TS01 Time Station London (3 page)

“Dunsteble! DUN—steble, next stop. Mind your parcels. Ladies, mind your brollies.”

Brian wondered what a brolly was until he saw that nearly every woman who detrained immediately opened a brightly colored parasol. Which reminded him to pay extremely close attention to what people said. In spite of his Cultural Implant, he still had a whole new set of colloquial expressions to learn.

Time: 1416, GMT, February 25, 1938

Place: Time Station London,

Thameside, London, England

He reached London in mid-afternoon. The streets swarmed with people, and he had twice to stop for directions to the Thames Quay and the address of the Time Station. When he entered the dusty travel agency, he made a covert gesture to the shirtsleeved “reservations clerk” behind the counter and was waved on.

Down in the cellar, he was confronted by a very Italian-looking young man with curly black hair, obsidian eyes, full, generous lips, and a Bust-of-Caesar nose. This individual rose with fluid grace and extended a hand.

“You must be Brian Moore. Here to set up shop, I suppose, from what Arkady sent me,” he declared. “I’m Vito Alberdi.”

Brian took the offered hand. “Glad to meet you. Actually, I have a little job needs taking care of before I settle in. Right now, I need to look at your history log.”

Alberdi blinked. “I know this takes some getting used to, but I suppose it’s old hat to you. What happens when you do show up next month? Will I know you’ve been here before?”

Brian smiled to soften what could be a harsh comment. “Did you sleep through your Timeline lectures? Interventions are self-eliminating. You won’t remember it, and neither will I. Because, once I complete my mission, correct the glitch in Time, and the wave of correction reaches the
now
of the future, the time mission itself will no longer exist. Then, I’ll show up next month, take charge, and that’s it. That’s the gist of it. Actually, Vito, the temporal mechanics of it are too complex for me to recall in detail. Now, let me at that log.”

Brian’s reference to mechanics pertained to the theories in physics and the new science of temporal mechanics that allowed the Beamers and Personal Time Travel Devices to work. Beamers were power-gluttons, large, sophisticated, semi-permanent devices. Although they could be modified to many different forms, the usual application came in the form of a “booth,” surrounded by a containment field. The time traveler simply entered the booth, the field was activated, and he or she disappeared, to materialize in the whenever. PTTDs could be considered personal timecycles. Using one allowed an individual Time Warden to travel back and forth through time at will. Much smaller than a Beamer, which generally had the area of a small bathroom, the PTTD could be altered to appear as almost any object, so long as it was roughly the size of a small motorcycle or a Volkswagen Beetle.

Brian made a careful, detailed study of the current Timeline. It revealed no reason why Winston Churchill should still be a “gentleman farmer,” rather than appointed to the Admiralty. Nothing seemed out of order, but, of course, it would not. Worry lines formed white crescents at the outer edges of Brian’s eyes when he completed his research. He pulled out a chair, reversed it, and sat with arms folded on the backrest, chin on his hands. At last he opened up about his mission to Vito.

With precise, carefully chosen words, Brian explained the situation involving the future Prime Minister. By the time he had completed his description of events, his subconscious weighed in with a reasonable course of action.

“Well, that’s it, then,” he announced. “I will have to place this Cordise under surveillance.”

Time: 2153 GMT, February 28, 1938

Place: Manchester’s, Foley Square,

London, England

Sir Rupert Cordise, resplendent in white tie and tails, sat at his ease at a lavish table covered with snowy napery, highly polished silver, matching candlesticks, and the finest delft china. The only things that spoiled this Beau Brummell appearance were his small, mean, close-set eyes and shockingly pink, bald pate. Across from him, poised with a gloved hand on the table, sat an attractive young woman, whom Cordise had entertained at dinner.

Actually, she’s quite lovely, Brian Moore thought as he observed them unobtrusively from an alcove. An ice bucket, which contained a bottle of Mumm’s
Cordon Bleu,
was brought to their table by an obsequious waiter. The slightly effeminate, white-jacketed young man uncorked the champagne and poured a little into one tulip glass and handed it to Cordise. The dapper peer, his pencil line of black mustache wriggling with the effort, sipped and sampled. He formed his features into an expression of supreme distaste and glowered at the waiter.

“By the Lord Harry!” he boomed. “Haven’t you anything decent in this place?”

Startled, the youthful server stammered. “Y-yes, s-s-sir. We have a nice
Laffitte Rothchild.
A ’31.”

“Then bring it, lad. And see you don’t dawdle.”

