The Doomsday Box (11 page)

“I don't like this arrangement,” Danny said. “Suppose he doesn't come for us at the coffee place? We'll be stuck in 1962 with nowhere to go and no way of completing our mission.” He didn't like the thought of problems on their mission. He had enough to worry about already. The ring box was weighing heavily in his pocket, and he couldn't get Mr. Carradine's words out of his head.

“It's the only arrangement we have,” Michael told him coolly. “So let's not worry about things going wrong until it actually happens. And by the way, I wouldn't say things like ‘stuck in 1962' too often. If you're overheard, it might start people wondering.”

Danny bit back a sharp retort, mainly because he couldn't think of one. They caught up with the girls just as they reached the desk. A uniformed receptionist stared at them without noticeable warmth, probably wondering what sort of nuisances four teenagers would turn out to be. Opal, who never seemed intimidated by anyone, said firmly, “We're here to see Agent Jack Stratford, please.”

The receptionist flipped quickly through a card index on the right of the desk. “Is he expecting you?”

“I don't know,” said Opal bluntly. She held the woman's gaze.

“What are your names, please?”

“I'm Opal Harrington; this is Fuchsia Benson, Michael Potolo, and Danny Lipman.”

“What is the nature of your business with Agent Stratford?”

To Danny's delight, Opal said calmly, “That information is classified.”

The receptionist gave them a long-suffering look, and it occurred to Danny that jokers must use that line on her all the time. But all she said was “Do you have personal identification?”

Opal shook her head. “I'm afraid not.”

“Then I can't disturb Agent Stratford.” She gave Opal a frosty smile. “If you'd like to come back with personal ID . . .”

Danny loved the way Opal handled herself in situations like this. He watched now to see what she would do. What she did do was drop a small white envelope onto the reception desk. “Perhaps you could ensure this reaches Agent Stratford as soon as possible,” she said. Then, without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away, signaling the others to follow with a small flick of her head.

“Do you think she'll give it to him?” Danny asked as they headed for the doors.

“Hope so,” Opal told him calmly.

“What happens if she doesn't?”

“We go to Plan B.”

“What's Plan B?” Danny asked.

“Haven't you worked it out yet?” Opal grinned at him suddenly. “I feel a bit relieved, actually. We've done exactly what Mr. Carradine asked us to, and it went exactly as he said it would. Now all we have to do is find Pete's Pies.”

Pete's Pies and Coffee turned out to be one of those typical American diners they'd seen so often in movies. There were tables set along a window that looked onto the street, and a bar with stools where you could watch your order being plated. They commandeered a table by the window with some vague thought of watching out for Agent Stratford, even though they had no idea what he looked like. A waitress appeared, and they all ordered coffees except Danny, who insisted on a supersize slice of apple pie with a double helping of whipped cream.

“What?” he demanded when they stared at him. “I'm nervous, all right? I always eat when I'm nervous.”

“We don't have very much money, Danny,” Opal whispered, as the waitress departed. In fact they had almost none. Mr. Carradine had had no way of supplying them with 1962 banknotes, so they were making do with a handful of coins. None of these was 1962 vintage either, but he'd assured them no one ever checked dates on a coin so long as it looked and felt right. But their little hoard was depleted by their bus fares, and at five cents the apple pie was one of the more expensive items on the menu.

“Carradine said this Stratford character will pick up the bill,” Danny muttered as he tucked into his pie.

“Let's hope he arrives before they give it to us,” Opal told him.

In fact, the predicted fifteen minutes came and went with no sign of Agent Stratford. After half an hour, the talk among the group shifted from worrying about the bill (“We can always leg it without paying,” Danny said. “Not the first time I've had to.”) to speculating about what Stratford looked like.

“He's a CIA agent,” Fuchsia said. “He's bound to be tall and handsome, like Mr. Carradine.”

“Do you think Mr. Carradine is handsome?” Opal asked, surprised.

Fuchsia nodded enthusiastically. “I think he looks like Nicolas Cage.”

They were still discussing Carradine when a short, plump man in a rumpled suit materialized beside their table. “You the Chronos kids?” he asked in a strong Bronx accent. “I'm Jack Stratford.”

T
hey'd expected to go back to CIA headquarters, but Agent Stratford took them shopping instead. “You stick out like sore thumbs in that gear,” he told them. “You girls are wearing
pants
, for chrissake!” He looked at Fuchsia. “You're even wearing trousers and a skirt. I know kids like to dress batty, but I'm not just talking fashion statements here. Some of your clothes are made from stuff that hasn't even been invented yet. You want people asking questions?”

Stratford's car was one of those monsters with fins that did about five miles to the gallon. “Best you go in the back and keep your head down,” Stratford said to Michael. “Johnson won't sign the Civil Rights Act for a couple of years, so you'd attract attention being driven by a white man. Sorry about that.”

“Hardly your fault,” Michael said calmly. He climbed into the back of the car and slid across the leather upholstery. Danny climbed in beside him while both girls sat up front.

“Okay,” Stratford said as they headed into town, “as I understand it, you're looking for one of our field agents, code-named Cobra. This is your first time mission. You've had no CIA training and precious little preparation, but you've done stuff for our Limey cousins and you do have some very spooky talents the nature of which is classified information. That about it?”

Opal looked at him with surprise. “How did you know all that?” A thought occurred to her, and she asked, “Are you in touch with Mr. Carradine?”

“Your controller back in your own time? Naw, the energy requirements for verbal communication through time are off the scale. Even those little badges of yours are costly to run, and all they do is send a microsecond beep to signal the end of your mission.”

