TS01 Time Station London (11 page)

“Took it to the lab to be analyzed. Answer should be back by noon.”

Brian checked his wristwatch. “Let’s go see if it is.”

Back at the police station, Brian soon learned that the report on the fibers had indeed come in. He read it carefully while Sgt. Telford glanced meaningfully and often at the large clock over the desk sergeant’s dais.

“’Fibers in question are consistent with fibers found in the manufacture of certain Oriental rugs. Among those submitted,’” the dry language of the report droned as Brian read it aloud, “’were found seven strands identical to rugs known as Kirmans. Five were identical to strands from Isfahans. Nine came from Adanas, made in the city of the same name in Turkey. Matching fibers were found in the samples of hair taken from the scalp and pubic region of the corpse.’ Odd. What’s that tell us, Sergeant?”

“That it’s time to get us a bite of lunch, wot?” Telford offered suggestively.

“No. I think it says she was carried there in one or more Oriental rugs. And that she had lain on those or some others for quite a while before being abandoned in the lot. Now, who might you know among the rough element in Coventry with a taste for Oriental rugs?”

“Ain’t none, as I could say, Inspector. But there is an Oriental carpet shop on Dryden Way, along the river quay. Not two blocks from where the body got found.”

Brian brightened. “Have you the address?” When he had that in hand, he became briskly efficient. “Now, Sergeant Telford, I suggest that it is time indeed for you to have that spot of lunch. First start an inquiry for information on those who run the shop. Then round up a squad and go there to make the arrests.”

“Very well, sir. You’ll not be…” Telford asked hopefully, surprised that the Scotland Yard sod would not want to hog all the credit.

Brian shook his head. “No. I have other matters to attend to that will make certain a conviction when you’ve made the arrests.”

Making all good time back to the grove of beech trees on the outskirts of Coventry, Brian activated his “phone booth” PTTD and made his final hop, back to his present and the London Time Station.

Time: 2320, GMT, July 7, 1940

Place: Time Station London, Thameside,

London, England

Vito Alberdi looked up as both Brian Moores materialized in the usual place. “Find what you were looking for?”

Brian could not suppress the grin. “Sure did. Exactly where they have her.”

“Have who?”

The Brians dismissed it. “Oh, never mind.”

“C’mon, no secrets from a partner in Time.”

Real-time Brian answered. “We’re off to rescue a damsel in distress. She’s not one of us, but she does work for me at MI-5.”

“The good-looking one from out of town you’ve been squiring around?”

“You’ve been snooping?”

“Nothing more than your Trac Link can reveal. Go on, my friend. This one’s worth saving. You need some help?”

“We’ll take Frank. You, I need monitoring things here.”

With Frank Matsumoto barely awake in the left seat, Brian I sped off in the MG roadster toward Coventry. Brian II followed in the Morris Minor sedan. Their destination: the Oriental rug shop at 23 Dryden Way Road.

Time: 0150, GMT, July 8, 1940

Place: Oriental Rug Shop, Dryden Way,

Coventry, Warwickshire, England

Brian Moore, I and II, and Frank Matsumoto cruised slowly past the carpet store. It was ten to two in the morning. At the end of the block, Brian I parked the MG and they walked back to join Brian II. Together the trio headed for the silent, blacked-out store. Brian’s vibrating lock-pick, another product of the future, quickly gave them access. Frank found a blond, square-jawed SS type asleep at a desk in the rear.

With the blackjack from his hip pocket, Frank put the German into a deeper sleep. Brian came up to him. “Just like
you,
Frank,” he whispered.

“What do you mean? I never sleep on duty.”

“What were you doing when I came in earlier tonight?”

Frank pulled a straight face. “Resting my eyes.”

“You always make that sawing wood noise when you rest your eyes?”

“Get stuffed, bucko.”

“You’ve been hanging out with the Irish again,” Brian teased. Then he motioned to search the shop.

Their scrutiny produced nothing except a closed door that led to the basement. Brian removed his shoes and went soundlessly down the stone stairs. Frank followed. A penlight flicked on and swept the black pit before them. Wooden frames stood in ranks, filled with rolled carpets. It looked as though they filled the entire area.

Brian walked the length of the central aisle and found it did not correspond to the street floor. It seemed to be some three paces short. “Brian,”—talking to himself seemed odd—“Frank, take that other aisle and the far end and pace it off. Tell me what you think.”

He then took the third and last. They met in the cross-passage at the blank wall. “Too short,” Frank announced. Brian II agreed.

“That’s what I come up with. There’s another room back there. What we need is to find a way in.”

