TS01 Time Station London

by David Evans

  Presently, three ranking officers, one from the Army, the Royal Navy, and the RAF, entered, bundled about in black judicial robes. They seated themselves at the bench and looked down at King’s Counsel.

  “Is the King’s Counsel ready to proceed?” the senior one in the middle inquired.

  “We are, your lordships.”

  “Very well, bring in the accused.”

  Two burly military policemen led a defeated and dejected Sandy Hammond into the court and placed her in the box for the accused. Her guards, in the uniform of the Grenadiers, stood to either side. A bewigged and robed barrister bustled down the long aisle from the rear of the court, and took his place at the defense table.

  “Counsel for the Defense ready to proceed?”

  “We are, your lordships.”

  There followed a brief lecture, an admonition more like, to the attorneys. “Gentlemen, let me remind you that this is a Military Tribunal, and that you are military officers. Conduct of this trial, and the rules of evidence, shall go according to the Articles of War. I shall expect you all to adhere to those regulations and not go harping off on some fishing expedition, hummm?”

  The two barristers chorused, “Yes, your lordhip—er—no, your lordship.”

  Well familiar with military courts from his time in the legal office of the Royal Navy, the King’s Counsel felt constrained to add to that statement. “We shall be right to the point, and by the book, rest assured, m’lord. Although I cannot vouch for what the Defense might do.”

  “How’s that?” another of the judges asked.

  “No slight meant, m’lord. Only that for the life of me, I cannot fathom what it might be they can present by way of defense, or even mitigating circumstances.”

  The senior judge bristled. “Save that for your opening statement, if you please, Sir Frederick. To which, if you are ready, shall we proceed?”

  Brian felt in danger of falling asleep. The King’s Counsel droned on about what the prosecution would prove, what the witnesses would disclose, and ended with a damning remark. “Which shall leave this august tribunal with no other conclusion than that the accused is guilty and that she should be hanged by the neck until dead.”

  “Rushing things a bit, aren’t you?” the third jurist quipped. “Sounds like a closing argument.”

  Sir Frederick produced a tint of pink in his cheeks. “Forgive me, my lords. It’s only when I encounter such a blatant case of treason, I lose control. It won’t happen again.”

  “I certainly hope so.” With a birdlike turn of his small head the third Judge indicated he had concluded.

  “The Honorable Mr. Rathbone, have you any opening statement?”

  Sandy’s defense lawyer rose ponderously, his great girth forcing him some distance from the table. “Nothing at this time, your Honors. Though I do reserve the right to make an opening statement when we put on the defense.”

  “Granted. Call your first witness, Sir Frederick.”

  Brian paid scant attention. All he wanted to hear was the verdict and the sentence. The day dragged, with one after another of the arresting party summoned to testify as to how Sandy had been discovered and why she had been charged with espionage. Brian rose and abruptly left the courtroom two minutes before his other self was summoned.

  By evening, the prosecution still had three witnesses to put on. The court was adjourned until the next day. Brian found a small hotel and booked a room. He had not expected it to go beyond one day. The clerk gave him a fishy eye when he checked in without luggage of any sort.

  Tomorrow, by noon, he estimated.

  Time: 1400, GMT, November 5, 1940

  Place: Assizes Court, the City, London, England

  Two o’clock the next afternoon found the Honorable Mr. Rathbone, baronet, rising to begin his promised opening statement. It rambled and dissembled, and held as much substance as a zephyr off the English Channel. What could he say? Brian reasoned. We caught her cold. He had only three witnesses.

  First called was Sandy’s landlady. Sandy had rented the second-floor flat in March of 1939. She was known to be clean and neat, no loud parties or Iate hours. When the war began, Sandy had rushed to join the Home Guard. The good woman knew nothing of any suspicious actions, no strangers prowling around or admitted at night to the flat. The ample-bosomed woman concluded with her conviction that some terrible mistake had been made.

