by Glenn Cooper
Trotter, online from his perch at MI6, cleared his throat to announce he was about to speak. “For the record, I was against further collider activity. We should have slammed the door closed, locked it, and thrown away the key.”
“And condemned twelve innocent bystanders to an awful fate,” Bitterman said.
“I’m more concerned about the fate of sixty million Britons.”
“That’s hyperbole,” Bitterman said.
“Is it? Can you give us an ironclad guarantee?”
“Of course not. We’re all feeling around in the dark on this one.”
Smithwick chimed in from her office in Whitehall. “I for one would not like to characterize our endeavors to the prime minister as feeling around in the dark.’”
“Is honesty discouraged at 10 Downing Street?” Bitterman countered.
Smithwick puckered her mouth and allowed Trotter to press on.
“In light of the Iver intruders,” Trotter said, “which Dr. Bitterman just described as a profound development, and lacking scientific guarantees, I think we should make a recommendation to our respective governments to terminate all future activities at MAAC.”
“We just sent a rescue party of four brave people over,” Bitterman said, his voice rising. “The US government will not allow them to be abandoned and anyway, we’re a month away from the next restart. We haven’t even convened the first meeting of the scientific advisors who are being empaneled to help us mitigate the situation in which we find ourselves. My understanding is that this videocon was called to deal with practical and pressing matters. Mr. Wellington, I believe you had the first agenda item.”
Ben minimized Trotter’s feed but even in a thumbnail view, his smirking face was a distraction. He briefed the group about the status of all the prisoners now held at MAAC, the lack of new information about the Hellers from South Ockendon, and then he expanded on the backgrounds and life histories of Jason Rix and Colin Murphy.
“Despite the new wrinkle of geographical separation,” he said, “to date, the principle of parity seems to have been maintained,” he said. “There have been sixteen people who have traversed from our side and sixteen Hellers we know of who have come to Earth. Therefore, it is incumbent on us, in order to have the best chance of recovering all sixteen of our people in one month’s time, that we locate the missing Hellers. From our interviews with Rix and Murphy, it appears that two of these people are their wives, Christine Rix and Molly Murphy.”
He put the photos of all four of them on the screen. They had been obtained from 1984 news stories about their murders.
“These women are likely traveling with a group of rovers which includes this man, Lucas Hathaway.”
Another newspaper photo filled the screen.
“Hathaway was their murderer. To say there’s bad blood amongst them is an understatement. The reason I bring this up to the group is that given the law enforcement backgrounds of Murphy and Rix, and given their zeal for finding their wives, I would like to take them up on their offer to help us in our investigations.”
“And how would they do that?” Trotter asked, his face filling the screen again.
“They want to go into the field. We would accompany them at all times with armed guards and would give them zero freedom of independent movement.”
“I vote no,” Trotter said, “and I advise others to do the same. It’s too risky. If they escape, you’ll have two more runners to deal with. If they have any pertinent information on the potential whereabouts of the Hellers, then extract the information from their jail cells.”
“They have rejected the idea of remotely assisting our inquiries,” Ben said. “They were shoe-leather detectives and maintain they can only be effective if they are allowed to follow the trail in person and I am persuaded to agree with them.”
“Are you quite sure you can keep them on leashes?” Smithwick asked.
“I am,” Ben replied.
They voted; Trotter was the only one casting a no ballot. For the rest of the meeting he maintained a clench-jawed silence and failed to bring up the matter of Giles Farmer.
15
Brian skillfully maneuvered the flat-bottomed sailing barge upstream. When a fishing boat passed in the opposite direction, Emily hid amongst the cargo and passing fishermen seemed unaware that the crew of the barge was exotic.
From a distance, John recognized Solomon Wisdom’s house perched on a high hill. Approaching Wisdom’s dock, the men readied their weapons but there was no one about. Wisdom’s boat was tied up. Brian maneuvered the craft to the opposite side of the dock and threw lines out to John and Trevor. They had plenty of swords to go around but Emily declined one.
“Guess you’ve got your own weapons,” John joked, looking at her chest.
“Wait till you see me use my head,” she said.
“What’s the plan, guv?” Trevor asked.
“Last time I was here I didn’t see armed guards,” John said, glancing up at the big house. “But you never know. I think we should circle around and see if there are horses and wagons around the back, tents, signs of bivouacked troops.”
“If there are?” Brian asked.
“We’ll cross that bridge if we have to.”
Despite the absence of sunshine it was warm and by the time they had looped around the steep hill to the rear of Wisdom’s property they had worked up a sweat. They encountered no one along the way and by the look of things they weren’t going to have a big fight on their hands.
“Now what?” Trevor asked.
“We knock on his door,” John said.
They came around to the front of the house and John banged on the door with the butt of his sword. In time the large door opened and the manservant, Caffrey peered out. Seeing John he tried to shut it but John shouldered in, toppling the man.
