TS01 Time Station London

by David Evans

  Brian paused, after closing the door, and looked around for his subject. He found Liam seated at a table with three other broody-looking young men. Brian ordered a pint of bitter. When it came, he crossed the room to lean on the ledge of the vertical wooden pole barrier that divided the women’s part from the men’s. The moment he settled in, conversation died. Silently the gathering gave Brian a cold hard eye.

  Judging from the bulky sweaters most wore, they were Irish, as was O’Doul. Goaded by this, Brian tried a subtle bit of subterfuge. Shifting his mug of beer to his left hand he flashed a sign with the right. Index and middle fingers extended, thumb cocked to form the shape of a pistol, followed by an upraised little finger, an old IRA hailing sign.

  At the table, the young men exchanged glances. One of them, a strapping youth with flame-red hair, raised his mug and gestured toward Brian. “Now, would ye be willing to join us?”

  “Aye, that I would, I would,” Brian responded, words thick with Dublin accent. “Me name’s Brian Boyne.”

  Introductions went around. “Glendennen. Gower. Fitzsimmons. O’Doul.”

  Brian gave each a nod. “Are ye all at the university?” At their nods, he decided on boldness, covered by humor. “And would ye now be about plannin’ the bringin’ down of George Sixth?”

  After that, it all became too easy. The redhead, Fitzsimmons, proved the most talkative. “Not exactly. Sure, though, an’ ye might say we are in a roundabout way, we are.”

  Brian fixed him with sharp, gray-green eyes. “What might that be, lads?”

  Suddenly suspicious, the black Irish, Liam O’Doul, pinned him with obsidian eyes and probed. “Would ye be tellin’ us what outfit you might be with?” demanded the rogue traveler.

  “O’Banyon’s Brigade,” Brian answered levelly.

  Impressed glances went around the table. Again, Fitzsimmons took the lead. “Hoy! Sure, an’ that’s Sinn Fein, for certain true, it is.”

  Still not trusting, O’Doul prodded further, “Sure an’ what’s O’Banyon got hisself up to right about now?”

  “Liam,” Fitzsimmons protested. “Go easy, boyo. We invited him to this table after all.”

  Brian stared at O’Doul with equal intensity. “About ten years in the King’s lockup, he is.”

  “Anyone could know that, he could,” countered O’Doul. “If he’s a copper or a Kingsman in mufti.”

  “And I’m neither, I’m not. Now, since that’s the case, what say I buy the next round, then we can let Fitz here fill me in on what you’ve got laid on.”

  When the brews came, Fitzsimmons swigged off a long portion, smacked his lips, and proceeded to enlighten Brian. “We’re in the Rescue Service, so’s to speak. What we do is, when there’s German pilots an’ crew what gets safe on the ground or in the water, we goes out and picks them up. Then we take them across to Eire and see they get on their way to their bases in France. Sort of twists the nose of King George, sommat, now doesn’t it?”

  “Sure an’ interestin’ it is,” Brian allowed. “The secret of yer game is safe with me, Iads. There’s no love lost between me an’ the Huns, mind. But these pilots and crewmen are young like us, and the way I sees it, there’s no harm in helping them, there’s not.”

  Looks of relief went from man to man. Fitzsimmons offered an invitation. “Would ye be wantin’ to join us?”

  Brian sighed, produced mock regret. “I’m afraid I cannot. I only came up from London for a few days, then it’s back to Belfast for me. But it’s good work yer doin’, lads, an’ that’s a fact.” He drank off the last of his beer, came to his feet, and made his excuses.

  Cross O’Doul and his friends off the list, Brian Moore thought as he stepped outside the pub. The IRA had a lot of murderous bastards in its ranks, but he’d not heard of them kidnapping or killing women. At least not in this era. He would have to look further.

