Greg Ahlgren

PROLOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

So many people have been generous in providing comment, suggestions, encouragement and assistance for this book that it would be impossible to list them all. However, a special debt of gratitude is owed to David Sims whose literary and creative talents helped jumpstart this project, to Debbie Elliott for her assistance in preparing and assembling the manuscript, and especially to Bennett Freeman, whose scientific, creative and literary input has been invaluable.

Prologue

The air conditioning was broken again. It wasn’t so much the heat that was bothersome as the stultifying oppressiveness once the circulating pump quit. The lack of airflow made the atmosphere in the Brandigan Applied Sciences Building on the MIT campus thick and clammy. As Campus Security Officer Yolanda Jackson walked down the hall on the 21st floor an unseen hand tightened around her lungs. Her breathing became raspy and shallow. She knew she should have grabbed her inhaler from her patrol car parked around the corner, but who knew that the air conditioning would be out? It was too late now. Her asthma would have to wait.

Without looking, she touched the two-way radio on her duty belt and contemplated reporting the failed air conditioning. But at three in the morning she’d only be able to raise an indifferent dispatcher at Campus Maintenance who would ask all sorts of questions before telling her he’d have an H-VAC guy give her a call in an hour or so. Better to wait until the end of her shift and fill out a maintenance report form that she could leave with her supervisor. Let it be someone else’s problem.

Besides, tomorrow was Sunday and she planned to take Jamal and Lionel to Salisbury Beach. They’d spend more time on the rides than playing in the surf. The rides were so damn expensive, but she had promised. She wished Luther’s check had arrived on time. She had delayed leaving for work in case it was in the afternoon mail. It wasn’t. She was annoyed, because the judge had repeatedly warned Luther that his checks had to arrive by Thursday.

Officer Jackson didn’t mind night shifts. It was quieter, and in the seven years she had held the job, the worst she had encountered was a drunken undergrad intent on taking out his academic frustration on the nearest uniform.

Night shifts were more checking doorways and buildings, and fewer interactions with students. It was not that she disliked students, but the nights passed quickly and she could work while Jamal and Lionel slept. They were now old enough to be left alone.

At night, if she got no calls, she only had to check each building in her patrol area twice, randomly walking two or three floors. This was the second time through Brandigan this shift. She had walked the 8th and 12th floors hours earlier and hadn’t noticed the air conditioning out.

As she passed the Astrophysics Department Office and rounded the corner, she noticed that the door to the faculty lounge was ajar. Even as she instinctively reached down and turned off her two-way radio she smiled. There would be no intruder in the faculty lounge of the Astrophysics Department at 3:00 on a Sunday morning. Someone had obviously left the door open when leaving on Friday.

She pushed open the door, stepped into the lounge and flipped the light switch. She frowned when the room remained dark. The air conditioning and interior room lights must be on the same defective circuit. Maybe she should radio Maintenance after all. Any electrical problem presented a risk of fire. Surprising that the hallway lights were unaffected.

She pulled out her long black flashlight with her right hand and slid the button forward. The beam played across the lounge and caught an orange stepladder open in the middle of the room. The ceiling tile above it had been pushed aside exposing the crawl space with its tangle of wires and piping. A stale stench from the opening assaulted her nostrils. Maintenance must have already started to investigate the problem. Probably they had left it for Monday. She aimed her flashlight around the rest of the room and was about to back out and close the door when she saw what looked like a shoe protruding from behind a leather couch against the side wall.

Without thinking she commanded, “All right, stand up and step out here. Let’s see some identification.”

As soon as the instinctive words were out of her mouth she regretted her decision. Even though it was probably a student playing God-knows-what-prank, she realized that she should have stepped out of the room, closed the door, and radioed for help. If she were a District Police Officer she would have done that. But of course if she were a District Officer she would have had a gun. Her whole body tensed.

The crouching figure slowly rose up and stepped out. Yolanda Jackson relaxed when the figure turned toward her, caught in the flashlight beam.