Caffrey went for a belt knife but John pushed the tip of his sword to his breastbone and advised him to stand down. Trevor quickly relieved him of the blade and Brian, ever ready, tied his hands and feet with a length of hemp from the boat.
Wisdom called out from the study asking Caffrey who was at the door and when John and Emily barged in he leapt up from his desk and began searching for something to protect himself. When Trevor and Brian entered too, he seemed to accept his defeat.
“Sit down,” John demanded.
Wisdom’s knees buckled under him and his rump found the chair.
“So good to see the two of you again,” Wisdom said unconvincingly.
“Well it’s not so great seeing you again, you slimy bastard,” John said.
“A man must do what he must do to survive in this harsh world,” Wisdom said. “Everyone here has lost his moral compass, more or less. I am far from the worst.”
“That may be,” Emily said, “but you’re well up on the league rankings. You sold me into slavery to the Duke of Guise, remember?”
“Not to mention lying to me about Emily and selling my ass to Henry,” John said.
Wisdom attempted a toothy grin. “What can I say? Fortunately, both of you seem to be quite capable and resilient when adversity rears its head. Who are your colleagues and how is it that so many live persons are presently coming to our unfair land?”
“Never mind them,” John said. “We’re here to talk about two women and two children.”
“Whomever do you mean?”
John asked Brian and Trevor to hold Wisdom’s arms down and said, “Okay, Solomon, we can do this the hard way or the easy way. It’s your choice. I’m not messing around. Every minute, every day is precious. In twenty-seven days we’ve got to be back in Dartford with them to catch a ride home. We know they were here and my guess is you’ve already moved the merchandise. That’s what they are to you. You’re going to tell us where they went, one way or another. In ten seconds I’m going to cut off your left hand. Ten seconds later, your right hand. After that, well, use your imagination. Then I’m going to personally toss you into that rotting room you showed me down the h
ill. So here we go: ten, nine, eight …”
Wisdom strained against Brian and Trevor’s iron grips then went limp. “Stop. I concede. They have gone to different places.”
“You motherfucker!” Emily screamed, lunging at him.
Even John was surprised; he’d never heard her swear before but he completely agreed with her characterization of the skeletal man in black. He held her back and whispered something into her ear that had a calming effect.
“Where are they?” John asked coolly.
“The children and the woman called Delia went to Queen Matilda. The young woman, Arabel, went to King Pedro of Iberia.”
Now it was Trevor’s turn. “Do you mean to tell me you split up a mother from her children?”
When all Wisdom could do was nod weakly, Trevor released his grip and punched him full in the mouth, spraying the desk with blood and a yellow tooth.
He quickly apologized for losing it, but Emily thanked him instead.
John pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of Wisdom’s frock coat and let him hold it to his mouth.
“If you want to stay out of the rotting room, you’re going to tell us everything we need to know about how to find them. If I’m not convinced you’ve given us every single detail this won’t end well for you. You may be an accomplished lying bastard but I’ve got a highly refined bullshit detector. Start talking.”
Wisdom stared mournfully at his errant tooth and began to sing like a bird. When he was done he looked up at John the way a gladiator might look to an emperor to know his fate.
“All right, Solomon. I’m going to believe you. We’re going to let you keep your fingers and your toes but there’re consequences for what you did. Guys, take him and his goon outside and lash them together. We’ll meet you in a few minutes.”
Emily and he swept through the house. They found Wisdom’s cook in the kitchen and told her to clear out if she knew what was good for her. She waddled out like a fat duck and when she saw her master being manhandled on the grass she kept going. John found a strongbox in the study and smashed it against the side of the fireplace a few times until it cracked open revealing a pile of gold and silver coins that he poured into his backpack. Then, lighting a candle from fireplace embers he began setting furniture and drapes alight.
Outside, smoke began billowing from open windows and Wisdom, bound, back-to-back with Caffrey, began hollering at the sight of his precious house put to torch.
“You’ll need a new boat too,” John said.
“You’re sparing me?” Wisdom moaned, lying on his side, roped to Caffrey.
“Seems so.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re not the same as you,” John said. “We’re not evil scum.”
All the way down the hill they heard Wisdom wailing over his losses. On the dock John said exactly what the others were expecting.
“I don’t like it but we knew this might happen,” he said. “We’ve got to split up. Emily and I will go to Hampton Palace for the kids and Delia. Brian and Trev, you’ll need to find your way to Iberia for Arabel. It won’t be easy.”
“We’re up for it,” Trevor said. “We’ll get her, Emily, don’t you worry. Send you a text when we get there.”
She hugged him and went moist in the eyes.
Then Trevor added, “So, Brian, you reckon you know how to get to Spain?”
“Ordinarily I’d flag down a taxi to Heathrow.”
“You, a taxi?” John said. “Chauffeured car, more likely.”
Brian snorted. “Right you are. It’s in my contract. In our present circumstance we’ll need to make it to the estuary, tack south through the channel and sail to the Bay of Biscay. When we hit land we’ll improvise. Mind if we take the more seaworthy vessel?”
“Your choice.”