  Time: 1745 CET, July 6, 1940

  Place: Diessen am Ammersee,

  Bavaria, Germany

  After the five o’clock “lunch,” Colonel Werner Ruperle daily took his family down to the Ammersee to engage in a local tradition. The residents of Diessen rarely had access to their lake on weekends. The village population hardly topped 650, yet occupants swelled on weekends to several thousand. They came from Munich, Augsburg, Regensburg, and other large cities for a pleasant outing in the lake district. So it was that the custom began for families to take an evening bathe in the lake during the week. Changing rooms stood close at hand, for those who shunned parading through the center of town in their bathing costumes.

  Werner and his two sons made straight for the men’s cabana, while Hilda and his daughter, Gretchen, went the opposite direction. Inside, the boys stripped down quickly. Col. Ruperle marveled at how thin Bruno had become. Naked, the tow-headed lad looked even more to be nine rather than twelve. Grinning, Bruno pulled on a skimpy set of racer’s trunks.

  “Rutger and Klaus will be here,” he announced for his parent’s benefit.

  Werner knew Klaus Dieter to be Bruno’s closest friend. At mention of his name, the boy grew visibly less somber. At least there hadn’t been any falling-out there, Werner reflected. Yet something had to account for Bruno’s subdued manner. Yesterday evening; his wife had met him at the train station and hugged him possessively. Then they went up the hill to the tidy, Bavarian style house and into a dinner exactly like the one he had visualized. His children had noisily made him welcome. Yet Bruno seemed withdrawn. Finishing his own change, the Luftwaffe colonel slung his towel over one shoulder and led the way to the swimming dock.

  Bruno ran full tilt to the far end and dived cleanly into the warm water. Mannfred held back with his father. At seven, he retained a little hesitancy about swimming. Hilda and Gretchen joined them, laughing. How far away the war seems, Werner marveled. He breathed deeply, luxuriating in the heady air, filled with fragrant blossoms of fruit trees. Not even the ominous presence of the black-suited and trench-coated Gestapo agent, who lounged against one end of a picnic table, could dispel Werner Ruperle’s good mood this evening. Bruno paddled up and splashed him. The water felt good.

  “Watch me, Father, I’m going to dive again,” the boy urged.

  “Fine. You do that.”

  A gleeful shout came from some children splashing in the shallows.

  “Ducks! Baby ducks!”

  Would God that it could always be like this, Werner mused. Images of the corrupt blossoms of exploding flack shells flashed momentarily behind his eyes. With a harsh effort, he banished them.

  Time: 0017, GMT, July 7, 1940,

  Place: The Beach, Below the Dover Cliffs,

  Kentshire, England

  A thin slice of moon sent platinum streaks across the inky waves of the English Channel. Long, slow swells gave a false impression of the incredible power of that mighty sea. When angered, this passage could be far more devastating than the Pacific Ocean. Far back in Neolithic times, that body of water that became the North Sea ate its way through the limestone and chalk cliffs of an old river course, thus dividing the British Isles from the continent of Europe.

  Currents then formed, only a scant few feet below the benign-looking surface. They still remained and raced the length with the force of a tsunami. Only the genius of man could prevail against such raw nature. And then only on rare occasion.

  That proved so on that night when the pacific surface boiled white with foam and bubbles. Gradually, a black object rose from the depths. In less than five minutes, the towerlike structure had risen enough to reveal the long, sleek tube formation below. The U513 had come.

  She confidently rode the swells, nose pointed to the west to provide the least profile. Two sailors in the blue-and-white uniforms of the German submarine force dragged an inflatable rubber boat from a hatch on the foredeck and secured it alongside the pressure hull. An officer climbed down the ladder from th
e conning tower. He scrambled gracefully down into the rubber craft and cast off. A small, muffled outboard engine sputtered to life.

  Ten minutes later the rounded prow nudged up on the sand and pebbles under the hauntingly glowing Cliffs of Dover. A man stepped out of the shadows and walked to the uniformed officer. His jet-black hair was combed straight back and so pomaded that the scant moonlight glistened off it. He wore a conservative suit and walked with a slight limp, brought on by the insert in his right shoe. When the captain of the U-boat acknowledged his presence, the landsman raised his arm in a stiff salute.

