by Bill Walker
Bock smiled wryly. “You seemed so sure of your theories when we first met, Doctor. Are you doubting yourself now?”
Chessman grew angry again. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Then we shall proceed.”
“But Kruger is not yet fully conditioned. He isn’t ready.”
“Why don’t we ask him?”
Behind him, Chessman heard the steel door click open again. Without even looking, he knew it was Kruger. Aside from Bock, no one scared him more than Werner Kruger. The man walked into the pool of light surrounding the big, marble table and regarded Chessman with an ironic smile. On Kruger it looked like the grin of a hungry wolf. He stood six feet tall, with the tough, wiry body of one who worked out and ran many miles a day. His ice-blond hair was cut similarly to Bock’s, and he had a short scar running from his right temple to a point just a centimeter from his right nostril. It gave him a quick, feral look, a look reflected in his cold, light-gray eyes. He turned to Bock, clicked his heels, and bowed sharply.
“Guten Tag, Werner,” Bock said, smiling like a proud father. “The good doctor is worried that you may not be ready to make the journey. What do you say?”
Kruger turned to Chessman, his eyes taking on a fierce expression.
“I am ready,” he said.
“Excellent,” Bock said, clapping his hands together. “All your accoutrements have been assembled. Your documents and money. Is there anything else you require?”
“The Semtex and detonators?”
“Secured and ready.”
Suddenly, Bock’s eyebrows shot up, as if he’d forgotten something. “Herr Doktor?”
“Yes, sir?”
“There is still the one question you have not yet answered to the satisfaction of my colleagues... The most important one of all. If we are to proceed, we must have your answer now.”
Bock paused a moment, his expression growing grim and determined. “If Kruger succeeds, will we know it?”
Chessman remained calm, even though the tension in the room crept up a notch. Bock had brought up the one enigma central to his research, the one single, most important question that could be asked, the one question Chessman dreaded:
If someone were to change history, would any... could any of them be aware of that change and take advantage of it?
The answer to that riddle involved the very nature of time itself. Up to now, aside from Kruger’s two short, and seemingly innocuous, jaunts into the past, everything remained theory and conjecture.
Chessman felt his stomach churn as he scanned the others at the table. The Nine Old Men stared back at him, waiting for his answer, their dead-alive eyes shining like polished obsidian. With his heart pounding and his stomach roiling, Chessman sat up and cleared his throat.
“Gentlemen. As you know, in the course of my research, I have grappled with this one aspect of my theory many times. My calculations have filled hundreds of notebooks and hours of computer time. What I have discovered is that foreknowledge is all-important. If one knows that the past will be changed, and then undergoes that change, a seed is planted, a seed for what I call the Paradox Effect. This effect, when triggered, will have a profound impact on the body in direct proportion to the degree of the paradox. In other words, gentlemen, the greater the change, the more intense the effect will be. Because of this and your advanced ages, I cannot say with certainty that any of you will survive it.”
The Nine Old Men nodded, their wizened faces without a trace of emotion.
Chessman continued. “As to your question, the answer is yes. The only ones who will know that history has changed are those in this room. Everyone else will perceive that life has always been thus.”
“You are forgetting something, my dear professor,” Bock said. “Whoever broke in here will know as well.”
Chessman looked stricken.
Bock smiled and waved his arm casually. “No matter. We will proceed as planned. If you are right, Doctor, then we shall triumph, and whoever has trespassed will be swept away on the tides of a glorious new history.”
Relieved by Bock’s reaction, Chessman interrupted, something he would never normally do.
“There is one final detail,” he said. “At first, like everyone else, you may be unaware that history has changed. It will then take some catalyst, some small spark, to trigger the Paradox Effect that will bring back your memories of a different past. Until that happens, our lives will be as changed as everyone else’s. We will remember nothing.”
