by David Evans
Winded, Clive Beattie softly cursed both Temporal Wardens in German gutter language. Then his eyes focused on the weapon in Dianna’s hand. His cobalt orbs widened with recognition. That set off a string of even harsher expletives, the mildest of which was “You craven bastards.”
Brian bent low over his captive. “File it under Control-Delete, Beattie. Or should I say, Chamäleon. Or, better still, Gunther Bewerber, late of 2606.”
Beattie/Bewerber turned pale. Trapped and knowing it, he sought to wangle any advantage. “You can both be fabulously rich, you know. I have jewels, diamonds, emeralds, rubies. And I have ten kilos of germanium. Think what that would bring in our time!”
Brian’s eyes burned hotly. “We’re not buying. You’ll be sent back to Warden Central for punishment.”
Lips trembling now, Beattie made a final appeal. “Bu—but that means a brain-wipe and the labor battalions.”
Brian shrugged. “Too bad. Although on you a room temperature IQ will look rather good.”
“Better to die now,” Beattie said resignedly.
Fingers working furiously behind his back, Clive Beattie managed to turn the massive Mountbatten signet ring to the proper position. When he started to clinch his hand, Dianna shouted a warning to Brian.
“Whitefeather; stop him!”
Brian dived at Beattie and grabbed the hand that had started to hesitantly close. He saw a wicked, silver glint below the gold of the ring on the third finger. Quickly he put all his pressure on that digit to bend it backward from contact with flesh. Beattie shrieked when his finger broke.
Gingerly, Brian slid the signet ring off the injured finger. He examined the tiny hypodermic needle closely. Then he turned his attention back to Beattie. “So that’s how you were going to kill Churchill.”
“I saw him twisting that ring, wondered why,” Dianna injected.
“Yes, and that’s why he’s done himself up to look like Lord Mountbatten. The Field Marshal is to receive the VC from the King day after tomorrow. Churchill will be there. This way Beattie could get close enough to the Prime Minister to shake his hand or clap him on the shoulder. What did you plan to do with the real Mountbatten?” When he received no answer, Brian shoved the ring under the nose of Beattie. “This is what you got off the sub last night, right?”
“Geht zum Teufel.”
Brian’s smile goaded Beattie more than his words. “It’s more likely you’ll be the one going to the devil. The old poison ring gambit. That dates back even before Lucrezia Borgia, though she’s supposed to have made good use of one from time to time.” Then to Dianna, “Let’s give this place a good toss. Never can tell what might turn up.”
“You are going to keep the gems and germanium for yourselves and send me back anyway,” Beattie accused.
Flashing a pleasant smile, Brian disabused him of that. “No, but they will help offset the cost of catching and transporting you. Several times, I’m sure.”
Dragging Beattie along to his study, they went about the search in a methodical, thorough way. From a safe behind a large landscape painting in the drawing room they retrieved the jewels. A floor vault in the study gave up the germanium. Then Dianna began to leaf through Beattie’s correspondence. Most of it was of a social nature. Several related to the short-circuited campaign of Rupert Cordise. Those she stuffed in her purse. She put the letters aside when Brian came down from the attic.
“I found his transmitter. Also a codebook and onetime pad. They are careful, I’ll give them that. No decoded messages lying around for the casual eye to observe. I’m willing to bet that we can learn a whole lot about the entire spy apparatus if we turn our friend here over to Vito for a casual chat.”
Dianna caught Beattie’s eye to make certain he took in their exchange. Then she made an exaggerated wince and raised one hand as though fending off something threatening. “The last one Vito worked on turned into a gibbering idiot. The mind probe is a terrible thing.”
Face alabaster, Beattie began sweating profusely. “You—you can’t use a mind probe. It’s illegal except by court order.”
“Don’t worry, friend,” Brian assured him. “You won’t be drooling and soiling yourself for long. Once Vito Alberdi gets what we want from you, it’s back to the old Home Culture and a mind-wipe. It won’t hurt anymore after that.” Brian paused, put on a serious expression. “Unless you want to cooperate and it won’t have to hurt at all.”
