by Simon Hawke
“How long did it take before you learned to handle the pressure?" she said.
Neilson had laughed. "Are you kidding? I still have nightmares. Almost every night, except when I'm so exhausted that Idon't even dream. And I'll tell you a secret—I don't really believe that anyone ever learns to handle it. They just learn to live with it. It's no accident that the First Division has a reputation for being such a bunch of hellraisers in Plus Time. You get drunk; you fight: you fuck: you get into high risk sports: whatever it takes to give you an outlet for the pressure."
"What do you do?" she said.
"Well. I don't drink and I'm afraid I'm not much of a. fighter." Neilson had said. "I barely made it through combat training."
She had smiled. "So what does that leave?"
Neilson grinned self-consciously. "Well, actually, not what you might think. Iget into a lot of hand-eye coordination things.”
"Like what?"
"Quick-draw target practice with antique revolvers and semiautomatic pistols. Knife throwing, Darts. Sleight-of-
"What's that?"
"Itused to be called close-up magic. Tricks with cards and coins and such." He had demonstrated by "walking" a coin across his lingers. "It requires lots of practice and concentration." he had said. "It takes your mind off other things and it sharpens your reflexes. Helps you think fast. Maybe you should give it a try."
"Well, antique firearms are noisy. I don't have any knives or darts. I'm not really in the mood for any magic tricks and Idon't much feel like getting drunk and waking up with a hangover." She smiled. "What does that leave? You want to run down that list again'?"
They had spent the night together and their lovemaking had been frenzied and intense. Afterwards, they went to sleep holding each other and, for a change, there had been no nightmares. But then Moreau had abducted H. G. Wells and now the pressure was hack on, savage and relentless. It felt as if her every nerve synapse were charged with adrenaline-induced, hair-trigger sensitivity. She was scared, yet at the same time, there was an intoxicating rush associated with it, almost an orgasmic high, the intense, heightened perceptions of a sword dancer. She didn't realize just how intense it was until someone came up behind her and addressed her in a deep voice. "Excuse me; Miss, how much for a buttonhole?"
It wasn't until almost a full minute later that she fully realized what had happened. None of it had taken place with any conscious thought. She had turned and, in a galvanizing, white hot blast of instinctual response, the sight of the gun had registered and she reacted, throwing herself to one side as the dart missed her by scant millimeters. She clawed for her revolver, fired—but he was already gone and the bullet passed through empty air where he had been standing just a second earlier and struck a lamppost, ricocheting off it and whining away into the distance.
“Damn!" she shouted. "God damn it! Jesus . And then she noticed several
people on the street staring at her with astonishment and she felt the delayed stress reaction kicking in. She quickly hit her warp disc and clocked out, materializing in the Hotel Metropole command post just as the dry heaves began. At some point, she became aware of Delaney standing over her and holding her while she retched, gasping for breath.
"We're blown," she said. "Dammit, we're blown! Drakov almost got me!"
Delaney didn't even pause to wait for an explanation. He bolted into the other room to wake up Steiger and then Christine Brant was steadying her, helping her
to the couch as the shakes began.
It did not occur to her until much later that she had survived an encounter with the Temporal Corps' worst nemesis. Nikolai Drakov had the drop on her and she had lived to tell the tale. She wasn't a rookie anymore.
Pvt. Dick Larson stood over the body numbly staring down at what was left of Cpl. Tom Davis. The corpse was lying in a crumpled heap next to a pile of refuse in the alley. Blood was everywhere, covering the chest and spattered on the alley wall. The head was barely attached by a few ragged threads of flesh. Someone . . . or something ... had twisted his head around completely, severing the spinal column, and then the body had been thrown across the alley. A large splatter of blood marked the spot where Davis had been killed and then another one marked the wall at about shoulder level where the thrown body had struck it and then dropped down to the ground.
"Thought you should sec this." Inspector Grayson said. "That's your friend Davis, from the Telegraph, isn't it'?" Larson nodded mutely.
"I'm sorry." said Grayson. "He seemed a decent sort. It looks as if he may have found our killer. Or the killer found him. I know the two of you were working together on this story. I thought perhaps you might be able to tell me what he was on to.'
Larson shook his head and turned away from the grisly sight. "I honestly don't know, Inspector."
"What was he doing down here?" Grayson said.
"Same thing I've been doing. I imagine,” Larson said. "Canvassing the pubs, questioning the locals. He must have stumbled onto something."
"Yes, apparently." said Grayson with a sour grimace. "Look, don't misunderstand me. I appreciate the restraint you've shown in writing about these killings and you've lived up to our bargain in keeping certain details confidential, but if you've discovered anything that you're not telling me, I want to know about it now."
"I wish I did have something to tell you, Inspector," Larson said, "but if Davis had uncovered something, he never had the chance to tell me."
