Free TS01 Time Station London by David Evans Page A

have a future in which the Germans won World War II.
    To that end, he began at once when a sixth agent entered through the street-level cellar door. “Alfred, Hermann, you are to take a boat down the Thames. The bomb will be waiting for you in it. After dark, Hermann will go over the side and take the magnetic mine to the keep of the frigate Trafalgar. Attach it and set the timer. Then swim back to where Alfred will be waiting.”
    “At vaht time am I zetting it?” At the best of times, Hermann’s English was heavily accented.
    “Ten-thirty. That’s 2230 hours. Make certain it does not go off sooner. Now, Holst, you and Dieter will take care of that warehouse fire. It is to go off at precisely 10:45.
    “Manfred, you and Jergen are to plant explosives on the Dover line, to take out the bridge outside Battersea, with the Night Flyer, loaded with military supplies, on it, at exactly eleven o’clock.”
    “Vaht is the purpose of such prezise timing?” Dieter asked. His low, jutting brow and deep-set, black eyes gave him the look of an ape.
    Clive fought down his flare of irritation. “It is intended to cause a great deal of inconvenience to the Home Guard and the fire brigades. That is why.”
    It will also direct attention away from the center of London, Clive thought smugly. In particular that jewelry store on the first floor of a certain building in Piccadilly Circus, with that large collection of diamonds of which he intended to avail himself.

Time: 1025, GMT, June 25, 1940
    Place: Office of MI-5, Bayswater Road,
    London, England

    Although not a Time Warden, Samantha Trillby proved adept in her intelligence tradecraft. Brian brought her down from Coventry on Monday of the last week of June. She remained unaware that the Nazi agents they sought were in fact rogue time travelers, although it did not diminish her enthusiasm for the work.
    “The first one is the most important and a bit of a mystery. All I have on him is his Abwehr code name, which is Freiadler, or Free Eagle. We will have to concentrate on getting a name and description. Never fail to ask any of those our dragnet hauls in about him. Here’s the second.” Brian showed her a grainy black-and-white photograph of a rat-faced, balding man outside a storefront. “His name is David Cowerie.”
    “Does he work there?” asked Samantha.
    “He owns the place. He’s a pawnbroker.”
    “It looks rather seedy.”
    “It is. His business with the Germans is his main occupation. Cowerie doesn’t take in more than a dozen legitimate items for pawn in a week. Tony and Hank are watching him now. They’ll call in if anything important happens.” Brian handed her another 8 x 10 glossy. “The third on our list. Brian Gallager. He’s not German, obviously, just an angry Irishman, out for revenge. We’ll find him in Liverpool. No hurry, he’s small fish really. Now comes a tough one. We have a name for him, but no photos. The problem is that he’s so well fixed, we don’t dare put a hand on him at present.”
    Samantha looked at him sharply. “Oh?”
    “Oh, yes. Friend of prime ministers, invited to Buckingham Palace, a real charmer. He’s also selling information to the Nazis in wholesale quantity. His name is Clive Beattie.”

    Tony Bellknap and Hank Simmons slouched low on the front bench seat of the Humber panel wagon, bored, though attentive. A light mist shrouded buildings along the Soho street. They had consumed all the tea in the thermos jug with the resultant strain on their bladders. Tony touched a match to his tenth Players and sucked smoke into his lungs.
    “I’d give a fortune for a trip to the loo,” Tony sighed out through a cloud of smoke.
    “What’s the matter? Tiny bladder problems?” Hank quipped.
    “Get stuffed.”
    “My croaker says cigarettes aren’t good for you,” Hank observed. He eyed the dapper, patrician young man beside him. Looked the right proper bloody lord, he thought, though not with rancor. Dressed the part,