TW08 The Dracula Caper NEW (23 page)

Neilson glanced quickly at Wells.

Wells shook his head. "If anything has happened to your friend." he said, "I swear to you that I did not have anything to do with it. Neither did Moreau."

Neilson's .45 was in his hand. "I wish I had your confidence." he said.

"Oh, Herbert!" Amy said. "What's happening?"

"You two had better go into the study," Brant said to them, checking the windows once again.

Wells quickly sized up the situation. "If my home is about to be invaded, I am not about to hide quaking in my study while--"

"Mr. Wells,
please.
I don't have time to argue!" she said. "Scott, get them in there and make sure they stay in there until I tell them to come out!"

"Please, Mr. Wells, do as she says," said Neilson. "Above all else, we have to keep you safe."

Reluctantly, Wells complied.

"Anything?" said Neilson, glancing at her quickly while he crossed the room to check the other windows.

She shook her head, "Nothing. I hope like hell it stays that way, but I've got a nasty feeling that it won't."

"Where the hell is everybody?" Neilson said.

"Delaney left awhile ago to cover the docks," she said. "You and Craven were supposed to cover Stoker. Along with some newspaper clippings of the Whitechapel murders, we found a copy of Stoker's book in Drakov's abandoned headquarters. It had obviously been left there for us to find. Andre left to cover Conan Doyle. You didn't see her?"

Neilson shook his head.

"Terrific," Christine said wryly. "Well, it looks like it's just you and me, kid. Steiger clocked ahead to Plus Time just before you came to see if Forrester could send us any reinforcements. You'd better hope like hell that he gets back with some and soon.”

"I can't do it, Creed," said Moses Forrester, sitting behind the large mahogany desk in his well-appointed office. He was a massive man, completely bald and wrinkled with age, but he was in superb physical condition. His arms were as big around as most men's thighs and his thick chest filled out the blouse of his black base fatigues, unadorned except for his insignia of rank and his division pin. "I'm sorry. I just haven't got the available manpower."

"You've got a battalion of commandos in reserve on standby duty," Steiger said. "All I'm asking for is some additional personnel, let me have ten commandos, just ten—"

"I can't do that," Forrester said, cutting him off. "You know that just as well as I do. I'm required to keep the counterinsurgency battalion at full strength in case of a temporal alert, a crossover by troops from the alternate universe. Besides, they're all combat commandos. None of them are trained temporal adjustment personnel. Even if my hands weren't tied by regulations—“

"Screw regulations!" Steiger said, losing his patience. "Who the hell is going to miss ten soldiers? I'm telling you—"

"And I'm telling
you,
Colonel," Forrester said, rising from his chair and towering over Steiger, "that I am in no position to spare you any additional personnel!"

Forrester was the most informal of commanders and it was always a danger signal when he started addressing his junior officers by their rank.

"Now I made you my executive officer and I sent you out to do a job," he said. "I expect to see you get it
done.
I sent you out on this assignment with more support personnel than I ever gave your predecessor, Major Priest. You're not the senior covert field agent for the TIA anymore. The days of the agency being able to function without justifying itself or its expenditures are over. It's been made part of the regular army and placed under my command and I have to account to the Referee Corps for every single soldier I send out to Minus Time. I was originally allocated only one adjustment team for this mission, but I fought to get you a support unit. Now you're telling me that's not enough. If you can't take the heat, get the hell out of the kitchen and I'll appoint somebody who isn't so sensitive to pressure."

Steiger stiffened. "That's not how it is and you know it," he said. "You sent us out on an investigative mission, but it's become a great deal more than that. We're faced with a terrorist infiltration by genetically engineered creatures capable of spreading a contagion that's a far greater threat to temporal stability than any invasion by enemy troops. We're looking at a biowar aimed at making our species self-destruct, for God's sake. And you know who's behind it."

Forrester's eyes went hard. "I don't need to be reminded of that, Colonel."

"Maybe you do." said Steiger, losing his temper. "After all, it's your mess we're trying to clean up!"

