TS01 Time Station London Read Online Free Page B

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