  “Perhaps Miss Hammond had only just discovered the wicked instruments in the attic when those rude men burst in? And besides, didn’t they need a warrant to do something like that?”

  “Objection, calls for speculation, facts not in evidence,” King’s Counsel leaped up to say.

  “I quite concur,” the senior tribune responded. “Are you finished with this witness, Mr. Rathbone?”

  “Yes. Nothing further.”

  “Cross-examine?”

  “No questions. Er—a moment, your Iordships. I do have one. Mrs. Throckmorton, to your knowledge, has the accused any men friends?”

  An odd expression lighted the landlady’s face. “Why, I do believe there is one. A nice young man. In the RAF if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Thank you. And can you state for a fact that these exhibits—the wireless, the antenna, the codekey—all of this belongs to no-one else in the house?”

  “Certainly. None of my roomers would have such things.”

  “None, save one, right?” Then, quickly, to stave off the objection, “Don’t answer that, Mrs. Throckmorton.”

  That provided the only fireworks for the entire defense position. The other witnesses were from the Home Guard. They testified to Sandy’s dedication to her work, her proficiency as an air raid warden,and her pleasant, easygoing personality. Brian stifled repeated yawns. All that kept him going was his apprehension over the verdict and sentence. As it turned out, he had to spend another night at the hotel.

  At nine o’clock the next morning the tribunal rendered their verdict to a nearly empty courtroom. The bailiff stepped to the accused’s box.

  “Will the accused please rise!”

  Rising himself, the president of the court read from a single sheet of vellum.

  “In the matter of the Crown versus Hammond, for the charge of espionage, we, the Seventh Military Tribunal for the year of our Lord Nineteen Hundred and Forty, find the accused… guilty as charged.”

  For the first time, Sandy’s composure broke. She sank to her chair, lowered her head to her folded arms on the ledge in front of her, and sobbed uncontrollably.

  “It is now our duty to impose sentence. After due and solemn deliberation, it is the sentence of this tribunal that tomorrow you, Sandra Hammond, shall be taken forthwith from the jurisdiction of this court and confined in the Cotswold Military Prison, where on the tenth day of this month, November, you shall be hanged by the neck until dead. And may God have mercy on your soul. I certainly cannot.”

  Time: 0813, GMT, September 30, 1940

  Place: King’s Court Hotel, Queensway,

  London, N.W. 1, England

  Dianna Basehart put down the thick, rich-feeling, creamy ivory card. It had been embossed, rather than printed. And it requested the pleasure of her company for a weekend at the Seaview Hotel in Weymouth as the guest of Sir Rupert Cordise. Magnificent, she thought. The old roue must be set upon a seaside seduction.

  Her stomach lurched at the prospect. How cliché that this so devious and traitorous a man was among those who were led around by their organ. She would have to be very careful to avoid his many snares. Another thought entered her mind. It would be fun.

  She could lead him on, taunt and inflame him, until he became a pitiful wretch, panting after her like a male dog around a bitch in heat. The more befuddled he became, the more likely he would let slip some important tidbit about his operations and plans. First, she would agree with his “Friends of Hi
tler” ploy. Then expand on it, draw him out.

  “Yes, it will be fun,” she purred aloud. “When Brian gets back, his eyes will bug over this one.”

  Time: 0540, GMT, November 7, 1940

  Place: The Crow’s Nest Hotel,

  Southwark Quay, London, England

  Brian Moore spent a restless night in a seaman’s hotel named the Crow’s Nest. It was neat and relatively clean, and bought him much-needed anonymity. He did not taste his food, did not even recall the next morning what he had eaten for dinner. A few minutes after sunrise, Frank Matsumoto joined him. Frank would drive the “Morris Minor” PTTD. With so little time to plan, Brian had a nagging suspicion that they might fail.

  Always the optimist, Frank Matsumoto did not see it that way. “Piece of cake,” he told Brian confidently.