  “Heil Hitler!”

  “Heil Hitler!” the sailor responded.

  “It is good to see you again, Herr Kapitän,” said Clive Beattie. “I have something for you. It came from the top, so it’s guaranteed,” the rogue time traveler continued in fluent German.

  “What is it, may I ask?”

  Beattie produced a rueful grin. “Better you learn it through channels from Admiral Raeder.” Then he changed his mind. “Only, since it affects you, I can tell you that it has to do with the new North Sea convoy routes. It also details the changes in convoy dates and code designations.”

  “Wunderbar! It could not come at a better time. Our last patrol, we fired only two torpedoes and one of them missed. The big convoys are not there when we expect them. This should give us a chance.” Smiling, Capt. Horst Niedermann produced an oilskin-wrapped parcel. “Oh, I have something for you, too.”

  Avarice glowed in the eyes of Clive Beattie as he reached for the small package. “Thank you, Captain Niedermann.” After pocketing his payment, Beattie snapped to attention. Stiff-armed, he saluted again. “Sieg Heil!”

  “Yes, Hail Victory,” Niedermann returned.

  They shook hands and Beattie turned away toward the path that led to the top of the cliffs. Behind him, Capt. Niedermann removed his crushed officer’s hat and scratched idly at his thinning hair. For whatever does that närrisch Englishman want common mica?

  Time: 0323, GMT, July 7, 1940

  Place: A Cellar of a Building on Dryden Way,

  Coventry, Warwickshire, England

  Samantha Trillby looked up from the lukewarm bowl of porridge. The sticky oatmeal made her want to gag. To make it worse, this disagreeable troll always sat with her and watched her eat. So far they had not harmed her, beyond the first time they clapped the chloroform-soaked rag over her face. How long ago had that been?

  It didn’t feel like a day had passed. Yet they had fed her four times, always the same disgusting gruel. In between feedings, they had put her under again. Disoriented and anxious because of it, she decided to try to gain some knowledge.

  “Where are we and why did you bring me here?”

  A dark scowl twisted the ugly features even more. “Do not talk. You are here to answer questions, not ask them.”

  “But why? What could I possibly know that would be useful to you?”

  “Silence!” Menacingly he came to his feet, snatched the bowl from her grasp, and clapped a chloroform rag over her mouth and nose.

  It seemed only an eye-blink when Samantha awakened again. This time another man stood behind her brute jailer. Marvin Burroughs, the man she had been following.

  His voice held an oily whine. “Well, Miss Trillby, I don’t think we’ll need to detain you much beyond another two days.”

  Two days? Had it been that long? Her body didn’t feel like it. She matched his cold, deadly stare with a twin glare. Briskly massaging his palms, he took a step toward her. When he reached a spot that impinged upon her personal space, she involuntarily jerked backward on her backless stool. Water dripped from the gray, stone walls that surrounded them. They were underground, she knew that much. He smirked at her reaction, then he started talking to her again.

  “If you cooperate, you will suffer nothing more than a bit of discomfort. If you fail to assist us enthusiastically, we can make it extremely painful for you.”

  Samantha kept her face calm. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Corne, Miss Trillby. Isn’t it a fact that you work for MI-5?”

  “What is MI-5?” Before the last word had left her mouth, his hand lashed out viciously and the palm crashed against her left cheek.

  “Enough of that. Evidently you did not take me seriously earlier. We deal with truth and reality here. The truth is that you are an agent of British Intelligence. The reality is that not even your own mother would recognize you after I finish inflicting pain if you persist in being obstreperous. Now, shall we begin anew?”

  Samantha looked him hard in the eye. “Go bugger yourself.”

  This time she got a backhand, with a cruel signet ring on one finger that laid open a three-inch gouge on her right cheek. Warm blood trickled down to the point of her chin where it dripped into her lap. Her eyes teared but did not overflow. Her left cheek had already begun to turn a sickly yellow-green around a scarlet center.

  “Tell me about MI-5, Miss Trillby.”

