TS01 Time Station London

by David Evans

Immediately the vehicle straightened out and the driver increased speed to a stately twenty miles an hour. In the back, Sir Rupert opened his morning edition of the Times of London. A steaming cup of Earl Gray tea sat at peace in a wooden rack in front of him.

  At the third intersection beyond the residence of Sir Rupert, a hired lorry hurtled through the stop sign and rammed into the rear door of the Bentley. The two vehicles collided with such force that the opposite door flew open and Sir Rupert catapulted out to land painfully on the paving stones. His head took a nasty crack at the same moment that the truck backed away with a savage screech of metal, steered around the crippled automobile, and sped away.

  A moment later, Brian Moore appeared on the scene, suitably disguised to hide his true identity and to project the reality of what he said to the still-dazed driver.

  “I’m a doctor, can you hear me? Do you understand what I am saying?” He received only grunts and mutters. “Here, my man, rest your head on the back of the seat and remain perfectly still. I am afraid your employer has been seriously injured.” Then Brian turned to face Frank Matsumoto, who was likewise disguised, at the forefront of a small clutch of persons who had been called from their homes by the violence of the crash.

  “You sir, I say, would you be so kind as to summon an ambulance?”

  “Yes, of course, right away,” Frank deftly delivered his lines and turned away smartly to trot out of sight.

  Brian rounded the mangled Bentley and knelt at the side of Sir Rupert. Well-versed in medical techniques far in advance of the era, he quickly determined, with relief, that the injuries suffered by the traitorous peer were not fatal. While Brian examined him, Cordise moved one arm feebly and groaned. A little harder and you would have had your way, Vito, he thought.

  With a square of gauze from his black doctor’s bag, Brian covered a patch of torn bald pate that oozed blood. Relief washed over Brian as he determined that Cordise would be around to meet that destiny in 1941, whatever that would be. The rumble of an eight-cylinder, in-line engine drew his attention. The ambulance they had arranged for in advance had arrived.

  Vito, dressed now in a white medical jacket and trousers, a mustache in place under his nose, dismounted and went to the rear, along with Frank Matsumoto, their security man, who had also changed his appearance. From the rear they extracted a gurney and snapped the folding legs into place. Briskly they approached the downed Cordise.

  “Gently, now, gently,” Brian urged as the two Time agents bent to lift Sir Rupert onto the starched sheet that covered the wheeled stretcher. “He may have internal injuries. Load him and then see to the driver. I will ride with the patients to the hospital.”

  In an efficient five minutes, the scene had been cleared of all but the wounded Bentley. With blue light flashing and two-tone horn tootling, the ambulance sped away before anyone in the small gathering of the curious heard its destination.

  Time: 1745, GMT, June 12, 1940

  Place: The Warrington Club, Grosvenor Square,

  London, England

  Brian Moore sat in the smoking lounge of the Warrington, the gentlemen’s club of Admiral Lord Walter Cuthbert-Hobbs, KOB, director of MI-5. Brian’s superior at the Home Office, Sir Hugh Montfort, KBE, was with them. A large Atwater-Kent console radio against one wall crackled with static while those in the room smoked cigars and sipped at their brandy.

  Brian had a warm, comfortable glow, brought on by the excellent steak and kidney pie, sautéed mushrooms, asparagus, and plentiful claret wine they had consumed, followed by bread pudding in brandy sauce. His pleasure diminished a moment later when a shrill voice fought through the atmospheric disturbance.

  “... Unser Führer, Adolf Hitler ... Sieg Heil! ... Sieg Heil!”

  Several of the gentlemen present cursed explosively, and muttered imprecations about the invasion of the Low Countries, Brian noted. When the invisible audience finished its wildly frantic cheering, another voice, equally high-pitched, though strangely hypnotic, came from the speaker.

  “Sie, das Deutschen Volk, das Neues Welt Ordnung sind!”

  More wild cheering, while Brian translated in a low voice. “’You, the German people, are the New World Order.’”

  Lord Walter rumbled threateningly, then let his bile erupt. “God blast that bloody Austrian upstart.”

