Time Patrol (Area 51 The Nightstalkers) (25 page)

Neeley felt it, a sensation that had occurred several times in her life. She’d first felt it on that plane in Berlin with a gift-wrapped bomb in her lap. She’d honored the feeling, getting off the plane, and that was when she first met Gant. He’d told her to always trust the instinct.

“Get out of the car,” Neeley said. “Leave the keys in the ignition. Walk away and don’t look back.”

The Asset’s mouth opened to say something, but snapped shut. He might be ROAD, but he’d been places before he’d punched out. He got out of the car and walked away.

Neeley had her finger on the trigger of the pistol, which was hidden underneath the daypack. It had been there ever since she got in the car, which is where a pistol in a car should be: in the hand in the lap, not in a holster or under the seat. If people could hold cell phones in a car, an operative could certainly hold her weapon.

She caressed the tiny sliver of metal, knowing exactly how much pressure she had to exert in order to fire the gun as the driver’s door opened and a woman got in. A rather striking woman. Tall, a tad taller than Neeley, with exotic features. The woman started the engine and drove away from the hotel without saying a word.

Neeley also didn’t speak.

The drive didn’t take long, not that it could on such a small island. They were near the airport when the woman drove them into a warehouse.

“I don’t like ambushes,” Neeley said, lifting the pack up and showing the muzzle of the pistol.

“Few do,” the woman said. “My people are around only for security. One across the alley on the second floor. One behind the warehouse out of sight, pulling rear security and maintaining our emergency exfiltration path. And two in the beams above us,” she added as she stopped the car. “They protect you as well as me.”

“From?”

“Those you seek.”

“I’m tracking Carl Coyne. I need to know who he met with here and why.”

“He’s not here.” The woman turned off the ignition.

“I know. We killed him.”

“
We
?” the woman asked, but then answered her own question. “The Cellar. Very good.” She looked at her watch. “You made better time than I expected.”

“Who else were you expecting?” Neeley asked.

“May I get out?” the woman asked, gesturing toward a desk and a couple of chairs.

“Sure.”

Neeley left the pack in the car, carrying the pistol openly, but not pointing it at anyone or anywhere particular.

The woman halted at the desk and turned to face Neeley, extending her hand. “My name is Sin Fen.”

“Neeley.” They shook, and Neeley spoke again as Sin Fen went around the desk and sat down. “I’ve heard your name. Secondhand. Coyne mentioned it just before he departed this mortal coil.”

“I assume he was desperate,” Sin Fen said, “facing a Cellar operative.”

“He was.”

Sin Fen smiled. “Did he speak well of me?”

“He just mentioned you.”

“What else?”

Neeley countered. “Who exactly are you?”

“The person you seek. What else did Coyne say before he departed from this world?”

“He said he had powerful friends. He mentioned your name. Ratnik. The Patrol. Red Wings.”

“You killed him,” Sin Fen said. “And what did you do with the body?”

“That’s part of why I’m here,” Neeley said. “His body simply disappeared.”

“Really?” Sin Fen considered that. “Most interesting. An aberration of the timeline. That could be good if it’s a reboot.”

“Right,” Neeley said, for lack of anything else.

Sin Fen gestured for Neeley to sit. Sin Fen settled down behind the battered, old desk. Neeley sat down, resting the pistol in her lap.

“What is going on?” Neeley asked.

“One thing at a time,” Sin Fen said. “Have the Nightstalkers been alerted?”

“Yes,” Neeley said. “They’re in New York City at a top secret facility that Coyne once guarded. We’re assuming he gave up the location of the facility because it was compromised.”

“The Time Patrol,” Sin Fen said.

“Yes. Who did he give up the location to?”

“The Ratnik,” Sin Fen said. “That’s why he came here.”

“And who or what is the Ratnik?”

“Former Russian Spetsnaz,” Sin Fen said. “They call themselves that, which is ironic because you might actually consider them rats in the walls of time.”

“Did they compromise the Time Patrol?” Neeley asked.