It took Brian ten minutes to locate a thin seam which he traced to form a rectangle. A little careful study showed him the way to open it. He pushed a large brass nail head and a soft click sounded. Soundlessly, the panel swung inward.

Glaring actinic light shot out from beyond. It revealed three men in shirtsleeves bent over a chair. With a curse of surprise and alarm, the one with his back to Brian jumped aside. The occupant of that chair, Brian quickly saw, was Samantha Trillby. Through pain-teared eyes, she focused on her rescuers.

“Brian! You took long enough to find me,” she croaked throatily, still game for all her torment.

One of the three men reached behind his back, and produced a Luger pistol. Brian I had already filled his hand with the heavy .45 Webley revolver. It cracked with ear-punishing loudness in the confined area. A black-rimmed hole appeared in the center of the German’s chest. The Luger left the Nazi’s hand to slam off the floorboards overhead.

His face twisted into a grimace of pain, the German agent slammed backward into a table and overturned it. He left a long, wide swatch of crimson on the top surface as he slid to a sitting position. A small, wet stain spread on his shirtfront while his heart pumped out the last of his life. With a roar, an agent with a mustache leaped at Brian II, arms extended, fingers clawed.

Before the Temporal Warden could react, the revolver was wrested from his hand. A fist crashed solidly into the chest of Brian II, momentarily winding him. When he staggered back, his opponent swung again. This time, Brian II moved his head only a slight bit to the side and let the fist whistle past. Then his foot came up in a front kick that smashed into the sternum of his attacker.

Brian II did a turkey-hop maneuver and his left foot lashed out, heel leading, to smack into the same place. The Nazi went flying. Brian II followed. A knife glinted in the harsh light. Brian sidestepped, pivoted, and delivered a side kick. The keen-edged blade put a burning slash on his calf. Enough of this, Brian decided.

With lightning speed, his arms and hands described a hypnotic design in the air before the baffled eyes of the German thug. When he saw the first stupefied flicker of his adversary’s eyes, Brian II struck. Folded knuckles cracked into a vulnerable forehead, then a blade hand hacked at the base of the Nazi’s neck. With a short, sharp jab, Brian II drove a palm heel into the point of his attacker’s chin.

The thick-shouldered spy went up and over, and his head landed on the concrete floor with a loud crack. With only a slight hesitation to draw a deep breath, Brian II turned to look at Brian I as he knelt at Samantha’s side, freeing her bonds, then he switched his gaze to the third man in the room.

He found that one competently covered by Frank, who menaced the astonished man with his American .45 Colt automatic. Brian II relaxed and looked closely at the only upright member of the group who had administered those grisly injuries described in that coroner’s report he remembered, that would now never be written.

“He’s the one I was following,” Samantha said, still plucky despite her ordeal.

Brian I put a name to the face for the first time. “Marvin Burroughs.”

“Yes, you said he was high on the list.”

Brian I released Samantha’s last fetter. “Frank, take Mr. Burroughs upstairs and sit with him in the MG. I’ll be along shortly. There will be some people coming soon. Whatever you do, don’t let them see you. We want this scum back in London to question at our leisure.”

After Frank Matsumoto escorted Marvin Burroughs out of the basement torture chamber, Samantha glanced questioningly at Brian. “He’s half Chinese,” Brian explained away Frank’s Japanese origin.

Auburn curls shook violently. “No, that’s not what I’m confused about. There’s—there’s
two
of you. Are you twins?”

Neither Brian had given thought to that; they had simply gone in to get her out. Brian II gazed at her uneasily. Brian I thought faster. “No, Sam, we’re not twins. It’s something extraordinarily secret, genned up by MI-5. Sorry, but you are not on the Need-to-Know list.”

Both Brians wondered if she would buy it, as Brian I lifted Samantha to her feet. He had to support her as they climbed to the street floor shop. He turned the penlight on and located the telephone. He limped over to it and called the local MI-5 office. He had a short, urgent conversation. When he finished, he turned to Samantha.

“They’ll be here in five minutes.”

“Good. I’m hungry,” she added with an impish expression. Then she giggled. “Oh, dear, I think I’m in shock.”

Then Brian took her in his arms and kissed her with an intensity that astonished the both of them.

Brian II cleared his throat. “If everything is under control, I think I’ll collect Frank and Burroughs and head back to London.”

A grinning Brian I agreed. “Good idea. You can let Frank go on back; you know where to take Burroughs.”

“Oh, yes.”

After Brian II departed, Brian I gently kissed Samantha again, sat her in a chair, smoothed her hair and stroked her neck. All the while he made the same ineffectual sounds a man uses when a loved one is hurt. It seemed no time until two Home Office agents arrived to take charge. They quickly and efficiently dressed Samantha’s burns and bruises. Then the ranking one nodded toward the basement and its gory content.