"You're quite certain?" Grayson said, watching him carefully.
"Tom Davis was no fool," said Larson, "nor was he a hero. If he had learned the killer's identity, he would never have kept it to himself and he certainly would not have risked confronting him alone."
"Not even for the sake of an exclusive story?" Grayson said.
"Tom was much more than a colleague, Inspector," Larson said. "He was a close friend. I knew him. He wouldn't do anything like that."
"Well, I hope you're right," said Grayson. "I'd hate to think that a man died for something so foolhardy. I suppose the newspapers are truly going to scream about this. Losing one of their own and so forth. I don't wish to seem callous, Larson, but I do hope you will employ some discretion when you write your story. The manner of death is, after all, not quite like the others. There is no real evidence that the killer was the same."
"But you don't really believe that," Larson said.
Grayson looked down at the ground and pursed his lips thoughtfully. "No, I don't." he said after a moment. "Whoever killed poor Davis had to possess astonishing strength. Much like what happened in the courtyard, when those men were thrown about like so much chaff. Perhaps we'll be able to learn something from an examination of the body, but I'm almost beginning to believe that we may he faced with something beyond our ability to understand. There is some sort of horror loose in London, something that—" He caught himself and glanced up at Larson quickly. "I hope you will not quote me," he said.
Larson shook his head. "I have already forgotten what you said, Inspector."
Grayson looked relieved. "Thank you. My superiors are making things difficult enough for me as it is. For what it's worth, I promise you that I won't rest until I find this fiend and bring him to justice. And I shall find him. I swear it.''
Larson nodded and looked hack at the body. "I'll have to inform his . . . his family."
"Would you rather I do that?" said Grayson.
"No, I think it would be best if they were to hear it from me," said Larson. "I'd better go and see to it, before the news reaches them some other way."
"I understand," said Grayson. "Forgive me if I seemed a bit—"
“No need,” said Larson. "You have your job to do." "Yes, and I'd best be on about it," Grayson said. "Please pass on my condolences to the poor chap's family." "Thank you, Inspector. I'll do that."
Grayson looked at him strangely for a moment. ' Larson . . do be careful."
"God damn it, no!" Delaney said. "It's much too dangerous."
&nb
sp; "We have no choice," said Steiger. "If we're blown, we've got to move the command post now and that means someone has to stay behind and get word to all our people."
"We know where most of our people are," Delaney said. "We could set up a rendezvous and clock out separately, pass the word on to everyone directly—"
"And what happens if some of them clock in while we're out looking for them?" Steiger said. "They'd have no idea that we're blown and they'd be sitting ducks if Drakov made a strike on the command post. Besides, I don't want to risk having everyone spread out all over the place. That makes us vulnerable. We have no idea where Davis and Larson are—"
"Davis is dead," said Larson, entering the room.
"What!" said Steiger. "How? What happened?"
"I've just left Grayson. They found Davis in an alley behind a pub in Whitechapel," Larson said. "His head was twisted around 360 degrees, practically torn right off his neck."
"Ransome must have talked," Delaney said.
"What about Ransome?" Larson said.
"He's missing," said Christine Bram. "He was late checking in and there's been no sign of him.”
"Drakov must have got a hold of him somehow," said Delaney. "We're blown. Ransome must have told him about the entire operation.•'
"I don't believe it," Larson said. "Paul would never break." "The hell he wouldn't," Delaney said. "Be realistic. Anyone can be deprogrammed. How else could we have been blown?" "It might have been Rizzo," Andre said.
"Rizzo's missing, too?" said Larson.
Andre nodded. "I showed up to relieve him and there was no sign of him. I found his pushcart abandoned in the street. No one even had a chance to steal it yet."
"And Drakov made a try for Linda," Christine Brant said. "She got off a shot at him, but he was too quick."
"Jesus,- Larson said "tie's picking us off one at a time!"
"Which is exactly why I don't want everyone spread out now," Steiger said. "We've got to pull in and regroup. And the sooner we're out of here, the better."
The door opened and Paul Ransome walked in.
"What's going on?" he said.
"Ransome!" Steiger said. "Where the hell have you been?" "Checking out the estates on our list, as I was supposed to be doing," he said.
"You missed your check-in by four hours!" said Delaney.
"Yes, sir, I know," said Ransome. "I'm sorry, but I discovered something and I wanted to make sure before I pushed the button."
"What are you talking about?" said Steiger.
"I found Drakov's base of operations,- Ransome said. "He's at an estate in Richmond Hill."
