Valentines Day
Page 7
Doc had been to this year before. And met mobsters before, specifically Bugsy Seigal and Meyer Lansky in New York City. And ended up wearing cement shoes and being dumped in Long Island Sound. This looked like it might end before it even got started.
Some things change; some don’t.
“You got the note?” the man asked.
Ivar took a moment to get oriented. He was in a café. Mostly empty. An old man sitting on a stool at the counter. A cook in the kitchen. An old waitress leaning on a wall in the far corner, staring wistfully out of the window at the quiet street where a light snow was falling. And the guy with the gun.
“Yes.”
“Cough it up.”
Ivar reached for the inside coat pocket.
“Easy!” the man said, catching a glimpse of the holstered gun.
Ivar carefully slid the note out and put it on the table.
With his free hand, the man took it. He unfolded it with some difficulty, still keeping the gun at the ready.
He read it. Slowly, lips moving. “That’s got to be it.” He holstered the gun in a shoulder holster and smiled. “Guess this means I’m gonna be alive for a while yet.”
“Who are you?” Ivar asked.
The man shook the note. “I’m the guy whose gonna get Meyer Lansky to write this some time after today, right?”
“Is that a question?”
“Is that an answer?”
“I don’t understand,” Ivar said.
“Makes two of us.” The guy grinned. “I don’t either, buddy.” There was a light in his eyes, and it took Ivar a moment, then it clicked. Crazy eyes.
The man began reading the note again, his forehead furrowed in concentration. “I gotta remember this.”
Crazy eyes and dumb. Not a good combination in Ivar’s experience.
Done, the man folded the note and gave it back. “So you’re Ivar?”
“It’s in the note.”
“Yeah. Got that. Capone’s out of town. At his joint in Florida. Bugs and his guys are supposed to meet in the garage down the street. Then some of them are heading to Detroit to get a shipment of booze.”
“It’s a set up,” Ivar said.
The man grinned again, his eyes dancing. “You know that? Yeah, guess you would. Bugs is so stupid he thinks the Purple Gang in Detroit is gonna sell him some booze on the cheap? Even though Moran knows Al owns them? Dumb as a rock. Deserves to die.”
“Yeah,” Ivar said. “And you are?”
“Strings.”
“Excuse me?”
“They call me Strings.”
Ivar was checking the download but there was no mention of a ‘Strings’. Edith had missed something. Or, Ivar realized, left something out. If Strings was a Time Patrol A-I-T, then maybe Ivar didn’t have a need to know.
Not fraking likely, Ivar thought.
Strings reached into a pocket and pulled out a piece of piano wire, two feet long, with a piece of wood on each end. “One of my strings,” he said. “I’m up to eighteen now. So that’s the, what you call it, plurals, of string. Strings. I like doing my jobs close and personal like.”
“Okay,” Ivar said, for lack of anything else. Something occurred to him. “If Capone is out of town, why did I need the note?”
“I needed it,” Strings said. “To make sure you is who you say you is.”
Maybe not so dumb, Ivar thought.
Strings indicated the shoulder holster. “You good with that piece you’re packing?”
“I can shoot,” Ivar said. He had spent time on the range at Bragg. He also remembered the barely restrained looks of disgust among the instructors about his lack of martial talent. He’d sent bullets down range. Some had even hit targets.
“How about a Chicago typewriter?”
“A what?” Download supplied definition. “A Thompson submachine gun?”
“Yeah. A tommy-gun. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat.”
“I’ve fired one,” Ivar said, “but I’m not proficient.” As soon as he said it, Ivar regretted it, because he realized what he’d just done.
“Okay, fair enough,” Strings said. “Not like Tony or Sam is gonna give up their blaster anyways.”
“Where are the others?” Ivar asked.
“Around.” Strings nodded toward a phone hanging on the wall. “We’ll call them when the time is right.”
Which was supposed to be when Bugs Moran arrived, except he didn’t. That was the way history was supposed to play out. The question was: how was the Shadow trying to change this? And why? Who cared about these psychopathic gangsters? What if Moran did show up and was killed today? Would that change anything important?
Ivar knew what Dane would make of his mental gymnastics and decided not to waste any more time on it. He slumped back in the booth, now somewhat aware of his role for the day. The odor wafting out of the kitchen caused his stomach to rumble. “Can I get breakfast first?”
“Sure. Then we deliver a bloody Valentine.”
“Men are not prisoners of fate, but prisoners of their own mind.”
—President Franklin Roosevelt
The Great Bitter Lake, 14 February 1945 A.D.
EAGLE WASN’T THERE, and then he was there, but he’d always sort of been there. It was the best way to explain how he arrived, becoming part of his current time and place without fanfare or excitement, which was irrelevant, since there was no one else around him. He was in the bubble of this day, not before, and hopefully he wouldn’t be here afterward.
Truly, because the immediate ‘there’ was a tight enclosed space and Eagle wasn’t a fan of that unless he had the controls for an aircraft in front of him.