“We’ll dispose of those bodies in a flash, sport—er—sorry, Colonel. How about you, Lieutenant? Feel up to coming along?”

Samantha shook her head. “No. I think I’ll ask Colonel Moore to take me around to my flat and fix myself something to eat. I haven’t had a decent meal in three days.”

“I’ll see to her needs,” Brian suggested, his mind relieved at not having to fit four people into the two-seater MG.

Time: 0415, GMT, July 8, 1940

Place: The Pig and Garter Club, Coventry,

Warwickshire, England

Sgt. Wendall Foxworth and Sandy Hammond climbed the cast-iron stairs to street level. The cellar club they had just left stayed open after hours. They served breakfast of choice, the most popular being bangers and mash. Foxworth had consumed two helpings of the thick, pork link sausages and mashed potatoes. Sandy had dabbled daintily at a serving of bacon and scrambled eggs. Fortified by the food, Foxworth summoned the reserve to address a subject he had dreaded to bring up.

“I won’t be seeing you for a while, ducks,” he informed Sandy.

“Why, Wen?”

“We’re for a school at Teddingham. Aerial gunnery refresher course. Be there two weeks.”

Sandy pouted, her lips vibrant without the need of cosmetics. “I’ll miss you awfully.”

“Ain’t my idea to go. You’ll be on my mind all the while I’m gone.”

Sandy twined her arm with his. “That’s sweet. Why do you have to take this course right now?”

Foxworth hesitated, torn between his love for Sandy and his sense of duty. “It’s… it’s ... We’re not to say anything about this, but promise you’ll not say a word to anyone?”

Sandy gave his arm a squeeze and bumped her hip against his. “Of course. You know I won’t.”

“We’re getting new aircraft. More and different armament. The Jerries have cannon in those Messerschmitts. The new planes will even the odds somewhat.”

“I’ve never heard of any British airplane with a cannon.”

“These are American, P-40’s. Fifty caliber machine guns in the wings and a fifty-seven millimeter cannon in the nose. Real beauties. We check out in them first, then learn the guns.”

Sandy’s scowl wrinkled her nose. “You sound as though you
like
these terrible machines of war.”

Nonplused, Wendall Foxworth responded with genuine enthusiasm. “What I love is being a pilot. They say these planes are a dream to fly. Very maneuverable, even at high speeds. Only drawback is they have a lower top speed than the 109’s.”

Although they walked slowly, Wendall and Sandy had covered most of the distance to her apartment. Thinking quickly, she sought to keep him on the topic. “Come up for a glass of wine?”

Wendall freed his arm and put it around her waist. “Love to. We have to make the most of it. These two weeks are going to seem like forever.”

Upstairs, Sandy poured two glasses of rich ruby port. They sipped off half of it, then kissed. Wendall needed no coaxing to proceed from there. He reached out and turned off the light to the accompaniment of Sandy’s approving murmur.

Time: 0613, GMT, July 8, 1940

Place: Time Station London, Thameside,

London, England

Dawn washed the sky a pastel pink. The splendors of the rising sun could not be witnessed from the small, stone-walled cubicle where Brian Moore towered over a diminished Marvin Burroughs. They had returned to the London Time Station, rather than to MI-5, two hours earlier. So far, Burroughs had proved most uncooperative. At last Brian resorted to the naked truth to shake his prisoner.

“I’ll not mince words, Burroughs. This is not an interrogation cell at MI-5. This is a Time Station. If you cooperate, I might reconsider not sending you back to your Home Culture.”

Burroughs remained blank-faced. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Oh, but you do. Your real name is Martin Niebhoff and you came back here to muck around a little. But mainly to profit from the war.”

Although he blanched alabaster, Burroughs remained tightlipped. Brian tried another question. “Do you know of a German agent named Free Eagle—
Freiadler?”
Again, Burroughs said nothing. Brian balled the front of Burroughs’s shirt in both fists and yanked the man off his chair.

“I’ve had enough of you. The next stop is in the future.”

Panic at the immediacy of that threat loosened the tongue of Burroughs. “You can’t do that. You don’t even know when I came from.”

Brian’s smile formed in a nasty line. “That’s the trouble with you bootleg Beamer users. You know absolutely nothing about Time Travel theory. When you are transported with open coordinates, you go back exactly to when you should be. Now, get moving.”

In the central room of the basement under the travel agency, Brian stood Burroughs before the Beamer and gave the high sign to Vito. An enormous surge of energy activated the Time Field. It pulsed and hummed and formed a shimmering curtain inside the framework of the Beamer. When the containment field stabilized it, Brian gave Burroughs a shove toward it.