Sin Fen hesitated answering for the first time. “It’s complicated.”

“Uncomplicate it for me,” Neeley said. “The Nightstalkers are on a clock. They’ve got just over six hours.”

“To do what exactly?” Sin Fen asked.

“That’s a good question,” Neeley said. “They’re working on answering it right now. My job is to learn what Coyne did. So where are these Ratnik?”

“Not here,” Sin Fen said. “It’s not easy to get to them, and it is very dangerous.” She closed her eyes for a moment, and then opened them. “The gate to them is still open, but not for much longer.”

“Can you lead me to them?” Neeley asked.

Sin Fen considered her for a long second. “I’m not sure you understand what you are asking or what is happening.”

“No, I don’t,” Neeley agreed. “But I know I have to do my job.”

“Everything from here on out,” Sin Fen said, “is about choice. You do not
have
to do your job as you say. You have a choice.”

“Do I?” Neeley asked. “Do any of us?”

“Let’s not get philosophical,” Sin Fen said. “You have a practical choice now, whether to go into danger or not.”

“Then I choose to do it,” Neeley said.

“Even having little idea what you’re getting into except that it’s dangerous and beyond your conception?”

“Yes.”

Sin Fen abruptly stood. “Then let us go.”

Six Hours

The team, with additions, followed Edith out of the Met. They went along the path that wrapped around the back of the museum, through the tunnel under Central Park’s East Drive, and then north to Cleopatra’s Needle.

It was still there.

And so was Foreman, waiting for them. He was leaning on his cane, looking up at the towering monument. “I believe there is something up there for you, Ms. Frobish.”

They gathered round the monument and peered up.

“A message!” Edith Frobish was up on her toes, peering at the west side of the obelisk.

“How do you know?” Scout asked.

“Different markings,” Edith said. “About twenty feet up. Trust me, I know what this is supposed to look like.”

“Wait a second,” Nada said. “I don’t understand this. We were just talking about how only those who have been near Rifts are being affected first. How can
you
see a change?”

“Because,” Edith said, “there
is
an actual change on the Needle. An agent in the past actually changed it. This isn’t a timeline distortion but a real change. We use this needle, the one in Rome and the one in Paris, as markers. And there are others. Always stone, that an agent can send a message through. It’s in hieroglyphics and then in code.”

“Have messages been sent on it before?” Moms asked.

“Yes,” Edith replied.

“Then it must be covered with them,” Moms said.

Edith shook her head. “No. We get the message, we go back and fix the problem. Then there’s no need for the message to be written and it’s reset.”

“I’m with Roland,” Nada said. “I’ve got a headache.”

“Hieroglyphics?” Moms asked. “You can read them?”

“Oh, yes,” Edith said. “I had to study the writing after joining the Patrol. There are many variations and our messaging system mixes several in a way that anyone not understanding the code can’t break it.”

“Right,” Scout muttered.

“How are you—” Moms began, but fell silent as a truck with a cherry picker rolled up to the obelisk.

“I took the initiative,” Foreman said, indicating the truck.

“How did you know to take the initiative?” Moms asked.

“I’ve been here before,” Foreman said. “Apparently, Ms. Frobish just remembered, but the obelisk is an excellent field-expedient way for agents to communicate, and it’s been used before under unusual circumstances when an agent can’t travel back via the HUB. The Administrator took me here once to show me.”

That bothered Nada. “You know a lot more about the Patrol than you’ve told us.”

“I know a lot less than Ms. Frobish,” Foreman said.

“I don’t think she remembers everything,” Moms noted.

“I don’t either,” Nada said.

Edith wasn’t paying attention. She clambered into the bucket and was signaling to the driver to be raised up so she could examine the mark.

Below her, Foreman, Moms, Nada, Scout, and Frasier waited.

“Oh dear!” Edith cried out.

“What is it?” Moms yelled up.

Edith was signaling to be let down. The hydraulic arms on the bucket loader brought her back to the ground.