  “What if there are too many guards? What if one of them puts a bullet in me? Or what if they load her in the courtyard? I should have let them go ahead and take her off, as a dry run, then come back and snatched her off the street. That way we would have known.”

  “Yes, and Accounting would be birthing an elephant over the energy expenditure.” Frank’s smooth, Oriental features glowed with amusement. “What say we grab something to eat before we go at our derring-do?”

  Brian winced. “I’m not hungry. Coffee would be good.”

  “Jangle your nerves,” Frank teased.

  “Can’t be any worse than they are right now,” Brian admitted. He got into the passenger side of the PTTD.

  Frank started the motorcycle engine and put the Morris Minor in gear. Unlike Brian, who came from the North American Republic, which used left-hand drive vehicles, Frank had no difficulty with the driving situation in England. When the World Federation of Republics formed, the Asian Republic adopted the Japanese system, which was also right-hand drive. He eased into traffic and followed Brian’s directions to the Assizes Court.

  They stopped on the way for coffee. Frank also had two large, fried sweetbread concoctions. Brian cringed at the grams of fat they represented. How could Frank consume such things in vast quantity and remain so slim? Frank busily licked grains of icing from his fingers as they pulled up outside the court building.

  Three minutes after parking at the curb opposite the former Assizes Court building, a sergeant in the uniform of the Grenadiers stepped out and looked up and down the street, then made a hand signal. A large, enclosed van pulled out of the inner courtyard and stopped in front of the door. This was going to be more difficult than Brian had expected.

  His original plan had been to simply snatch Sandy off the sidewalk and shove her into the “Morris” then speed away. Frank would leave the car in a thick stand of bracken on the edge of a small park two blocks away. Brian would jump the PTTD to the absolute future, turn over Sandy, and return to his proper time in 1940. Now it did not look so easy. While they watched, two guards brought Sandy from the temporary holding cell and out the front door.

  With handcuffs and leg irons chained to a band around her waist, Sandra Hammond was literally lifted into the panel wagon. Her guards joined her and the vehicle pulled into traffic. Frank Matsumoto looked at Brian Moore.

  “What do we do now?”

  “Follow. There’s not much else we can do.”

  Their trail led out of London by the most direct route. Brian remained outwardly calm, while his mind went into a furor of quickly formed plans, all of which he as swiftly abandoned. Rock fences and tidy fields replaced buildings. A curious cow stopped grazing long enough to look up at the van. It blinked stupidly at the small vehicle following. Brian soon exhausted his supply of adventurous scenarios.

  What he had left surprised even him. It all hinged on such an iffy set of circumstances. He turned to Frank, who had remained silent so far. “Did you bring along that sleepy time cannister?”

  “Yes. Two of them, and a flash-bang grenade.”

  Brian considered that a moment. “Good, here’s what we’ll try to do,” he began and quickly outlined his fragmentary plan.

  Fortune smiled on Brian Moore.Thirty miles down the road toward Cotswold Military Prison, the sirens began to blow and an air raid warden flagged down the vehicles on the road. The Germans had come again. For the first time since this inconvenience began, Brian felt grateful.

  “Couldn’t have happened at a better time,” he observed to Frank. “Now all we have to do is wait for our chatty warden to move on to secure other cars.”

  Frank posed a question that had loomed large for Brian. “What if they won’t open up?”

  Brian considered it. He knuckled a side window. “Are these representative of all British cars?”

  “I think they are. Plain, untempered glass.”

  A smile wreathed Brian’s face. “No problem then. I’ll get the sleep gas inside easily.”

  When the warden walked off to flag another automobile, Brian stepped from the Morris’ Minor and reached onto the minute rear seat for one of the dull gray cannisters. Hefting it, he walked off at a brisk pace toward the military van. At a distance of five feet from the front side window, he pulled the safety pin, let the striker snap down on the detonator, and counted four. Then, with all his strength, he hurled it against the glass.