With dispatch, the nearly priceless bottle of wine appeared at tableside. Cordise sampled again, smacked his lips, and declared it acceptable. Brian waited impatiently—this was his third day of watching Cordise—while they drank their fill. Cordise patted thick lips with his napkin, came to his feet, and assisted the young lady to rise. Grandly they strolled from the dining room, without the waiter ever making an effort to present a check. Brian followed close behind.

When the couple exited the elegant restaurant, Brian worked his way close enough to be within hearing. Cordise’s remarks raised the hairs on the back of Brian’s neck.

“I’m terribly sorry, my dear. But I regret I will not be able to keep our luncheon appointment tomorrow.”

Affecting a pout, his companion spoke sweetly. “But, why, Rupert? I had so counted on it.”

Sir Rupert tut-tutted a bit, wet his lips, and went on in a lower tone, which Brian had to strain to hear. “There is this terribly important debate on the floor of the House tomorrow that I simply must attend.”

“Oh, pooh on the
House.
” She made the word sound like something disagreeable. “Mumsy is so counting on our being there.”

Cordise cleared his throat in a rumble and clashed his bushy, black eyebrows together in a mock scowl. “Your mother’s expectations will have to take second place to affairs of state. The whole future of England depends on our deliberations tomorrow.”

To Brian’s surprise, the young woman giggled as she reached up and patted Rupert’s lapel. “Oh, Rupie, you’re so cute when you get like that. She’ll be angry, she’ll pout, but I’ll just ring her up and tell her I will come alone.”

What a vacuum-head
, Brian thought.

Cordise raised a hand and summoned a hansom cab. “Cavendish Square,” he told the man at the reins.

Brian followed them to the young woman’s residence, then Cordise to his home, on Kings Mews, off Bayswater Road, in North-West One, a place he had become entirely too familiar with over the past few days.

Time: 2223, GMT, February 28, 1938

Place: Apartment of Brian Moore,

Threadneedle Street, London, England

In his rented room off Threadneedle Street, Brian Moore spent most of what remained of the night going through recent newspapers. If Cordise considered tomorrow’s debate of importance enough to cancel a date with so beautiful, if scatter-brained, a young woman, the Temporal Warden wanted to know the subject of that deliberation. His eyes felt like burn holes in a carpet when he at last came upon three articles, written over a period of as many days, that enlightened and energized him.

“What’s this?” he asked himself aloud.

The first read:
Fierce debate rages in the House of Commons over the re-appointment of Winston Churchill to a post in the Admiralty.
The second gave more detail and added:
Opposition to Mr. Churchill is being directed by Sir Rupert Cordise, Labour Member from the Cotswold District. MP, Sir Rupert, to the hisses and calls of ‘Shame! Shame!’ from across the aisle, contends that Mr. Churchill made a shambles of his first turn in office and will most probably do likewise this time.
The most recent, from that day, stated that debate was expected to close and a vote taken within the next two days. It all left Brian in a dark mood. Whatever he did, he would need the assistance of the others at London Station. He might as well, he decided, go there and get started now.

Time: 0300, GMT, March 2, 1938

Place: Time Station, Thameside

London, England

“The hell of it is, Vito, Frank, I cannot simply kill Cordise outright. The history log shows him still alive in 1941.” It was three in the morning and Brian had not slept at all.

Vito came back encouragingly, “Is he present after that?”

“Not that I could find. Of course, I didn’t make a thorough search. It could simply be that he left government and faded into obscurity. I’ve been wrestling with my brain, and my conscience truth to be told, ever since I found out Cordise thinks the vote will come today. Somehow, we have to keep him from being there, short of putting him in a grave.”

Frank Matsumoto, security man for Time Station London, nodded thoughtfully. Vito produced a wicked grin. “There are a lot of ways to keep a man from going to work on any given day.”

Exasperated, Brian spoke back urgently. “But don’t you see? We have to keep him away long enough for the vote to be taken so that it goes our way.”

“I say we kill him. That’s the easiest.”

“No, Vito! We can’t. It would disrupt the Timeline.”

Vito shrugged. “Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”

Matsumoto prompted Brian. “What did you have in mind?”

Brian calmed himself, thought over what he had been outlining in his head. “All right, this may sound complicated, but here’s what we should do.”

Time: 0830 GMT, March 3, 1938

Place: Haddington Mews, off Kensington Way,

London, England

Precisely at 8:30 that morning, the Bentley belonging to Sir Rupert Cordise coughed politely and quietly into life and rolled serenely down the long, circular drive in front of the marble-faced brick town residence. The gatekeeper swung wide one half of the tall, wrought-iron barrier, and the second most dignified automobile in England poked its chrome and matte black nose onto Haddington Circle in the direction of Kensington Way.

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.

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.”