  Meanwhile, Hitler went on, telling his audience that while the Wehrmacht today unleashed the Blitzkrieg on a tottering remnant of France, “’the British are being severely pummeled by our glorious Luftwaffe,’” Brian translated for those in the room who did not speak German. “’While our brave German soldiers advance across France, eager to cross the English Channel and wring an accounting out of that Nation of Shopkeepers, who so humiliated our mighty German state after the last war ...”

  “Thank God that Winnie is PM now,” Lord Walter interrupted with feeling. “This war’s barely ten months old, with that wishy-washy Chamberlain sitting with his thumb up his arse the first eight of it. Now things will change. Winnie will show those Huns what for, by God.”

  “You know,” Sir Hugh observed lightly, “it might be that God had a far heavier hand in the selection of Prime Minister last month than you think. Had old Cordise not been in that automobile smashup, it very likely would have been that Winston would not have entered the Admiralty, and would have never been in line for Prime Minister.”

  Lord Walter nodded enthusiastic agreement. “Quite right, Hugh. Back then the editorial columns were still waxing warm over that ‘Peace in our times’ rot Chamberlain brought back from Munich. It took the invasion of Poland last September to open some eyes.”

  Sir Hugh reached for his brandy snifter. “Well, from where I sit, it is not all that rosy now. Not with those Luftwaffe blighters stepping up their bombing. Yet I’m willing to say let Hitler come. Winston will stop him cold. We could see an end to this war by the start of 1941.”

  Lord Walter beetled his brows. “That all depends on what happens in France and the Benelux nations, doesn’t it?”

  When Hitler’s rambling address ended, most of the men strolled out to the billiard room or card tables. Sir Hugh pinned Brian with a glance, then directed his gaze to Lord Walter.

  “I must say I am quite impressed by young Brian here, your lordship. He did rather well at rounding up five of those bloody Nazi agents so quickly, considering he’s only been in the Service for a year and a half now.”

  “Dangerous times make for rapid promotion, you know, eh, Hugh?”

  “Quite right, Walter. Yet there must be more of those blighters out there to provide that bloody paperhanger with such accurate details of this afternoon’s raid.”

  Encouraged by the praise, Brian spoke for the first time other than translating or trivialities. “Thank you for your confidence, Sir Hugh. And you’re quite right. There have to be plenty still out there. Apologizing for the stray bomb in Westminister Abbey gardens was the clincher.”

  “Quite astute, young man,” Lord Walter declared. “There is an excess of that Nazi scum to deal with.” He nodded to Sir Hugh.

  Hugh Montfort took his cue. “I’m sure you will have more of the same on your plate soon enough, Brian.”

  Time: 0745, GMT, June 13, 1940

  Place: MI-5 Offices, Coventry,

  Warwickshire, England

  Seated at a spartan metal desk in the room that few knew existed behind the Warwickshire Royal Movers’ Service (By Appointment of HRM George V) in front, Samantha Trillby worked at decrypting a message sent from London earlier in the day. Located eighty miles from London, Coventry was far enough from headquarters to have a Home Office branch of its own. Although, until the onset of war the previous September, the primary function had been to keep track of and recruit from the university students. A smile blossomed on her face when she recognized the familiar turn of phrase that identified the sender as Brian Moore.

&nbs
p; He will be here tomorrow, Samantha realized with a start. And, bloody hell, she wanted so badly to have her hair done before their dinner engagement. How strange, she mused with another enigmatic smile, falling in love with the boss. Undirected, she set the message form aside and thought back over the past six months, when she had gone to work as a field agent for the Home Office of MI-5. After training, she had been put under the direction of Brian Moore.

  She had to admit that she had been attracted to him from the start.

  Time: 0730, GMT, January 3, 1940

  Place: MI-5 Offices, Bayswater Road,

  London, England

  “Miss Trillby, is it?” Brian Moore asked over the sheaf of papers in one hand and the horn-rimmed glasses perched on the tip of his nose.

  “Uh—yes. Lieutenant Trillby, as a matter of fact, reporting for duty as ordered, sir.”