  Time: 2300, GMT, July 7, 1940

  Place: Apartment of Brian Moore,

  Threadneedle Street,

  London, England

  Stymied by his inability to trace Samantha in two days’ effort, Brian had Wigglesby take him back to London. They drove in silence to Brian’s apartment, where he dismissed his driver.

  “It’s late,” Brian observed with a yawn while he gazed across Barenson Mews and, a quarter mile away, Big Ben tolled eleven. “Go home to that family of yours, Mr. Wigglesby.”

  “Coor, that’s Sergeant Wigglesby, if you please, sor.”

  Brian laughed aloud as the Austin’s taillights dwindled in the distance. Then he climbed the sandstone steps to the front door. Inside, he quickly changed into the workman’s clothing and left again.

  At a matchbox-tiny garage, he retrieved his Morris Garage roadster. The black, squared-off, speedy roadster hugged the cobbles of the streets a scant four inches above their polished surface. The ride took only seven minutes. Brian parked outside the sham travel agency and ran a chain from the steering wheel to a lamppost, which he secured with a padlock. The building was dark.

  Brian used a key to enter. Frank Matsumoto snored softly in a corner, his head on the desk, cradled in folded arms. Brian slid past him without disturbing the security guard. Downstairs, Brian located Vito in the Tech’s personal quarters.

  Still muzzy with sleep, Vito Alberdi knuckled one eye as he looked up at the Resident. “What’s the rush, chum?”

  “Pressing business,” Brian evaded, not revealing it to be personal business. Damn it, he had decided while checking out worthless leads in Coventry, he could not leave Samantha in a dangerous situation and simply walk away from it. If routine MI-5 procedures did not work, he had an alternative. He tossed Vito his trousers and went into the operating center, flicking on lights as he entered.

  “It’s the middle of the night,” Vito protested as he ran fingers through his black hair to straighten it.

  “Right, and I want you to scan the history log forward to see if you can find any information on a Miss Samantha Trillby. You are to determine if she is deceased, and if so, where her body was found.”

  Vito blinked. “How long do you expect this to take?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is she has gone missing and we have to find her.”

  Cocking an eyebrow, Vito spoke dryly. “That could get tricky. And how do we justify the expense?”

  Brian had not considered that. “I’d say we were checking into one of the rogue time travelers.”

  A snort escaped Vito. “Boss, d’you think Director Gallubin will buy that?”

  “Arkady will scream at the expense.”

  Light flashed on the Beamer console and the transport device shimmered into life. Vito stared at it as though it had reached out and kissed him. What came next g
ot a rise out of both Warden Corps men. Brian’s voice spoke from the front of the Beamer as the core collapsed and the containment field whined down to dormancy.

  “You don’t need to worry about that.” Brian’s other self stepped into the room. A green indicator light on the console indicated that a Temporal Collision Avoidance Field was in operation. “I came back here from two weeks in the future. Samantha’s body has been found on a weed-covered lot on the bank of the river, near the north end of the city. She had been tortured and mutilated.”

  “How are you going to explain the cost of this little expedition?” Brian asked his other self.

  “Spread the power expenditure around a little, eh? A short jump from now will cost a lot less than ahead and back again, right? We’ll come out in Coventry wherever you want, two weeks from now, and can come back when we choose.”

  That made sense. Brian admitted it with a sigh. “All right, get it ready, will you, Vito. And—ah—you and Frank take tomorrow morning off, okay?” He gave Vito a wink.

  Grinning, Vito rubbed his palms together. “Sure, Boss. Whatever you say.”

  Time: 1000, GMT, July 21, 1940

  Place: CID Office, Police Post, Coventry,

  Warwickshire, England

  Brian and his future self advanced to early morning on the date of the finding and, after driving to Coventry, the future Brian presented himself at the local CID office.

  A ruddy-faced, jowly Criminal Investigation Division sergeant peered up beyond the identification offered him and cocked his head to one side. “Didn’t know we’d attract the attention of the Yard so early in a case.”