  It shattered with a musical tinkle, and one of the Grenadiers inside jerked around to look at Brian. “Wot the bloody hell!” The knockout gas grenade landed at his feet and detonated.

  Choking coughs came from inside for a moment, then silence, Holding his breath, Brian reached in through the broken window and opened the door. Quickly he retrieved the keys. With them, he went to the rear to free Sandy Hammond.

  “Let’s get her out of here before that warden comes back,” Brian urged.

  Frank agreed matter-of-factly. “You won’t get an argument from me on that.”

  The third key did it. Brian swung one door open and attacked the keyhole in the barred barrier behind it. It gave a screech. Sandy lay on the floor of the van, unconscious as the soldiers up front. Brian did not even bother with unlocking her fetters. He slung her slight frame over one shoulder in a fireman’s carry and started for the Morris Minor. From beyond it a voice challenged them.

  “I say, what are you chaps doing? Where’s the soldiers in there?”

  His task completed, the warden had started back to chat with the Grenadiers. His eyes went wide and round when he saw the chains dangling from Sandy’s arms and legs, the rigid iron bar that separated her ankles.

  “I say, you’re breaking her out, aren’t you? Nothing but bloody criminals you are.” He raised his whistle to his lips.

  Brian glowered fiercely at him. “If you don’t want to end up with that whistle put where the sun does not shine, I’d not blow it.”

  Swallowing hard, the air raid warden stepped back and watched in silence while Brian loaded Sandy into the car. Frank already sat behind the wheel. Brian entered after Sandy and they sped off down the road. Behind them, the Home Guard warden took down the license number and make of the car. They’d not get away with that sort of thing on his watch. Not very likely.

  Frank looked at Brian. “Now what?”

  “This car is hot now. So, we go back to the Time Station, then I run this girl forward while you return to September.”

  Frank chuckled. “It’s hard to get used to. That you’ll go forward and back and arrive only a few minutes after I do.”

  Brian offered his support to Frank. “You’ll pass the next promotions board and then it will be old hat.”

  “I don’t know if I’m ready for fieldwork.”

  “Don’t worry, Frank. You’ll do just fine. I couldn’t have pulled this off without you.”

  “That’s kind of you, Brian—er—Chief. You’ll use the big Beamer to send her forward, right?”

  “Best way. Then I scoot back in this little contraption. Then we can wait for the screa
ms of anguish among the button counters.”

  Time: 1356, GMT, October 5, 1940

  Place: Seaview Hotel, Weymouth,

  Dorsetshire, England

  She had been right about his inability to keep from writing down important items about his treasonous activities. Dianna Basehart congratulated herself on her persistence in finding the hidden messages or reminders. Sir Rupert Cordise had absented himself from their suite for his usual afternoon visits to the gentlemen’s bar in the lobby of their hotel. Dianna had immediately set out to search out his secrets.

  Sir Rupert kept a diary, also an appointment calendar. A third, small black leather-bound volume held telephone numbers and addresses. All of them contained unexplained groupings of figures, such as 34-11-4 and 143-6-3-5. Obviously a code, Dianna reasoned. Yet, try as she might, she could not crack it. Then, on the flyleaf of the diary was written ODQ 1938. Quickly she copied off the random numbers. Replacing everything, Dianna left the suite for the small, intimate library off the rose garden.

  Arranged in ranks and geometric forms, the roses outside the French doors Iooked forlorn and stark this time of year. Their blooms must have died a month ago. She found a copy of the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations. Working swiftly, Dianna soon found the key. The first numeral was the page number, the second the line, the next the word, and finally, if needed, the letter or letters. One of the simplest of codes ever devised. She soon had no trouble transcribing the first notation.

  Meeting with CB about killing WC. An icy chill ran the length of Dianna’s spine when she had the last letters in place.

  Brian had been right. Arkady had stumbled upon a most devilish plot. Quickly she decoded the second message, this one from his appointment calendar. October fifteenth is the day. Am to get CB into place.