crashing through the door and saved me. He killed two of the Germans, took the other one into custody. Later I learned that one had simply… disappeared. And, the way Brian held me, and kissed me, and took care of me after, I positively know he loves me, too. Vicar? Would it… would it be all right,” she asked tentatively, “for the woman to ask the man to marry her?”

  Time: 1630, GMT, September 23, 1940

  Place: Cellar of the MI-5 Building, Bayswater Road,

  London, N.W. 1, England

  Brian towered over the slightly built German agent he had captured in Brighton. The small, stone-walled cell in the basement of the MI-5 building had a dank, damp nature. Windowless, it let in none of the sun and let out none of the wetness that clung in glistening patches to the rough walls. The light in the room came from a battery of kleig lights on stands around the room.

  They had been arranged in such a manner so that no matter where the prisoner looked, one of them bore into his eyes. Snoods and barn-door shutters protected the interrogation team from their glare. Brian had first come here directly from sending Plumm back to the future. He had returned at least once a week ever since. No one else ever spoke to the cornered rat on the stool in the center of the room. That added to the effect of Brian’s voice when he summed up the situation.

  “You are a German citizen, caught in the act of espionage against the British Empire during time of war. For that, you can be hanged.”

  Flannery decided to bluster. “I was not wearing a British military uniform. I wasn’t wearing any sort of uniform. You are not permitted under international law and the Geneva Convention to hang me.”

  Brian leaned in close, his Native American hawk nose inches from the button counterpart on the face of Flannery. “Let’s get one thing straight between us, shall we? At the present time, with your country bombing the hell out of the innocent civilians of my country, I can do anything I goddamned well want to do to you.

  “For instance”—Brian gestured to one of the other two men in the room—“I can have my associates here pound your skull with a sock full of sand until your brain turns to porridge.” At his nod, the MI-5 agent stepped forward and swiftly slapped Flannery over one ear with a sand-filled cosh. “Smarts some, doesn’t it?”

  Flannery had gone utterly pale, except for the tip of that ear, which had absorbed some of the blow. Nervously, he licked his lips. Brian leaned in on him again and Flannery flinched back.

  “Or I can have my other associate fire up his blowtorch. I understand your Gestapo has a particular fondness for them.”

  With a pop and roar, the brass instrument in the hands of Tony Bellknap came to life. The flame slowly turned blue-white. Flannery made a gagging sound. “You can’t… you wouldn’t. You—you English are civilized.”

  “As opposed to your Nazi masters?” Brian taunted. “As I said, you could be hanged. Or you could give up your whole cell and anyone else you know of and simply be interned for the duration. What will it be?”

  Flannery seized at that flimsy straw of hope. “Do you mean that? Would you assure that I will not be executed?”

  “Not even a firing squad, old boy. Provided you cooperate fully.”

  Flannery sighed and averted his eyes. After a deep breath, and with shoulders sagged in dejection, the words began to spill out of him. First came the names of those in his cell. Only two others were German. The remaining three turned out to be Irish and a disgruntled Scot.

  “They gather the information and I digest it and transmit it to the Abwehr.”

  “Is that by radio?”

  Flannery bit his lip before answering Brian. “Not… always. There have been meetings with submarines.”

  Brian pressed his luck. “Do you have a schedule for those meetings?”

  Flannery nodded his head. “Yes. It’s in my codebook. You’ll find that in a hollowed brick on the hearth in my flat.” He next discussed the nature of the information that they collected and that he transmitted. Their very best source, he verified, was Plumm. Who was an odd duck at best. Brian perked up at that.

  “Such as?”

  Flannery raised his eyes for the first time. “The way he wanted his pay. Plumm was obsessed with a mineral. Sort of like mica, only not so plentiful. Germanium, it’s called. There’s plenty of it in Germany, though, not like some other countries.”

  “And you… obtained it for him?”

  “Yes, through Abwehr sources.” Flannery looked uncomfortable, frightened now that he had been milked dry. “There’s nothing else I can tell you.”

  “Oh, come, there must be something more,” prompted Brian. “A little gossip among spies could produce a gold mine of information for us.”

  Flannery furrowed his brow. “There is one thing. More a rumor than any hard facts. I’ve heard of a top agent, one trained at the Abwehr school in the Schwarzwald, who transmits messages to an Abwehr station in France, and also operates a directional beacon to guide the bombers. Only thing is, it’s a woman. She’s believed to be working for your military somehow, and operating out of Coventry.”

  That last remark confirmed what Arkady had told him. It also chilled Brian to the marrow. An image flashed in his mind, and once more he roughly rejected it. It could not be. Not Sam—not his Samantha—a double agent.

  Time: 1543, GMT, September 27, 1940

  Place: Outskirts of Coventry,

  Warwickshire, England

  Brian did not want to use Samantha on this one. For one thing, there could be considerable danger involved in the capture of such an important agent. For another, although he had dismissed the possibility when he first found himself falling in love with Samantha, Brian had to accept that there remained
a very slight chance that she was a double agent.

  Ruefully, he recalled the lessons he had learned in trust as a child. His parents and grandparents had trusted the American troops. They had gone to Wounded Knee with the belief that there would be food, warm, shelter, and peace for all the foreseeable future. They found instead the promise of death. In the split second before he joined all the rest of his family in the Sky World, a promise from the far, far future had whisked Steve Whitefeather to safety. He had awakened in a world beyond all comprehension. He had to trust in Samantha’s bona fides. For those reasons he took Tony Bellknap and Harrison Wigglesby from the Home Office and two technicians from MI-5.

  They arrived in Coventry in late afternoon, driving a mover’s lorry and a plumber’s panel truck. At Brian’s direction, they would set up at right angles to one another outside the city on the south and east. Brian briefed them before they split up.

  “There should not be any radio signals from within the area. Military traffic from outside our sweep area is the only thing you should hear. Whatever signal you detect from inside, no matter how faint, get a bearing on it and report by radio to me. I’ll be with Wigglesby on the south side of town. I’ll plot our bearing, and where the two cross, we’ll find our broadcaster. That’s how the Germans do it, too. They have loop antennas in the outermost aircraft of a squadron, port and starboard. With them, they shoot bearings to two or more ground stations and where they all cross is where the target is. Good luck, and let’s shut this one down fast.”

  Time: 2116, GMT, September 27, 1940

  Place: Penthouse Casino, the Mayfair Hotel,