  Brian’s gray-green gaze roved up and down the length of her, a pleased smile spreading on his face as he did. At least, he thought, she had the forethought to dress in street clothes. Her military bearing stood out entirely too clearly for all of that. He forced a wider smile to remove the criticism from his words.

  “That’s the last time you will use that term of reference, Lieutenant. We’re all civilians here, right? This is an engineering firm, right? Oh, by the way, relax your posture some, what? It wouldn’t do to have a civil engineer’s secretary who wasn’t round-shouldered from typing, would it?”

  That brought out her smile. She relaxed from the rigid position of attention she had assumed when reporting and opened her feet by a half step. He gestured to a tea caddy in one corner.

  “It’s fresh. Would you like a cup?”

  Samantha found herself grinning in a sappy way that reminded her of colts she had seen in her childhood who had been kicked in the head by one or another horse. “I’d kill for one,” said the new agent.

  Brian gave her a bleak smile. “In this business, you might have to, some time or another. I’m sorry, it’s only English Breakfast. Wigglesby could find nothing else at the commissary.”

  “Wigglesby, sir?” Stop acting stupid, Samantha reprimanded herself.

  “My driver. Warrant Officer Second Wigglesby, He’s a Pearlyman and proud of it. Doesn’t take his promotion seriously, wants us to call him Sergeant.”

  Samantha’s high, youth-smooth forehead creased with concentration. “Would that be the same Wigglesby as in Wigglesby Cockles and Chips?”

  Brian raised an eyebrow, surprised by this arcane piece of knowledge on her part. “The same. His wife and mother run the stand.”

  “And good it is. I stop there for a twist of cockles and chips every time I come to London. The best anywhere.”

  Brian looked a little uncomfortable. “I’ve never partaken. To me, snails are snails, even if they come from the bottom of the sea.”

  Samantha’s tinkling laughter shook the close-cropped auburn locks that framed a closely fit cap over her well-shaped head. She pinned Brian with sparkling hazel eyes. “You’ll have to come with me sometime. I’ll introduce you to the fine art of enjoying steamed cockles.”

  He took it as the challenge it was meant to be. “If you can accomplish that—my appreciation, that is—I’ll put you in for captain.”

  Her generous, wide, smiling mouth formed a straight line for a moment. Then she quirked up one corner. “Deal?”

  Brian studied her shapely figure, nicely presented in a two-piece woman’s suit and—he noticed—a pair of real silk stockings over well-turned legs. “Done. And I’ll be fair. If I do learn to like cockles, I’ll admit it.”

  Sweetness and light spilled from Samantha. “Now, you’re the sort of boss I’ll like working for. Where do I start?”

  “For the next few days, I would like for you to review the files on Nazi agents already apprehended. Give you an idea of how we work in the field as opposed to the textbook solution.”

  Her wit and humor again broke through. “Oh-ho! Are you implying that we spies do not go by the book like His Majesty’s Coldstream Guard?”

  Brian laughed. “Exactly. Only one error. We’re counterspies, Trillby.”

  “Please, if I’m not being too bold, please call me Samantha.”

  It had started there, though neither of them had been aware of it. Gradually, their working arrangement had metamorphosed into a personal relationship, then into a romance. At the end of the first week, Brian had asked her out to dinner.

  The blackout-draped windows of the buildings along the way made navigation difficult for their cabbie, yet he found the restaurant easily. After a delightful meal, Brian suggested a couple of hours of dancing. Samantha registered her surprise at once.

  “Where? With the blackout, and a possible raid, no one goes out much, surely. We don’t in Coventry.”

  “Not to fear, Samantha, The nightspot I’m thinking of is in the subbasement of a large commercial firm. Actually, it’s the canteen for MI-5, but you’ll enjoy yourself, I promise you that.”

  They saw each other at least once a week after that. Five weeks after Samantha had joined the Home Office, she reciprocated with dinner in Coventry, her assigned post, since she had lived there all her life. They ate in the best hotel dining room, then strolled around the town. The ancient cathedral stood stolidly against the stark January sky. They talked, and Brian’s hand stole over and took hers. She suggested a nightcap at her place.