Realizing he had to give up something, Beattie swallowed hard, spoke in a near whisper. “In the third drawer on the left. There are some papers there that you might find interesting. Under a false bottom.”
Dianna pulled the compartment from its place and dumped the contents onto the desk top. Using a penknife from the blotter, she pried out the phony floor of the bin. From inside the lower section she withdrew five thick letters and a black-and-white photograph.
Posed before the lens were two men. Dianna studied them and handed the photo to Brian. One of the figures turned out to be a stoop-shouldered older man with a leonine mane of white hair, who matched one of the descriptions of Clive Beattie. The other was the former Prime Minister of England, Neville Chamberlain.
Faced now with yet another dilemma, Brian read the letters in stunned silence. The major recurring theme was Chamberlain’s contention that “the German Chancellor” held no ill will for the British Empire or the British people. In one letter, on the second page, Chamberlain remarked favorably on the efficiency with which the National Socialist government was running Germany. In particular, he cited the stabilization of the mark, the recovery of the banks, the creation of jobs for those in the trades by building hundreds of small homes for participants in the new Retirement Security program. He also had glowing praise for the Autobahn, referring to it as “the Highway of the Future.” Brian looked up at Dianna, his eyes haunted.
“This is powerful stuff. Used the right way, it might bring about an end to any opposition to Winston Churchill.”
“Need I remind you, Whitefeather, that we are not here to take a partisan position.”
Brian nodded. “Yes. I can accept that. Only we are here to correct a ripple in the fabric of Time that centers around Churchill. Until he is safe, our job is not completed. You’ll have to allow me that.”
A sigh escaped Dianna. “Unfortunately, you’re right. How do you propose we use these letters?”
“If we have Clive here to back up our story, we can force Chamberlain out of government entirely. And silence Churchill’s critics.”
Incredulous, Dianna stared at him. “You mean not send him back? Regulations state clearly that we transport immediately.”
“I don’t mean keep him, Di. All we need is to have him around long enough for us to wring concessions out of Chamberlain and those lined up against Churchill. Then we beam Beattie back.”
Dianna displayed her stubborn streak. “It’s crazy. You’ll get us suspended.”
“Not necessarily. Let me have time to think this through.” He grew silent then, sorting the alternatives in his mind, weighing possible course of action. A plan formed. “Here’s what I think we can get away with…” said Brian at last, then he went on to tell Dianna his plan.
Time: 1030, GMT, October 15, 1940
Place: Buckingham Palace, London, England
Field Marshal Lord Mountbatten—the real one—received his decoration from the King two days later as planned. He lunched with Winston Churchill and the majority leaders of both houses of Parliament at 10 Downing Street. During the lull, Brian Moore paid a discreet visit on Neville Chamberlain. He brought with him the letters and photograph. Also photos of Clive Beattie as Lord Mountbatten, and as himself, seated beside Brian Moore.
Starting with the first edition, early the second day, the headlines screamed the news.
DR. CHAMBERLAIN STEPS DOWN!
The story that accompanied th
e bold, black letters referred to his leaving government due to failing health and a desire to retire to his country estate. It went on to review his political career and accomplishments. Not a word appeared about certain embarrassing correspondence.
Also that afternoon, Brian Moore spent three hours questioning Gunther Bewerber. He Iearned the names and locations of three previously unsuspected German agents. He also extracted a complete list of secrets Beattie had given to the Germans. When he had wrung all he could out of the time rogue, Brian heaved a sigh of relief.
When Brian took a transcript of his results to Sir Hugh, the MI-5 Home Office director was enormously pleased. He praised Brian highly and hinted that a more substantial form of reward would be forthcoming. Brian left his superior’s office elated on the surface. Yet one grim certainty continued to plague him. The bombing of Coventry. It would happen, he knew, the first day of November.