“I still need some identification,” she rasped, trying to keep her voice stern. “What are you doing here?”

The figure stepped toward Yolanda and smiled. She never felt a thing. As if in slow motion she saw the figure’s right hand reach toward her through her jittering flashlight beam, and she looked down at her left side just above her belt. A dark stain was already spreading over her uniform shirt. She tried to turn the flashlight back on herself but her hand went numb. She heard the flashlight clatter to the floor. The last thing she saw before her vision faded was the light beam stumbling across the far wall as the flashlight rolled away from her. She felt herself losing consciousness and thought she was falling. She tried to reach out with her left hand and was grateful that someone caught her under her arms. She thought of Jamal’s baseball game just four days earlier. She arrived in the second inning after he had already batted and gotten a hit. She thought it pointless to die to cover up some silly prank. She vaguely heard, rather than felt, her black shoes being dragged across the floor and she felt as though she were being lifted up. Then everything faded to oblivion.

Chapter 1

Monday, June 22, 2026

The tower clock in the Brandigan Applied Sciences Building was striking six as Paul deVere stared in the retinal scan on his dashboard, starting the car. He gripped the steering wheel—steering wheels gave him a feel of control, a solidity the joystick didn’t have.

He’d learned to drive on a steering wheel car, as had many men of his generation, and still liked its feel. That was really why he’d bought the new 2026 Ford Phaser, it was one of the few cars that still offered the steering wheel option. He could even remember driving a manual transmission, but you couldn’t find those any more than you could find tail fins.

“An old guy’s car,” his wife laughed on the day he bought it.

“Screw you,” he’d muttered, but not loudly enough so she might think he was offering. That the steering wheel prevented her from using his car was all to the good. Besides, at 53, with thinning hair and a slight paunch, wasn’t he entitled to an old guy’s car?

He nosed out of the MIT Department of Astrophysics parking lot and onto Charles Street. He had to catch himself from turning left across the bridge, as he usually did after work, and turned right instead, heading home toward Concord. Just past the statue dedicated to the Glorious American Communist Revolution, he turned right onto Massachusetts Avenue and continued west. The statue was one of the few concessions the autonomous Northeast District (formerly New England, New York and Pennsylvania) allowed the American Soviet government.

He flipped the switch under the dash to activate the tracking sensor. His friend and fellow Astrophysics professor, Lewis Ginter, had invented it. “Never hurts to be too careful,” Ginter had said. “No reason the bastards should know more than they have to.”

He listened for a few seconds but didn’t hear a steady beeping. No tracking of his GPS. Good.

There wasn’t any particular reason it would be tracked, except that Paul deVere was one of the top astrophysicists in the Northeast District, and hence of general interest to the Party leaders in Vodkaville. Vodkaville was slang for Yeltsengrad, the Soviets’ new name for Minneapolis. It had been designated the new capital of the American S.S.R. Nobody in the Northeast District called it anything but Vodkaville, of course. Nobody who’d been alive in America before the Second Revolution called it anything but Vodkaville either.

Sometimes he was tracked, and on those days he was careful to follow his routine until the tracking stopped. There was no rhyme or reason to it. He was rarely tracked heading west toward his home. Once though, when he had left early to pick Grace up from crew practice, the sensor had beeped all the way.

His position at MIT afforded him time to pursue his own research. The work he and Lewis had been doing fell under the general area of his expertise, so nobody raised an eyebrow when they talked about mechanized phase shift adjusters and chronologically precise altimeters.

He left Route 2 at exit 56 and steered the Phaser toward the Hanscom Housing Project—formerly Hanscom Air Force Base when the United States had had an air force, heck when there had been a United States—and headed up Route 4. Route 2 was more direct, but he often took this detour and assumed it would cause no untoward suspicion. Besides, he was early and wanted to kill enough time to let the summer sun dip further.