“So how did you know?”

“It was all on the piece of paper you sent me.”

Opal stared at him for a moment, frowning. “Agent Stratford—”

“Jack. Call me Jack.”

“Agent Stratford,” Opal repeated, “there was nothing on that piece of paper except the one word
Chronos
.”

“That's true,” Danny murmured from the backseat.

“Call yourselves spies? Carradine sent a full briefing. Only the ink was invisible.”

Danny stared at him in astonishment. “You mean like lemon juice? I used to do that when I was a boy. Once it dries you have to heat it before you can see it.”

“Bit more sophisticated that that, kid.” Stratford sniffed. “It's a special mix and a special spray to make it visible. The word you can see—
Chronos
—tells me you're time travelers and I should take the message seriously. The spray brings up the message itself. Any consolation, I have to render you all and any assistance.” He pulled the car over and parked outside a department store. “Okay, let's get you into some sensible clothes.”

The clothes turned out to be more cute than sensible. Fuchsia had been hoping for something really colorful with flowers, but the hippie movement obviously hadn't started up yet, and both she and Opal ended up in what was more like fifties gear—tight sweaters and wide skirts with lots of petticoats. The boys weren't much better off. Mr. Stratford equipped them with tapered pants, matching jackets, shirts, and ties, and muttered something about shorter haircuts. Michael looked cool and conservative—but then he always did. Danny managed to break the mold a little by insisting on a black shirt with a white tie, but all it really did was make him look as if he'd joined the Mafia. Stratford pronounced himself satisfied, however. They could now pass for early-sixties teens without attracting too much attention.

“Where to now, Mr. Stratford?” Opal asked as they climbed back into the car.

“Bank,” Stratford told them tersely. “Then I gotta organize a place for you to stay.”

The place to stay turned out to be a brownstone in a leafy suburb, bigger on the inside than it looked from the street. Stratford showed them into a well-appointed living room. “Okay,” he said, “this is a CIA safe house. I've requisitioned it for the duration of your mission, so the good news is you're not likely to be disturbed. The bad news is you'll have to fend for yourselves—cooking, cleaning, shopping—and don't think you can get away with leaving it a mess when you're finished, because the CIA has ways of dealing with sloppy teenagers.”

“It's all right,” Opal said. “We're mostly English.”

Stratford gave her a look, then went on, “Fridge is stocked, so are the kitchen cupboards. Try to replace anything you use.”

“Actually, Mr. Strat—” She hesitated. “Actually, Jack, we may have difficulty replacing things: we don't have much money. Mr. Carradine said—”

“I know, I know. He said I'd organize a float for you. Every Chronos agent gets around to that sooner or later; usually sooner.” He walked across to a table in the corner of the room. “Okay, gather 'round and see what your Uncle Jack brought you home from the bank.” He began to pull bundles of dollars from his jacket pockets. Danny watched wide-eyed as he tossed them down. “I'd suggest you store some here for emergencies—there's a safe behind the picture. There's nothing bigger than a dollar bill here, but don't forget you get more bang for your buck in this time than you're used to. But let me tell you two things. One, you don't flash your money around. Ever. That's the best way to get yourself noticed, and getting yourself noticed is the best way of getting into trouble. Two, you're accountable because I'm accountable, so don't sweat the small stuff, but I'll be looking for receipts on any big expenditures when your mission is over. Clear?”

“Makes sense,” Danny said. “But what's the deal with us and the rest of the CIA? I mean, if you're not around, can we walk in and get more cash if we need it?”

“No, you cannot,” Stratford said firmly. “The deal is you work through me or not at all. Also, you do not, repeat
not
, reveal my identity as a temporal agent. Or yours, for that matter. If you have any reason to contact me at headquarters, I'm plain Agent Stratford. I work for the CIA in a fairly senior capacity, but I was recruited in the usual way two years after I graduated. My files back up the whole cover story. Any one of you so much as hint I'm not what I seem or mention time travel, I'll order a psychiatric evaluation on all four of you. You wouldn't want that. They still do lobotomies on mental patients in this era.”

Danny grinned at him. “I get the picture.”

Michael said, much more soberly, “We understand, Mr. Stratford. You can rely on our discretion.”

Opal was still standing by the table. She had picked up one of the banded stacks of bills and was riffling through it. “Actually, Agent Stratford, I don't think we're going to need all this money, or anything like it. If Mr. Carradine briefed you with the invisible-ink thing, you'll know all we have to do is make direct contact with another CIA agent who's currently at Langley.”

“That's right—Cobra,” Stratford said.

Opal said, “We're hoping you can find out what name he's currently operating under, track him down at Langley, then get us an introduction. We just need to talk to him for half an hour. After that, the mission's finished and we signal to Mr. Carradine to bring us . . . home.” Her voice trailed away. “What? What is it, Mr. Stratford?”

Stratford licked his lips, and a pained expression crossed his features. “That's the thing, see? When I got Carradine's briefing, I thought I'd save a little time by tracking Cobra down. That's why I was late at the diner. Cobra's a code name, of course, but I found out that, day to day, he operates as Robert Mendez, although that may not be his real name. I don't know what rank he holds in your time, but this year he's working as a covert field agent.” He took a deep breath.

“But this is brilliant, Mr. Stratford,” Opal exclaimed. “All you have to do now is take us to him. We probably won't even need to use this house.”

“Yes, you will,” Stratford said. “Carradine was wrong about one thing, see? Cobra isn't at Langley. He's currently in Moscow. If you want to talk to him, you'll have to travel to the USSR.”