Time: 2243, GMT, October 31, 1940
Place: Apartment of Brian Moore,
Threadneedle Street, London, England
Despite increased pressure by many privy to the secret of Enigma, Churchill remained steadfast. He was moved by compassion to alter only a few conditions. Unseasonable storms rolled in the last week of October and made flying impossible. Nevertheless, the Germans would come the first good day. The Prime Minister contacted the Home Guard commander on the twenty-eighth of October, and urged him to have all available medical personnel and ambulances be moved under cover of darkness to military bases near to Coventry. He also saw to making available a large blood supply, medical supplies, and surgical instruments. When Brian Moore learned of the Prime Minister’s decision, he spent a long, haunted night on the thirty-first, no festive night for him.
He withdrew from everyone and paced the floor of his apartment, only too aware of the irony that the next day was called the Day of the Dead in Latin American countries. He drank too much and went to bed with the predicament still unsolved.
Time: 0500, GMT, November 1, 1940
Place: Apartment of Brian Moore,
Threadneedle Street, London, England
He awoke at five o’clock with a raging hangover and a resolution. First thing was to call Samantha. She answered on the third ring, her voice thick with sleep.
“Sam, it’s Brian. Get dressed and come into London at once.”
“But, Bri, I have tons of work at the office,” Samantha protested. “And it’s such a beautiful day for once.”
“I don’t care. This is vital. Don’t even go in today. Get dressed, grab some quick breakfast, and drive like the hounds of hell were after you to London.”
“What’s this all about?”
“I… can’t tell you. But it is important. Trust me. After, I’ll tell you all about it; we can have dinner and make fantastic love.”
Maybe, her jumbled mind suggested, he was going to pop the question? The offer of dinner and lovemaking decided her. “Oh, yes, I’ll be there. Give me three hours, all right, luv?”
“That’s cutting it close, but it might work. Just hurry.” He hung up with a sinking feeling.
Time; 0930, GMT, November 1, 1940
Place: 7,500 Meters Above the English Channel
A thin ribbon of foaming surf rolled ashore far below the port wing of the lead Messerschmitt 110 Bf. Colonel Werner Ruperle looked down on it with a heavy heart. At least, the weather had cleared at last. Even that failed to lift his spirits. These daylight raids were murderous. Their losses amounted to a 150 percent increase over night attacks. More than that troubled him. He had received a letter from home the previous day. Hilda had taken a turn for the worse. His mother had come down from München to care for the children.
She wrote in rather harsh, terse form that she had been visited by a deputation from the Gymnasium. “The principal and a teacher, a Herr Wittenauer, behaved with only the barest civility and demanded that I produce Bruno. Then in front of me, they demanded that he join the Hitler Jugend. There would be no more delays, they said. He should have joined a year ago. Now, with his mother dying—they actually said that in front of Bruno—that as a good grandmother it was my duty to Führer and Fatherland to see the boy did the right thing. Bruno was the only boy in school not a member.”
Werner’s mother went on to say that she had protested that she could do nothing. Wittenauer produced a package and opened it. “He handed Bruno the uniform: brown shirt; short, black trousers and kneesocks, and that hateful armband.” Werner had read on, his eyes filled first with tears, then the fire of rage.
“Liebling, they made him strip right there and put it on. Then raised their arms in the Nazi salute. ‘Heil Hitler’ they chanted. The poor boy stood there, his face white, lips pressed together, and refused to respond. Herr Wittenauer reached out and slapped him. He kept on slapping Bruno until he complied. I wanted to kill the Schweinehund, but being an old lady, I was powerless. When they left, Bruno wept hysterically and swore never to wear the uniform again. I am afraid for him. Can you do anything to help? Your loving mother.”
With a grinding of teeth, Col. Ruperle broke the spell that letter could still draw over him. It was only those with Wittenauer’s sort of mind that could so casually select his target for today. Only the morally dead could pick a peaceful village like Coventry.