Chapter Three
Stamford, Connecticut
5 August 1993
Wiley pulled the rental car to the curb in front of a small, nondescript building in Stamford’s deserted downtown. Jack yawned, scratched the stubble on his chin, then glanced at his watch.
Six thirty.
“You sure he’s going to be there?”
“Yeah, Curly’s an early bird,” Wiley said. “He’ll be there.”
Jack nodded, opened his car door, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The air, redolent with the smells of garbage and exhaust fumes, hung like a steamy, choking cloud over the town. It made his clothes feel sticky, and the area where his shirt collar rubbed his neck itched like a thousand fire ants crawled there. Another dog day in August.
He unbuttoned the collar, stretched, shook his head, and took a deep breath. It was funny. No matter where you went these days, every downtown looked alike. Stamford was no different. Jack recalled the last hectic hours. Swept up in Wiley’s fervor, the two of them had jumped into Wiley’s rental car and sped to Miami International Airport, arriving there just after midnight. They’d dashed for the last Delta flight to LaGuardia.
“I’ve got a friend who can help us,” Wiley said, when they pulled into the Hertz lot. “If anyone can put this all into perspective, Curly can.”
“Either that or he’s going to think we’re crazy.”
“Not Curly.”
When the plane banked over Biscayne Bay, headed northward, Jack remembered something else Wiley had said about his friend.
“Curly will help us. Especially where men like Bock are concerned.”
“Why? Because he’s into all these far-fetched scenarios?”
Wiley shook his head. “You ever hear of Malmedy?”
Jack frowned. “Isn’t that where all those GI prisoners were massacred?”
“Yeah. The Germans just lined ’em up and mowed ’em down.”
“What’s that got to do with Curly?”
“His father was one of them.”
The elevator took them to the top floor and opened onto a colorless hallway lit by cool-white fluorescents. There was no need to look for a specific suite, as Stoddard Consulting occupied the whole floor. A lone security guard checked their IDs and phoned them in on the intercom system. A moment later the door clicked open with a loud buzz. They walked through a sea of empty desks and found Curly Williams waiting for them at his office door with a big smile on his face.
“Wiley!” Curly said, enveloping Wiley in a warm bear hug. “How the hell are you, man?”
Wiley smiled, looking a bit dazed, as if the other man had squeezed the breath out of him.
“I’m fine, Curly. Sorry about the short notice.”
“Ah, don’t worry about it. What’re old pals for, anyway? Come in.”
The office itself was as unassuming as the outside of the building, hardly the citadel of a great thinker. It occupied the corner of the building with windows overlooking the city. The desk was simply a piece of thick plate-glass set on an ultra-modern jet-black wrought-iron frame. The chair behind was an Eames, the only concession to luxury. Everywhere else, every available space lay covered with newspapers and magazines from all over the world. The glass desk lay bare except for an expensive IBM notebook computer. Jack found it strange that there were no family photos.
They sat on the two leather chairs facing the desk while Curly walked over to his coffee machine.
“You want some coffee? You guys
look a little peaked.”
Wiley nodded. “Yeah, we didn’t get much sleep. Took the red-eye.”
Curly nodded, as if frantic late-night flights were the norm for him, and poured three cups of steaming coffee.
“So, what brings you two to sunny Stamford?” Curly said, passing Wiley two of the cups.
“Jack and I— Oh, excuse me. Curly, this is Jack.”
Jack reached out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Curly. Wiley’s told me all about you.”
“None of it good, I hope.” He chuckled.
When he saw his two friends were not laughing, he dispensed with the small talk, went behind his desk, and sat down.
“What can I do for you?”
“First, you’ve got to promise me that what we’re going to tell you will remain here,” Wiley said.
“Give me a dollar.”
“What?”
“A dollar, give me one.”
Wiley shrugged and pulled out his money clip. He peeled off a single and handed it over.
“I’m now your attorney,” Curly said. “What you tell me is privileged.”
Wiley laughed. “You always did love to dramatize.”