  That night they made love for the first time and slept together in her narrow bed. Brian drove back to London the next morning, feeling lighter and more refreshed than in months, although he had enjoyed only three hour’s sleep. They had been lovers ever since, and Samantha had no regrets.

  Time: 0759, GMT, June 13, 1940

  Place: MI-5 Offices, Coventry,

  Warwickshire, England

  Her hair be damned, she thought in irritation. She certainly would not tell Brian to stay away over something that insignificant.

  Time: 1720, GMT, June 13, 1940

  Place: The Blind Goose Pub, Coventry

  Warwickshire, England

  Smoke swirled in thick eddies under the darkened beams of a Coventry pub named the Blind Goose as Sergeant Wendall Foxworth, an enlisted pilot in a Hawker Hurricane squadron of the RAF, eyed a particularly attractive young Home Guard air raid warden. She had stopped in to check the blackout curtains. His inspection completed, he bent his head to a fellow pilot.

  “Coor, she has a lovely turn of leg, does she not?”

  “Aye,” replied the sergeant beside him. “But she’s much too fine for the likes of us, what?”

  Foxworth pulled a face. “I’d not be so sure of that, Kip. That pixie face, pug nose, an’ them freckles tells me she’s a right one for a good party. ‘Ter all, she’s about our age. And we are pilots, right?”

  “I have a fiver says you’ll not get more than a hullo outta that one. She’s officer bait, she is.”

  “Done, Kip. I’ll use your five quid to take her out to dinner.”

  “You’re a confident sod, Wendall, Done, then.”

  Sgt. Foxworth turned a sappy, inviting smile on her and received one in return, along with a wink. He cut his sky-blue eyes to his companion Kip and hoisted his pint to his lips. Slowly he produced a smile before quaffing of the brew. He made a signal to the barman for another round.

  Wendall and Kip played a round of darts while she went about her duties. A laughing Wendall accepted the one pound note from his companion when he made “Outs,” having gone down to an exact 0 from 300. When she had made her inspection, Wendall Foxworth signaled for her to come over to where he stood at the bar.

  “Hullo,” she said in a low, throaty voice.

  “Hello to you.” Foxworth beamed in a total lack of originality. “I’m Wendall Foxworth. I’m a pilot with the Thirty-four Squadron at Hamphill.”

  She eye
d him coolly. “Oh, really?”

  “Um—yes. Enlisted pilot, that is. Sergeant Foxworth.”

  “Sandy Hammond. As you can see, I’m in the Home Guard.”

  “Yes. And the loveliest Home Guard I’ve encountered. Most are potbellied old men, don’t you see?”

  She joined his laughter, then sobered. “What is it you wanted?”

  “Well—ah—what I really had in mind was to ask if you’d return, after your rounds are finished, and have a pint of bitter with me.”

  Sandy seemed to consider that a moment, then smiled cheerily and nodded in the affirmative. “I’d be delighted.”

  After she departed, Foxworth turned to Kip and extended his hand, palm up. “I’ll take that fiver now, if you don’t mind.”

  Time: 0745, GMT, June 14, 1940

  Place: MI-5 Offices, Bayswater Road,

  London, England

  Early the next morning, Brian had only settled himself behind his desk, his mahogany-stained tea mug steaming beside his blotter frame, when his sophisticated pager went off. Designed some five centuries in the future, it was tied into the historical log system and discreetly announced a summons to Temporal Warden Control. Odd, he reflected, Resident Wardens were rarely recalled, once established in their selected time period and locale.

  A quick glance at his appointment calendar showed a blank morning. Might as well do it now. He retrieved his bowler and umbrella from their proper places and stepped out into the reception area. He stopped short. It appeared Sgt. Parkhurst had become embroiled with a rather pushy tradesman. Brian stepped forward and fixed his gaze on the offensive man in coveralls, bearing a clipboard.

  “I’m sorry,” Sally Parkhurst was saying insistently, “you cannot have the correct address. We did not order a plumber, and I am not going to pass you through to talk to the supervising director.”