“The barge we came on then. You all right with the other one?”
“I’ll figure it out,” John said. “I don’t need to tell you that we’ve got three weeks and six days. There weren’t any clocks or watches inside so we’ll have to keep track of each dawn then tack on four hours to get to 10 a.m. We’ll meet back in Dartford when we can but there’s no missing the deadline. You guys are great fighters—you’ve got your sticks. Let me give you some carrots to help you along.”
He opened his backpack and gave them half the coins. Then he thought for a while and chose one of the books for them.
Brian inspected it and put it in his pack. “Hope they can read English.”
They exchanged hugs and well wishes and split up. The wind was favorable for John and Emily’s upstream journey; the currents favored Brian and Trevor’s barge.
As the boats diverged they exchanged sad waves. “Will we see them again?” Emily asked.
John hoisted the mainsail and said, “The odds are long. But they’re both outstanding men.”
Their arrival at Hampton Court Palace did not go unnoticed. The palace docks were bustling with activity as men off-loaded provisions and military equipment from the French campaign. John was not as proficient a sailor as Brian and the best he could do was ram the dock with the prow of Wisdom’s barge and toss a line to one of the astonished soldiers.
Stepping off John announced they were there to see the king or Cromwell.
The nearest soldier, a limping one-eyed wretch, sniffed at them in alarm and declared them to be unusual beings.
“That’s why they’ll want to see us,” John said.
“The king ain’t here but he’s coming.”
“He survived Francia?” John asked.
“How do you know ’bout that?”
“I was there.”
An officer pushed his way through the dockside throng who’d gathered to get a better look at Emily. He displayed a recent battle injury, his arm wrapped in a cloth, brown with dried blood.
“Stand aside, stand aside. You there, state your name.”
“John Camp and Emily Loughty.”
The young man had long blonde hair elegant, despite the dirty tangles. “Where are you from?” he demanded.
“Same place you’re from, friend. But we’re not dead,” John said.
“How is that possible?”
“Please don’t make us tell the story again,” Emily said.
“The king knows all about us,” John said. “Cromwell too.”
“Then hand over your weapons and your pack.”
“Weapons, yes, pack, no. You can look inside but that’s as far as I’ll go. Believe me, the king won’t be happy if you take it from me.”
The officer inspected John’s pack. The silver and gold coins interested him more than the loose sheets of printed paper. He found no books. The officer surreptitiously took a silver piece for his troubles then returned the backpack and told them to follow. The dockworkers began to trundle along too but the officer barked at them to get back to their labors.
Inside the palace the officer found a court official and whispered in his ear. This man ushered them to the same room where John had cooled his heels the first time he visited the palace. John and Emily rested against a wall while the officer shifted his weight from side to side, fixing them with a contemptuous stare that irritated John no end.
“Did you pick up that wound in Francia?” John asked.
“I did. We were prepared for battle with the French to the west of Paris. The morning was heavy with fog. When the fighting began deadly bombs began flying through the air. We’d never seen anything like them. I was hit by shrapnel. Then the cavalry charged and all was lost.”
“I’m sorry you were injured,” John said.
“Why should you be?”
“Because I feel responsible. They were my grenades. I might have thrown the one that got you. In fact, I probably did.”
The officer began to sputter in anger but the court retainer returned and told John and Emily to accompany him.
John looked back over his shoulder. “You ought to change that dressing. You don’t want that wound to get infecte
d.”
They were taken to a small, well-appointed room where a smooth-shaven man with a bloodless complexion was waiting behind a large desk. Pinned against each corner were four soldiers armed with swords and pistols. The man behind the desk was narrow in the shoulders. His defining feature was a deep gully of a scar that ran all the way from his right ear down the cheek to the corner of his mouth. His clothes were a mixture of semi-modern and older garb.
He spoke with a strong Irish accent. “I am William Joyce, a member of the king’s privy council. I was told two things: one, that you are not dead, and two, that you have previously been to this court.”
John didn’t much like his officious tone. “I don’t recall seeing you here before,” he said staring hard at his scar. “I never forget a face.”
Perhaps as a reflex, Joyce fingered the scar before pulling his hand away, saying, “I’m quite sure I wouldn’t forget yours either. Especially this lovely creature. You were here a month ago, I understand.”
John stiffened at Joyce’s interest in Emily. “I was, she wasn’t,” he said.
“I was in the hinterlands handling a matter of urgency for the crown,” Joyce said. “When I returned, I learned the king was making preparations for a channel crossing, having routed the Iberians. I have remained here, holding down the fort, as you Americans say.”
“How’d you know I was American?”
“Your accent, of course, and your brashness. I was born in Brooklyn in New York City, actually, and lived there as a child before my family moved back to Ireland.”
“Oh yeah?” John said. “When was that?”
“In the early 1900s. And where are you from, my dear?” he asked Emily.
“I’m Scottish.”
“I see.” He addressed John. “Would you mind telling me how it is you were able to come to this land without first suffering a demise?”