He was in a gray, steel room, barely big enough for his large frame, and as he turned, he hit his head on a crossbeam. Stifling a curse, Eagle put his hands on the wheel to open the hatch. It was stifling hot in the room, easily over one hundred degrees.
The wheel didn’t budge.
The only light came from a dim, grimy bulb, which was flickering uncertainly.
Eagle closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing in a conscious attempt to regulate his heart rate, which was beating more rapidly than he would have preferred.
It is 1945 A.D.. Rod Stewart is born; War correspondent Joseph Morton becomes the only Allied reporter executed by the Axis; Audie Murphy wins the Medal of Honor; Auschwitz and Birkenau are liberated; the Burma Road opens; the Zionist World Congress asks the British government to found Israel, Britain demurs for the time being; the Yalta Conference between Roosevelt, Stalin and Churchill tries to establish a post-war Europe; Arthur C. Clarke introduces the concept of a geosynchronous communications satellite.
Eagle was trapped inside metal, unable to escape
Some things change; some don’t.
Eagle opened his eyes, his heart rate, almost, but not quite, normal. He could feel the slight sway in the deck, indicating he was likely on the Quincy. It was going to be a long twenty-four hours if he couldn’t get out of this place.
The wheel suddenly turned and Eagle tensed.
The hatch opened and a man in uniform was silhouetted in the brighter passageway light.
“Strange,” the man said, looking Eagle up and down. “Not what I expected, but I wasn’t sure what to expect, so I suppose that makes sense.”
Eagle’s eyes adjusted. The man was an Army general. There was a Silver Star at the top of the ribbons on his chest, some of which Eagle didn’t immediately recognize but assumed were service ribbons from World War II and dating back to World War I, given the man’s age.
The download was spitting up information about service ribbons but Eagle skipped those and locked identity into place: General Edwin ‘Pa’ Watson. President Roosevelt’s Military Advisor and Appointments Secretary. In essence, his Chief of Staff.
“General,” Eagle said, uncertain how to proceed since this was the first time he’d been met by a Time Patrol agent on one of his missions. He also remembered that on Scout’s first mission t
he ‘agent’ had turned out to be an assassin working for the Shadow.
Watson took a step back, allowing Eagle to exit the small enclosure.
The passageway was empty, but voices echoed from the deck above. The throb of engines reverberated through the ship.
“King Saud will be on-board shortly,” Watson said. “Why are you here? What’s going to happen?”
The way he phrased the latter question and the fact he’d known Eagle was in the compartment, indicated the meeting was more than chance, but Eagle wasn’t certain. “You were expecting me, sir?”
“I was expecting someone,” Watson said.
“Why?” Eagle asked.
“I was told someone would be here a very long time ago.”
“How long ago?”
Watson’s eyes went vacant for a moment, accessing memory in a foggy brain. “After I resigned from the Academy in oh-four.”
The download confirmed that Watson had taken six years to make it through the four year program at West Point: he’d been discharged in his plebe year for failing math; then re-admitted. Then he’d resigned in 1904, but came back the following summer. After entering with the class of 1906, he’d finally graduated with the class of 1908, a year before George S. Patton.
“Who did you meet?” Eagle asked.
“An old woman,” Watson said.
“And she told you I would be here? On this ship? Today?”
Watson nodded. “Yes. Forty-one years ago. Today. Fourteen February. Nineteen-oh-four. I was on the Plain. Done with it all. Already resigned from the Academy. Standing at Trophy Point, bidding my Rockbound Highland home adieu. And she was there. In a robe. With a staff. And she told me the path I was choosing, thought I was choosing, was not my path. It was not my choice.” He grimaced. “Imagine that? I thought she was some crackpot, but then she told me things, things no one else could have known.” He locked down briefly. “Secrets.” He looked back up. “She told me what I must do—go back into the Academy and graduate. And she told me of things to come.” Watson grimaced. “Every single one has come true.
“And now I’m meeting you. In retrospect, I believe that was the correct choice, given all that has transpired since. I’m here today, on board this ship with the President, and now you’re here.”
Watson didn’t look well. His skin was pale, his shoulders slumped. The download indicated he would be dead in six days. Cerebral hemorrhage while the ship was off the coast of Algiers on its way back to the States; presaging Roosevelt’s death by a few months.
“Do you know who the old woman was?” Watson asked.
Eagle had a very good idea—a Fate, which added a troubling variable to this mission. “No.”
“Why are you here?” Watson didn’t seem very enthusiastic. “What are you? A cook?”
“I’m a pilot,” Eagle said. “And a soldier.”
Watson nodded. “I imagine things are different where you’re from. I guess I should say when you’re from. But, Negroes are serving now with distinction on all fronts. It is to be expected that will continue and expand. I don’t suppose you want to tell me when you are from?”
“I can’t.”
“Yes,” Watson said. “The rules. Always rules. But rules are important. You know the President has a rule. He can’t be photographed in the chair. So I have to hold him up. Either me or his son, but James is in the Marines now.” Once more his gaze grew vacant. “The President bears such a heavy burden. I wonder who will help him if I can’t.”
“Why do you say that?” Eagle asked.