All in all, deVere felt he’d been almost divinely placed for Project Intervention. If he believed in God he would have, that is. His grandfather had believed in God, but that was before the Second Revolution. Gramps had tried to explain why he believed in God to young Paul, who listened out of respect. But even as a middle school student he couldn’t bring himself to believe in anything so unscientific.

“What proof do you have?” the thirteen year old had defiantly challenged his grandfather. “What proof is there of God?”

It had been a cold, drizzly November afternoon. Paul and his grandfather stood in the family’s wood frame dairy barn while sleet pelted the sheet-metal roof. Paul’s grandfather had just finished locking their small herd of Jerseys into the milking stations. The animals stood patiently munching feed.

“Proof?” Alphonse deVere asked, pausing in his work of attaching the milking machine. He studied his grandson with a kind gaze before indicating the waiting bovines. “What proof is there of a cow?” he asked.

Paul smirked, suddenly confident that he had won the day. Obviously, his grandfather had no logical response, and so spat out the first thing that had come to mind. From that day forward Paul had remained triumphantly atheistic, secure in his scientific beliefs. Besides, he often told himself, under the new regime it didn’t pay to be religious.

Paul consulted the tracker again a mile before the critical turnoff to Lexington. No tracking. He eased up to allow a truck to pass. He hugged the truck around the bend, obscuring his license plate from any roadside cameras.

At The Patriot’s Coffee Shop he pulled off the road and into the gravel parking lot. The diner was located at the site of the former Museum of Our National Heritage, within sight of the Munroe Tavern. The parking lot was empty save for one rusting Volvo, which he assumed belonged to the proprietor. The shop was ostensibly named after the region’s professional football team, but deVere knew better.

As he swung in through the glass doors the shop appeared devoid of customers. The attendant was wiping the Formica counter and barely looked up. DeVere grabbed a Boston Globe from the stand next to the door before draping one leg over a stool and settling down.

“Coffee, regular.”

The man nodded and retreated to the coffee machine at the end of the counter.

“Where’s Ralph tonight?” deVere asked.

“Sox game.”

DeVere flipped past the front page headline exposing more fraud on Vodkaville’s contribution to the Big Dig and unfolded the sports section. He didn’t know this counter guy, and there was no benefit in reading the article in front of him. He would read it later.

The man returned with the coffee. “Good article on the Big Dig,” the clerk said, nonchalantly indicating the front page lying open on the counter. “Vodkaville is really screwing this one up.”

DeVere glanced at the sports section headline, “Sox Home for Eight Game Stand,” and ignored the bait.

“So many people think this is their year,” deVere said neutrally.

The man scoffed and moved back, grabbed a burger from the freezer, and threw it down on the grill. It began sizzling immediately.

“If that paper didn’t have the best damn sports department in the District it would have been shut down years ago,” he said loudly.

“Everyone talks about how good it is but they’re always way too optimistic on the Sox,” deVere answered.

“It’s only a matter of time before Vodkaville shuts down the Globe. The way they discourage it only makes it more popular.”

The man flipped the burger before strolling out from behind the counter to the booths along the outside wall.

“You decided, ma’am?” he asked.

DeVere swiveled quickly. A lone elderly woman sat hunched low in one of the booths, sideways to the counter.

DeVere swore softly. He had been certain when he had walked in that no one was in the shop. Of course, she was sitting so damn low.

The woman kept her head down and hesitated before answering flatly, “Cheese steak sandwich. No onions.”

DeVere turned back. She seemed so… familiar. And the voice. He shrugged and flipped to the inside page on the Sox story. Late June and only two games behind the Yankees whose aging ball club was beset with a rash of injuries. Maybe this WAS the year.

The attendant threw shaved meat on the grill and began pushing it around with a spatula. As if reading deVere’s mind he said, “People are saying this might be their year but I don’t know. It still hurts thinking about what happened back in ’10.”