“Yeah, well, got to keep everyone on their toes or it all turns to crap, ya know? So, tell me, why’d you and your friend come all this way?”
Wiley took a sip of his coffee then placed the cup gently on the table.
Jack watched Curly as Wiley told him the incredible story he’d heard the night before. Curly’s craggy face remained impassive, but Jack could tell the wheels were turning.
Curly Williams was every bit the man Wiley had told him about during their long flight. He clearly dominated whatever room he was in with his big, Irish laugh, unruly shock of red hair, and lively blue eyes. In five minutes he could make you feel like you’d known each other your whole lives. He’d played college ball and had just missed the pros by a wrecked kneecap. But Curly’s real talent was not physical. He was, in a word, brilliant. The only jock to make straight A’s all four years, he’d majored in Political Science with a minor in Speech. From there, it was three years at Harvard Law School, two years as an underpaid associate in a big firm with a zillion names on its letterhead, and then his big break.
During a brown-bag lunch in the Public Gardens, an elderly gentleman struck up a conversation with him about nuclear Armageddon, and what would happen if the Russians did this or the Israelis did that. It was an interesting and challenging way to spend a lunch hour. As Curly stood up to leave, the old man handed him his card. Curly was floored. The old man was none other than Harmon Stoddard of Stoddard Consulting, an ultra-exclusive think tank operating out of Stamford, Connecticut. The man was a legend, often quoted by Curly’s Poli-Sci professors at Harvard. But the kicker came when Stoddard offered him a job. Just like that.
That was twenty years ago and now, with Stoddard dead and buried for ten years, Curly ran the company. Presidents and heads of state called Curly by his first name and valued his opinion above their advisors. Some even thought of him as a friend.
“Now you know as much as we do, Curly,” Wiley said, picking up his coffee again. “What do you think? Are we nuts?”
“How long have we known each other, Wiley?”
“Twenty-five years?”
“Have you ever known me to bullshit you?”
“No.”
Curly nodded. “And I don’t believe you’ve ever lied to me either.”
“So...”
“So, I don’t buy it for a second. And if I didn’t know you better, I’d say it’s all a dumb joke. But something put you guys on that plane in the middle of the night... something convinced you. What’s your proof?”
Jack told Curly about Wiley’s leg and his own mind-snapping realization. He noted, with some bewilderment, that Curly remained unaffected.
“Well, I guess it takes longer for some people,” Curly said, shrugging.
“You think we’re crazy,” Jack said, feeling foolish.
Curly raised his hands. “I didn’t say that. But I don’t remember Wiley’s leg being a prosthetic. On the other hand, if what you’re telling me is true, it’s goddamned scary. It means they could do anything.”
“Can you help us?” Wiley asked.
Curly nodded. “Give me a little time. Two hours and I’ll have something figured for you.”
He picked up a pen, wrote something on a small pad, tore it off, and handed it to Wiley.
“That’s the address of a small, greasy spoon about three blocks from here. The food’s terrific and it’s cheap. Go get some breakfast and cool out. I’m going to run some computer simulations. Those take time.”
“Can’t you do it now?” Wiley asked, pointing to the IBM.
Curly chuckled. “Not on this. We have a Cray that we use for the simulations.”
Jack was impressed. The Cray was one of the world’s most sophisticated supercomputers, capable of billions of calculations per second, and costing the equivalent of a small country’s gross national product. Curly’s company was doing more than all right to have one of those stashed away.
The men stood and shook hands.
“I’ll see you guys in two hours, okay?”
Out on the street, Jack seemed less sure about what had happened.
“He thought we were nuts, Wiley.”
“He wouldn’t be telling us to come back if he thought that.”
“Your friend’s being kind. He didn’t want to toss you out of his office. Wait and see. When we come back in two hours, he’ll feed us some line and send us home.”
The lack of sleep finally caught up with Wiley.
“You know, Jack, I’m really getting sick and tired of your lousy attitude. Why can’t you think positively for once in your life?”