Words bubbled forth from Edith. “This totally applies to the Needle. According to the message from one of our agents, Caesarion was not executed by Octavian, but lives!”

“Who is Caesarion?” Nada asked.

“The son of Julius Caesar and Cleopatra,” Edith answered. “At least that was Cleopatra’s claim. And Caesar did acknowledge him as son but not heir.”

“And this is bad why?” Moms asked.

Edith explained. “The agent reported from 26 BC, but that’s four years
after
Caesarion was supposed to have died. He’s alive and Pharaoh in Egypt, having struck a deal with Octavian. Octavian, who by 26 BC was now Augustus, Emperor of Rome.”

“Okay,” Nada said. “Lead with the headline. And?”

Edith stared at him in shock. “History is very different and going to get more so accordingly. Four years different when the agent etched this message. The fact there is no update to the message means that in that agent’s time, things had gone off course enough that he could not access the Needle. Or perhaps he no longer lived.” She barely paused to take a breath. “It could explain why, in your man Eagle’s history, the Lateran Obelisk was still in Egypt, never having been brought to Rome.

“The implications are staggering if this is left unchecked.” She looked at her watch. “We only have six hours to fix this. It’s just the beginning. It’s likely, if left unchecked, the obelisk will disappear and then . . .”

Moms held up a hand as Nada began to say something. “Six hours to fix something that’s already gone wrong for four years in the past?”

“Yes, yes,” Edith said. “That’s the way the Patrol works. Go back to the day Caesarion was supposed to have been killed, although I believe the exact date isn’t recorded. I’ll have to do research.” She closed her eyes in thought. “After the naval battle at Actium, when Antony was defeated by Octavian, he fled back to Egypt. Cleopatra was there with Caesarion, who she had claimed from birth was the son of Caesar and heir.”

“Was he?” Moms asked.

Edith waved off the question. “When Cleopatra received word of Actium, it is said she was preparing Caesarion to rule without her. Perhaps hoping she could go into exile with Antony, much like Lepidus did, and that Octavian would acknowledge both Caesarion’s legitimate claim to rule Egypt, which he indeed was as the son of Cleopatra,
and
his legitimacy as Caesar’s heir. Of course, it was the latter that caused Octavian to have him killed. That was very personal to Octavian because he had been tapped by Caesar as the true heir and that had allowed him to rise up to power in the wake of Caesar’s death. There’s a famous line that Octavian heeded—the words of one of his advisors—who said, ‘Too many Caesars is not good!’ A takeoff of a line from Homer.”

Edith shook her head. “But according to this report, Octavian
did not
take this advice. Caesarion rules in Egypt while Augustus, the name Octavian took as emperor, rules in Rome. Oh!” she exclaimed as something else occurred to her. “The way it was supposed to go was that when Octavian invaded Egypt in 30 BC, intent on finishing off Antony and Cleopatra, Caesarion, who was seventeen at the time, was sent by his mother to a Red Sea port, perhaps with the intention of sending him further away, maybe as far as India.

“Octavian captured Alexandria on the first of August, 30 BC, which history, our history, records as the official beginning of Egypt being part of the Roman Empire. Antony was already dead, having fallen on his sword. Cleopatra followed suit, via the asp, several days later. What followed isn’t exactly known. Some say Caesarion’s tutors betrayed him to Octavian. Plutarch wrote that Caesarion had made it to India but was lured back by false promises of the throne in Egypt. Some say he made it to Ethiopia and was tricked into coming back.”

“So he’s back and ruling,” Moms summed up. “And that’s bad?”

“Very bad,” Edith said. “Think of what might happen. Egypt, while a vassal of Rome, is being led by a true Pharaoh, who also has claims to the throne in Rome by the direct blood of Caesar, which some might think is a greater claim than that of Augustus. At the very least, Augustus’s enemies, and every Emperor has enemies, would use it as leverage. If it doesn’t explode into war between Augustus and Caesarion, their own heirs, Tiberius and whoever is the progeny of Caesarion, will undoubtedly cross swords, perhaps completely changing the course of the Roman Empire.