DeVere cringed at the mention of that World Series game seven in Boston. He had been there, right behind third base. In the bottom of the ninth Polito had been what, thirty feet from home plate? From his seat he had seen the Sox players erupting from their dugout and pouring onto the field to welcome home the winning run as the ball rolled to the left field wall.

DeVere shuddered and changed the subject. “Aren’t there usually more customers this time of day?”

The man shrugged. “Search me. I usually work in Boston but Ralph called me this morning when he got tix. Asked me to fill in.” He gestured out to the parking lot.

“Didn’t even know if the old bird would make it,” he said. “I’ve only filled in here once before.”

“Didn’t realize he was a Sox fan.”

“Isn’t everyone?”

DeVere grunted. “You have trouble getting parts for that?” he asked, indicating the Volvo.

“Naw,” the man said. “There’s a junkyard in upstate New York that has everything for old Volvos. It’s the newer ones where you can’t get parts. Not like the old days.”

DeVere turned back to the Arts section and began reading movie reviews. He checked his watch, and ordered more coffee. If he ate, Valerie would wonder why he wasn’t hungry when he got home. Telling her he had stopped at a coffee shop would be like telling her he had gone to a bar with Ginter. He didn’t want another fight, not tonight.

DeVere stayed at the coffee shop until dusk. Lewis had told him that near sunset, at the end of a long summer workday, the roadside eyes were at their weakest and their human monitors less attentive. At night the monitors would change shifts and be at their highest vigilance. Vodkaville boasted 24-hour vigilant surveillance, but Lewis had assured him that was to scare people.

“The technology they’ve got in those is Soviet junk,” Ginter had scoffed. “And the people are worse. It’s all just one big freaking sight deterrent.”

DeVere paid for his coffee with cash, walked outside without looking at the booths, got back in his Ford, and checked the tracking sensor again. A slight beep, then nothing. He’d asked Lewis if the trackers could somehow detect the sensor.

“Haven’t yet,” Lewis had told him.

“But could they?” deVere had pressed.

“If they can, I don’t know about it, and I know 99% of what they’re capable of,” Ginter had assured him.

DeVere often wondered about that other one percent.

He left it on for thirty seconds until he was confident he wasn’t being tracked. He pulled out of the parking lot and drove the final few miles through the main square of Lexington. As he passed by, he glanced—as he did every time—at the town green. The monument had long since been removed but no marker was necessary. It was here, 251 years earlier, that the town’s colonists had mustered on a cold April morning. He stared at the stately homes that lined the common and wondered how many of the current residents would ever do so.

Outside town he stayed on Route 2A along what had once been called “Battle Road.” It had long been renamed “Hanscom Highway” but to the locals it was still “Battle Road.” The British had marched along this stretch between Lexington and Concord in those early morning hours. It was back along this road that they had fled later that day, as gathering militia had pursued, attacked, and harassed their retreat after turning them at the Concord Bridge.

The story held special significance. As a child he had often been teased about his name’s similarity to the midnight rider’s, and even as an adult, acquaintances would occasionally attempt a humorous crack, thinking themselves clever and their observation original.

In Concord, deVere turned right from the main square and headed toward the North Bridge. If he were going home he would have turned left. He only hoped that at this time of the day anyone tracking him by camera would have long since lost interest. He reached over to the glove box and pulled out a worn eight-track tape and shoved it into the Phaser’s tape deck. Almost immediately the Mama Cass version of “Dream a Little Dream” burst from the dashboard speakers.

Whenever he visited the Minuteman Monument at the bridge he felt compelled to play the ballad. Silly, of course. The version dated from the 1960s and had nothing to do with the American Revolution, but deVere always romanticized that it did.

Vodkaville had tried to remove The Minuteman too, of course. Three years ago. The stated rationale had been to preserve it in a museum. But on the day scheduled for its removal people from Concord and the surrounding towns had flocked to form a human shield. An editorial in the Globe had referred to the protesters as resurrected “fire-eaters,” and the term had since come to be applied generally to all anti-neo-Soviet activists. DeVere himself had heard about the happening while at home and had wanted to join but Valerie had discouraged him.