Jack looked at Wiley, his eyes open in surprise.
“Oh, and I suppose you’d rather have your wooden leg back?” he said.
Wiley opened his mouth and suddenly realized what his friend was saying. He started to laugh, and Jack joined him. They passed two middle-aged women who hurried by, nervous, disapproving looks on their faces. Jack stuck out his tongue and Wiley blew them kisses. Maybe they were nuts.
When they reached the small luncheonette, the tiny bell above the door tinkled their arrival. They each ordered the special, blueberry pancakes and eggs, and seated themselves in a booth near the back. Curly was right. The food was delicious.
“Christ, that was good,” Jack said as the buxom waitress cleared the table sometime later. Her voluptuous body and easygoing smile reminded him of someone. “You ever hear from Audrey Black?”
Wiley smiled and leaned back. “Audrey Black... Yeah, I saw her about a year ago. She’s divorced, got three kids, a great job, and a great, big ass.”
Jack laughed and shook his head. Back in college, both he and Wiley fell head over heels for Audrey, a tall brunette with a drop-dead body. The odd thing was, she never knew how gorgeous she was. Born and bred on a farm in the Midwest, Audrey had none of the conceit the city girls wore with snotty pride. She was intelligent, sweet, utterly guileless, and both men had vied shamelessly for her affections. Wiley had won out in the end and Jack had sulked for a week, then he’d met Janet...
The mood shifted and they spent the next hour and a half talking about Bock and Chessman and the awesome power they wielded. By the end of that hour and a half, each man’s resolve had hardened, each determined to carry on no matter what Curly said.
“We better go,” Wiley said, looking at his watch.
Jack paid the check and neither one paid attention to the little tinkling bell when they left.
Everything in Curly’s office looked tossed about, as if a cyclone had come through. The big man sat hunched over his small computer typing furiously, his red hair plastered to his scalp, huge sweat stains under his rumpled, white shirt. He looked shell-shocked. Manic.
“Come on in, guys,” he said without looking up. “I’m almost done.”
W
iley and Jack crept into the room, sat on their chairs, and tried to keep from fidgeting. Jack watched Curly type, his fingers flying over the keyboard, sounding like the sharp chatter of a machine gun.
Finally, Curly stopped and leaned back. A small printer hummed to life nearby. He looked at Wiley and nodded.
“Bendix Medical, right?”
Wiley’s eyes snapped over to Jack.
“He knows!” he said.
“Knows what?” Jack said, confused.
“That’s the company that manufactured my prosthesis. He remembers, Jack! He remembers!”
Wiley looked like a kid at a carnival, his eyes shining with glee. Jack didn’t know whether to feel relieved or scared all over again. Stranger still was that Curly had known the name of the prosthetics company.
Curly rubbed his eyes and sighed. “It all came back about half an hour after you guys left. Scared me green.”
Curly got up and walked over to the printer. He scanned the sheets, ripped them out, and passed them to Jack and Wiley.
“What you’re looking at is a summary of what the Cray has spent the last two hours doing. I’ve got to tell you, even after what happened to me, I was surprised.”
Wiley frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I didn’t expect what it told me. I ran the simulations, telling my staff I was helping a writer with research. It’s something we do every now and then. Nobody thought twice about it. The basic question I posed, given all the data, is ‘what are Kruger’s chance for success in accomplishing his two missions?’”
“And...” Wiley said.
“It’s not what you think. For the Eisenhower mission: four point seven out of ten.”
“In other words,” Jack said, “about fifty-fifty.”
“Yes.”
“What about Hitler moving his armies?” Wiley said, gripping the arms of his chair.
“That’s the strange part. The odds on that went up to five point one out of ten.”
“What?”
“I know. It surprised the hell out of me, but I would have been surprised if the odds on either of these missions were one in a thousand, a million. Time travel is not your everyday occurrence. The computer should have put the odds at infinity.”