The color drained out of Forrester's face and Steiger instantly regretted his outburst.

"Damn it," he said. "I'm sorry, sir. That was way out of line."

Forrester seemed to deflate. He sat down slowly. Steiger gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, wishing he could take back what he had said.

"Sir, I—"

Forrester held up his hand and Steiger clamped his mouth shut, his jaw muscles working.

"There's no need to apologize." said Forrester. "You're absolutely right.” He took a deep breath and expelled it slowly. "My son is my responsibility. I should have killed him when I had the chance. I couldn't bring myself to do it. There's no excuse.”

"Sir, I had no right to say that. I know what you must have been going through—"

"Do you, Creed?" Forrester said softly. "Do you really? How could you possibly know? People have died because of my mistake and all I've done is pass the buck. I can't remember the, last time I had a good night's sleep. It just keeps eating away at my guts, chewing me up . ."

Steiger stood there silently, hating himself. There was nothing he could say. The Old Man was right, the pressure had been getting to him and he had lashed out, thoughtlessly, hitting Forrester below the belt. It was hard enough knowing you had a son who was insane and hated you without having to send people out to hunt him down and kill him.

"I've seen my son face-to-face just once in my entire life," said Forrester, "and that was over the blade of a knife. And even then, I don't believe he was a criminal. He was angry, hurt, confused, but he wasn't evil. He wasn't insane, at least not then. Whatever's happened to him, whatever he's become. it's my responsibility and I'm going to have to live with that."

He opened the top drawer of his desk, took out a warp disc and strapped it on.

"Sir," said Steiger, "what are you doing?"

"What I should have done a long time ago," Forrester said. "Take responsibility. Clean up my own mess."

"Sir, with all due respect, you can't do that," Steiger said. “That would be abandoning your post in wartime. Under the regulations, the penalty for that is—"

"To use your
own
words, Steiger," Forester said. "screw regulations."

He summoned his administrative adjutant. Lieutenant Cary.

"I'm clocking out to the Minus Side," he told the startled young woman.”I’m not sure how long I'm going to be hack there, but I'm programming my disc for clockback coordinates rive minutes from now. Cover for me, If anything comes up, I'm relying on your best judgment to issue orders in my name. Wait six minutes. If I'm not back by then or if a crossover alert comes down while I'm away, get on the horn to Director General Vargas and report me A.W.O.L. on the Minus Side."

Her eyes grew wide. "But, sir—"

"That's an order. Cary."

"Yes, sir," she said, swallowing hard, "I understand that, but if I report you A.W.O.L. to Director Vargas, do you realize what that means'?"

"It means I'll probably be dead," said Forrester, "so I guess it won't matter much to me one way or another." He strapped on his sidearm and glanced at Steiger. "Let's go.”

"I shall ask you one more time, madame," Grayson said, pacing back and forth across his office at Scotland Yard, "what is your real name and what is your purpose here in London?"

"I've already told you," Linda Craven said. She was sitting in a straight-backed wooden chair placed against the wall. A uniformed policeman stood beside her. "My name is Craven, Linda Craven, and I am an American citizen. I am part of a research group preparing a series of texts—“

"You're lying," Grayson said, stopping directly in front of her. He did not raise his voice.

"Inspector, I resent your accusation," she said stiffly. "Why am I being treated like this? I have been assaulted and the gentleman I was with was murdered in a horrible manner, yet you are questioning me as if I were the criminal! What possible reason would I have for lying to you'?"

"That is precisely what I am attempting to discover, madame," Grayson said.

"I have been in touch with the American consulate and they have no knowledge whatsoever of any research project such as you describe. I would think that if there really were such a project, the American embassy would be aware of it. Additionally, there is the matter of your passport. It is an extremely clever forgery. And let us not forget that singularly unacademic revolver of yours. Quite a large revolver, too, especially for a woman. Mr. Larson also had such a revolver. A Colt .45 Peacemaker, as I believe it's called. Hardly the sort of item one might expect to find among the personal effects of an American research scholar or a British newspaperman. A British newspaperman who seems to have no past. I might add. It seems that prior to his being hired on at the
Police Gazette.
Mr. Larson appears not to have existed. I find that very curious. But it becomes still more so.