“Why?” she had asked. “Paul, think of your position at MIT. We can’t lose that. And what about your daughter? Have you thought about Grace?”

Reluctantly, Paul had stayed home.

Stars shining bright above you…

He turned left at the dirt entryway and coasted the short distance to the obelisk on the British side of the Concord Bridge. When his parents had brought him and his brother to visit the battle site as children there had been a visitor’s lot across the street where the drycleaners and convenience store now stood. He sat looking across the bridge at the stoic figure of the 18th century militiaman, musket ready at his side.

“There’s a star above you alright,” Paul whispered as he got out of his car. The red Soviet star. He grabbed the trowel he had brought with him but left the engine running and the driver’s door open.

Say nighty night and kiss me

Just hold me tight and tell me you’ll miss me

While I’m alone blue as can be

Dream a little dream of me.

We do miss you, he thought as he walked past the obelisk and crossed the bridge. And you were blue, all right. You had your blue uniforms at Saratoga and Brandywine and, of course, at Yorktown. And we do dream of you. At least, I do.

From behind him he heard Mama Cass belt, “Stars fading but I linger on dear…” Maybe the Soviet star was going to fade. Maybe he, Paul deVere…

At the far side of the bridge he turned right and stepped down to the edge of the retaining wall above the river. He crouched down, shielded by the bridge from the road. Lewis Ginter had chosen the spot himself in a moment of whimsy.

“It should be there, about three inches below the ground, right at the corner. After all,” Ginter had added to Paul, “the first American killed by the British in the Boston Massacre, Crispus Attucks, was an African-American. And you know that idiot, Major Pitcairn, who gave the order for the British to open fire at Lexington? The first shot of the Revolution? Well, he was killed at Bunker Hill by Peter Salem, another African-American. So I feel good about this locale. Besides,” he had added with a chuckle, “it’s on your way home anyway so if it fails hey, no big deal.”

Paul had grimaced but, as usual, had not argued. He shoved a crushed beer can aside. Teenagers drinking again, he thought as he glanced around to make sure he was alone. Satisfied, he used the trowel to scrape away the soil where the retaining wall met the bridge. There, three inches below the surface, as Lewis had predicted, was the canister. Paul turned it over once before opening it. The shiny chronometer inside read: Three hundred ninety-two days, six hours, fourteen minutes and twenty-seven… eight… nine seconds. He snapped it shut.

“It works,” he said aloud. “Beautiful God, it works.”

Chapter 2

The next day at MIT, Paul passed Lewis Ginter’s office. Lewis’ door was open, his back to the corridor. He was talking on the telephone in low tones—probably to a woman he had either slept with last night or hoped to tonight. Paul wondered what she looked like.

That was worrisome. Lewis was single and still handsome for mid-40s, with the same waist and chest he’d had as a high school football player. If the Central Agency brass in Vodkaville wanted to compromise Lewis all they’d need would be a half-attractive agent.

Paul leaned in. “I got that report. It was as you expected.”

Lewis didn’t turn around, but he stopped talking in mid-sentence. Paul thought that his friend hadn’t heard him clearly and was about to repeat himself when Lewis raised a hand and waved his acknowledgment. As Paul continued down the hall he wished he could have seen Lewis’ face. He had known better than to telephone when he had gotten home the previous evening.

In the lab he cordially greeted Natasha Nikitin, the department’s new government-assigned intern. He had to constantly remind himself to treat her normally, as if he didn’t suspect her.

“Good morning, Miss Nikitin,” deVere said.

“Good morning, Dr. deVere. You look chipper.”

She learned a new word, Paul thought. She was constantly trying out new words. She spoke excellent English, all graduates of the Central Agency language school did, and they all had the same peculiar accent. It was one way to tell who was CA.