Time: 0933, GMT, November 1, 1940
Place: Over Lincolnshire, England
Static crackled in the earphones clamped inside the leather flying helmet worn by Wendall Foxworth. A voice quickly followed. “They’re coming all right, lads. Just like the man said it would be. I make it five squadrons of medium bombers and two of Stukas. Let’s give ’em hell.”
How unlike Captain Marsh, Wendall thought. Usually he was all code names, the numbers for tactical maneuvers, like some bloody footballer forward. Maybe it was because Marsh had a wife and two small kiddies in Coventry. Nothing like a little personal involvement to get a man’s fires lighted.
A second later, Wendall’s Vic nosed up and started a climb for the bellies of the German aircraft. He closed to five hundred feet… four… three… two-fifty. His gloved finger closed on the firing switch and eight .303 Browning machine guns shuddered to life. Holes stitched along the underside of the port wing and across the fuselage, then the other wing. Wendall flashed past, still under the Me-110, and saw the shattered Plexiglas windscreen of the bombardier’s cupola. Bright red smears coated the shards of plastic, still in their frames. A leather-jacketed figure lay slumped over the bomb-sight.
“Got the bastard!” he shouted delightedly into his throat mike. “That one won’t be dropping any bombs.”
He made a steep vertical climb and roll, then did a wingover into attack position again. This time he raked the Me-110 along the airfoil from starboard to port, with a withering burst into the cockpit area. Gushing fuel ignited in both wings and streaked back along the fuselage. Immediately the aircraft began to lose altitude. Rising, ticked plumes of black smoke followed it earthward.
Mottled green-and-brown wings flashed ahead and below the Flotte. Moving at a combined speed of over 500 mph, the squadron of Hurricanes had closed with his Me-110’s by the time Col. Ruperle registered their significance. He sensed the first bullet impacts through the control column, then his feet on the rudder pedals. Then bits of sheet metal flew inward, propelled by the armor-piercing .303 caliber slugs from eight Browning machine guns. In an eye-blink his bombardier’s left chest twitched, then a huge chunk of the right side of his back erupted in a gout of scarlet fluid.
Ruperle watched in fixed horror as his friend’s legs spasmed in a grotesque, seated dance and the side of his head flew off. It all happened in a whirlwind of flying shards of Plexiglas. All thoughts of his son’s humiliation at the hands of fanatic Nazis fled from Werner’s head as he fought the suddenly sluggish controls. To his right, his copilot fought the wheel also, eyes wide, the whites large with fright. The
n the Hurricane that had wounded them flashed past three hundred meters off the starboard wingtip. It impudently did a vertical roll and wingover, then leveled out into a shallow dive back in their direction.
Skin around the eyes of Col. Ruperle tightened as he counted the muzzle flashes. He did not need to be a fighter pilot to know that those guns had been tuned to converge at a point less than the present distance. The first impacts chewed a hand’s length off the starboard wingtip. Inexorably they marched toward the cockpit.
Forgetting his intercom radio, Werner Ruperle shouted at his copilot. “Down! Get her downl We’re too shot-up to make it back to France. I’ll pick a field and we’ll land her fast.”
Radio traffic trampled one bit on the other in his earphones as the rest of the Flotte reported being engaged. In the next second, the bullets slammed into the cockpit. Miraculously, they passed behind the copilot’s seat and trashed a bank of fuses and safety switches. Then the port wing caught it. Flames sprang up in an engine nacelle. The fire extinguishers went off automatically. To his surprise, Col. Ruperle found the aircraft easier to control.
“I’ve got it, Fritz. I’ll feather the propeller. You get down there and salvo that bomb load. It will give us more lift.”
His copilot looked at him in consternation. “But, Colonel, the arming wires have not been—“
“Never mind. Unless you wish to become a red smear on the English countryside, dump those bombs.”
Fritz unbuckled and scrambled below. He hit the switch to activate the bomb bay Doors, then put a hesitant thumb over the red button marked “GB” for Ghrenbehalt. Fritz took a quick gulp, and pushed it. With an eerie, metallic click, the whole stick salvoed. Immediately, the Me-110 ascended three hundred feet.