Watson reached out and put a shaking hand on Eagle’s shoulder. “I’m ill, son. You can see that. So is Franklin. I don’t think either of us has much longer. I just hope I can last long enough to keep the President standing. Because the country is going to need him to stand. Especially once he uses that A-bomb if those fellows in Los Alamos ever get the damn thing working. Oppenheimer says there will be nothing left of Berlin but ash. But I suppose you know the answer to how that turns out.”
Eagle did. They’d get it working.
But Berlin wasn’t supposed to be the target.
“It is natural for people to behave in a loving way.”
—Hawaiian saying
Hawaii, 14 February 1779 A.D.
ROLAND WASN’T THERE, and then he was there, but he’d sort of always been there. It was the best way to explain how he arrived, becoming part of his current time and place without fanfare or excitement among those around him, although Roland was ready for an attack from any direction.
Which was the way Roland always arrived and a good thing, because a figure came running up out of the dark along a jungle path toward him. The man was dressed in a naval uniform, of higher standing than Roland since he had a buttoned shirt and frock coat and shoes.
“Help!” the officer called out.
Chasing the officer were two native Hawaiian men, clubs raised.
Roland pulled the cutlass and raised the boarding axe. Each weapon took a blow from a club as the Hawaiians focused their rage on him. The blows staggered Roland back, but he went on the offensive, slashing with the cutlass, drawing blood across one attacker’s chest. Roland continued the movement, swinging the boarding axe. It knocked the club out of the second man’s hands.
The second man got in a blow, missing Roland’s head but hitting his shoulder with a solid strike. Roland ignored the pain and cut the man again with the cutlass across the back of the hand holding the club. It fell.
Both natives ran off, leaving their weapons.
Roland looked down the trail for anyone else.
“There were just two,” the officer said. “Excellent job.”
Roland turned. The officer hadn’t offered any help during the brief combat, not that there’d been much opportunity. The images in the download strongly suggested that man was Captain Cook.
“What happened, sir?” Roland asked.
Cook cursed. “Fools. They stole my saber. When I demanded it back, they tried to kill me. We can’t trust these savages. They’ll steal anything that isn’t secured. We will prepare a proper solution to this problem in the morning.”
And then, not quite as quickly as he’d appeared, Captain Cook disappeared down the trail.
Roland remained where he was. Nothing about this in the download.
So.
The morning would be soon enough for him to die.
Roland didn’t believe in easy, but maybe this mission was already over? He took the trail in the direction Cook had gone for lack of any other plan.
After a few minutes he came to a beach. There were two sailing ships at anchor in Kealakekua Bay: Cook’s flagship the Resolution and the HMS Discovery. A boat was rowing out toward the Resolution.
Cook hadn’t even bothered to wait for him.
Roland shrugged. Rank hath its privileges.
A noise to one side along the beach alerted Roland. He turned, reaching for his weapons. A beautiful young woman was walking toward him in the moonlight. She wore only a skirt, her perfect breasts coming directly at Roland, more deadly than many other weapons he’d faced.
Roland took a step back and looked from side to side, searching for an escape. He was on a rocky beach, waves crashing in on the right. Jungle to the left, quickly ascending to a ridge. There was the trail, but there were two bodies not far from it.
The woman was smiling and she stopped, gesturing with a hand for him to come to her.
Roland closed his eyes. “Neeley,” he whispered, trying to get oriented.
It is 1779 A.D. Spanish troops take the town of Baton Rouge from the British; Tekle Giyorgis I starts his first of five terms as Emperor of Ethiopia; Francis Scott Keye is born; General ‘Mad’ Anthony Wayne takes Stony Point from the British; the Great Siege of Gibraltar begins and lasts over three years and at the end, the British are still there.
When Roland opened his eyes, the half-naked woman was still there.
Some things change; some don’t.
Roland shook his head. “No, thanks.”
But he had a moment of doubt, not lust. Was this woman also the mission?
He spun about as he heard voices behind him, but it was just another sailor, running after a native girl who was laughing. They dashed past without even acknowledging Roland and disappeared into the darkness down the beach.
The girl gestured again and said something in a language Roland didn’t understand. But even Roland could decipher the implicit invitation in the tone and the way she stood.
He shook his head once more. “I’ve got a woman.” He blushed, although it passed unseen. Calling Neeley his woman out loud didn’t sound strange at all.
The situation was exacerbated when a second woman came out of the jungle and joined the first. They both gestured for him to go with them into the jungle.
Roland couldn’t make out much detail in the dark, but there was no doubting both were beautiful, tall, and in excellent shape. The latter was something Roland could appreciate on various levels.
He looked over his shoulder. No one. This mission was shaping up to be the oddest yet, and that included battling Grendel in Heorot and being trapped in the Valley of Death at Gettysburg on the day after Pickett’s Charge.
For some reason, Roland felt this was more dangerous than either of those.
“Who are you?” Roland demanded, wishing Edith had included the native tongue in the download.
The women looked at each other, then approached.
Roland took a step back, “Uh-uh,” but he didn’t bring up the axe or redraw the cutlass from his belt.