"Members of the hotel staff report having seen the late Mr. Larson at the Metropole on numerous occasions, visiting that very suite where you were found unconscious, pinned beneath the body of your assailant. Now why would a British newspaper reporter investigating a series of brutal murders in Whitechapel be paying frequent visits to a group of young American scholars engaged in writing a textbook concerning the social history of England?"

“As it happens, we were seeing each other socially," said Linda.

"Entirely possible,” said Grayson, "but. I think not very likely. I have here a list, kindly supplied by the hotel, of the names of individuals who were part of this supposed 'research group' of yours. The name Richard Larson does not appear on this list, but interestingly enough, the name Richard Locker does and several members of the hotel staff have positively identified the remains of the unfortunate Mr. Larson as those of Mr. Locker. Remembering that Mr. Larson had been working very closely with the late Mr. Thomas Davis of
The Daily Telegraph,
it occurred to me to show a photograph of the remains of Mr. Davis to the hotel staff and, lo and behold, we discover that Mr. Thomas Davis was apparently also Mr. Thomas Daniels, whose name appears right here on our list of members of this 'research group.' Further inquiries lead us to the realization that prior to being taken on by
The Daily Telegraph.
Mr. Davis also appears not to have existed. We begin to uncover a tissue of lies and misrepresentation, forged credentials, faked references, all pointing to sonic sort of ambitious and illegal undertaking.

"Now," continued Grayson, "I find it very fascinating that two British newspapermen are also apparently members of an American research group, headed by two so-called 'professors' named Steiger and Delaney, whom the American consulate has never heard of and who are nowhere to be found. I also find it fascinating that both you and Mr. Larson visited the crime lab here at Scotland Yard earlier today, asking after Mr. Scott Neilson, and when you learned that Mr. Neilson had left early, you apparently went directly to the Metropole Hotel. Now, having an inordinately suspicious nature, I decided to question some of the hotel staff about our Mr. Neilson. It seems they had never heard of anyone by that name. But when I described him, lo and behold once more, comes the reply, 'Why, that sounds like Mr. Nelson, one of those nice young American scholars!' The plot, it seems, grows thicker. Mysteries abound and the trail keeps leading us back to the Hotel Metropole, all roads leading to Rome, as it were. That it was a headquarters of some sort I have no doubt, but a headquarters for what, specifically? An academic project? No. madame, I think not."

He went around to his desk and opened one of the drawers. He took out the plastic dart pistol Volkov had used and a pair of black bracelets Craven and Larson's warp discs. He picked up the plastic pistol. "I have never seen anything
even
remotely like this weapon before," he said. "I cannot even identify the material it's made from. Lightweight, yet incredibly strong. It does not appear to be metal, at least none such as I have ever seen. What is it?" She shrugged. He put it down and then picked up the warp discs. "And would you mind telling me what these peculiar items are?"

"They are only bracelets," she said. "Jewelry, nothing more."

"Indeed?" said Grayson. "And what, then, is the purpose of all these little numbered knobs? Mere decoration?"

"Here," she said, reaching for the warp disc. "I'll show you." Grayson handed her the bracelet. "It's merely part of the catch, that's all. There's a little trick to opening it. . . ." As she spoke, she tried to activate the disc, but she quickly realized that Grayson must have already played with it, because the failsafe designed into the disc had fused it, melting the particle level chronocircuitry and rendering it useless.

Her spirits sank.

"Yes?" said Grayson.

She shook her head. "It seems to be broken now," she said.

He reached out his hand for it and she returned the useless warp disc to him.

"I was examining it earlier and it suddenly became quite warm," he said, watching her carefully. "How do you account for that?"

She shook her head, staring at him as if he were speaking Greek. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Inspector."

"Don't you? Apparently, there is no way to disassemble it or to break it open. You still maintain that it is merely a piece of jewelry and nothing more?"

She nodded.