The sprawling Victorian mansion stood atop the hill overlooking the Thames Valley in Richmond, Surrey. The furnishings were all still in place and the pantry was fully stocked, as was the wine cellar. Otherwise, the house was empty. If there
had been any servants employed in the mansion, they were gone now. There was nothing to indicate that anyone from another time had been present in the house and. for that matter, the mansion didn't even look abandoned. It simply looked as if no one was home, but the clothes closets were all empty and toilet articles were missing from the bathrooms. On closer examination, they found where the security systems had been concealed and then hastily removed.
"That's it," said Steiger. He glanced at Ransome and nodded. "Drakov was here, all right, but he apparently cleared out in a hurry."
"Sir," said Larson, "take a look at this.- He showed Steiger a sheaf of newspaper clippings about the killings in Whitechapel. "They were lying on a table in the library. Along with this." He handed Steiger a handsome first edition of Dracula. by Bram Stoker. A book that Stoker hadn't even written yet.
"Cute," said Steiger. "Obviously left behind for us to find. He's awful goddamn sure of himself."
"It may not be safe for us to stay here," Andre said.
"You think Drakov would booby-trap this place?" Delaney said. "That's not his style. Much too impersonal."
"Maybe, but I wouldn't want to bet on that," said Steiger. "Be careful what you touch."
"So it was Rizzo, then." Andre said.
Steiger nodded. "It had to be. He's the only one left unaccounted for. We can probably assume he's dead by now. We'd better get someone down to the crime lab at Scotland Yard to warn Neilson. He'll be getting off duty there soon and I don't want him going back to the Metropole."
"What do we do about a new base-ops'?" Andre said. "If Rizzo's talked. we can't use any of our fallback safehouses." "I've been thinking about that," Steiger said, "and I have an idea. Probably the last place Drakov would expect us to use. And maybe it would let us kill two birds with one stone."
Ransome coughed and sagged against a doorframe.
"Ransome," said Delaney. "are you all right'!'
He nodded. "Yes. sir. I'm just tired, I guess. I'll be okay." "You look a little pale."
"Nothing to worry about, sir, I'm fine, really."
"We're all tired•" Andre said. "And we're not getting anyplace. At this rate, we'll all be asleep on our feet soon. We need another safehouse. What did
you have in mind, Creed?"
"Number 7 Mornington Place." said Steiger.
"But that's H. G. Wells' house!" said Christine Brant. Steiger nodded.
"Wells is the only really solid lead we've got. He's become the primary focus of temporal interference in this scenario. Forrester was right. We're going right back to square one. Moreau must have had a reason for abducting Wells. He's got to be in this with Drakov and they must have a plan for using Wells somehow,"
"But if Rizzo's been wrung dry, then Drakov knows we've been keeping Wells under surveillance," Brant said.
"And he also knows we've lost him," Steiger said. "He'll expect us to continue watching Wells' house and we won't disappoint him. Drakov won't expect us to be using a house we're keeping under surveillance."
"What about Amy Robbins?" Brant said.
-We'll have to keep her prisoner inside thehouse," said Steiger.
"But what are we going to tell her?" said Christine. "We don't tell her anything."
"I don't think that's wise, Creed," Delaney said. "I see what Christine's getting at. The poor woman will be terrified enough, it'll beeven worse if she has no idea what's going on. It would be easier if we could get her cooperation. If we get Wells back, he's going to have to be debriefed anyway and we can have her debriefed at the same time. And if we don't get him back. Amy Robbins will be the least of our problems."
"All right," said Steiger reluctantly, "but she doesn't leave the house for even a second. And she's to be watched every moment.-
"Sounds like you're taking yourself off command post duty." Andre said.
“You got that right," Steiger said. "We've lost two people and I'm not losing anymore. Brant, as of right now, you're in charge of logistics at the new command post.-
"Sir," she said, "with all due respect, regulations specify that the senior
officer—"
"Screw regulations. I'm tired of sitting on my hands. Besides, since you're so concerned about Amy Robbins, you can babysit her. You're in charge and that's a direct order."
"Yes, sir."
"All right, Larson and Craven, you get to Scotland Yard and brief Neilson.
I'm pulling him out of there. If we're blown, then so is he. Wait till its dark and then get over to Wells' house. Make sure nobody sees you going in. We'll meet you there."
"What about Conan Doyle?" said Andre.
"I'm tempted to pull all surveillance off him," Steiger said. "We're spread too thin as it is. But if Drakov knows we've been watching him, he might decide to take advantage of our cancelling surveillance on him. No, it's too risky. And I want someone on Bram Stoker from now on, as well."
"I can handle that, sir," said Linda Craven.
"All right. You'll work shifts with Neilson," Steiger said. "Larson, cover as much ground as you can on your own and keep in close touch with Grayson. Andre, you cover Conan Doyle. Rans
ome will relieve you. Ransome, I want you to get some rest first. You look dead. Between the rest of us, we'll cover Wells' house, the docks and Whitechapel."