“Oh, thank you. How’s everything?”

“Fine.”

“Oh Miss Nikitin, can you check the cyclotron? I’ll be needing it in half an hour.”

“Of course.” She disappeared through a door.

DeVere drifted over to the file cabinet and opened the top drawer. The paper clip he had carefully positioned atop the middle of the sheaf of papers was now slightly to the right. He smiled to himself and softly closed the drawer.

Natasha returned and announced that the cyclotron was warming up and would be ready in 10 minutes.

“Thank you, Miss Nikitin.”

“By all means. Please call me Natasha.”

“Thank you, Miss Nikitin. That will be all.”

“Yes, Professor.”

Natasha was tall and attractive, with angular features, bright blue eyes, and long brown hair that hung straight down her back. Those hairstyles were discouraged by the Central Agency but she apparently wasn’t interested in impressing the powers that be. Either that or she was too well connected to care.

She said she was from Central Asia, although she looked much more European than Asian. He hadn’t interviewed her himself—that had been Nigel’s prerogative—but Nigel mentioned that her parents had been killed in the Soviet Union’s Second Great War with China around the turn of the century when she was still an infant. That would make her 27 or so. The fact that her parents were martyrs of the Soviets’ Second Great War made him uncomfortable. After being raised in a Soviet political orphanage it was easy to see how a loyal spy could be created. And that she was a spy, Paul had no doubt. He, Lewis and Natasha were the only ones with access to the filing cabinet. He made a mental note to discuss her presence in greater detail with Lewis.

On his way home Paul shook his head at how complicated kids’ school projects had become since he was a kid. Ah, but Grace was doing well in school and seemed motivated. These days too many kids, even in the Northeast District, were looking to just get by and get a job, he thought as he turned and headed toward the Kennedy Library. Not that there was anything wrong with getting a job, but there should be… more to it than that, some sort of passion about what you did, finding something you loved and pursuing it.

Thankfully, Grace had an active mind. Her goal was to go to Africa and study wildlife

He pulled into the parking lot at the Kennedy Library, walked in and paused in the austere marble foyer. Disk, he was here for a disk. He headed in that direction when he saw a sign for a new exhibit, “America Since 1960: Sixty-six Years Of Progress Toward A Peaceful Workers’ Paradise.”

He’d heard about that. It was Soviet propaganda sludge, of course, and Boston had voted against allowing it in until Vodkaville had promised to fund an additional six months of work on the Big Dig. The chief engineer said they would finish the project some time in the next couple of years.

He strode past the exhibit room on his way to burn the disk for Grace in the bookstore.

“Sir?”

He paused, and glanced around. The place was oddly empty for this hour—the boycott, that’s right, he’d read that Boston was unofficially boycotting the Library until the exhibit closed. He saw three people in the room that normally buzzed with activity. The librarian read a newspaper.

“Sir?”

He looked at the exhibit room and saw a young, petite woman smiling at him.

“Have you seen the exhibit?” she asked.

“Um, no, sorry, I… have to go to the bookstore, you see…”

“I can give you a personal tour,” she said, beaming. Obviously a Soviet girl, Paul guessed she also was from Central Asia somewhere. Why so many Central Asians in Boston? he wondered.

“Yes, well, thank you, but the bookstore is about to close, so I’d better—”

“The bookstore is open until ten tonight.”

Paul tried to think up another excuse, but she clearly wanted to give him a tour. No matter how many tours she gave, her pay wouldn’t change. She could sit in the corner and read, but she really wanted Paul to see the exhibit.

She cared about something.

This cheerful, beaming guide reminded him of Grace, who really wanted visitors to the deVere house to sit down and look through her books of African wildlife. The guide was now giving Paul that same look Grace gave people when she asked them to look at her pictures of lions and elephants and hear what amazing, incredible animals they were.

“Oh, all right,” Paul said. “It doesn’t take too long, does it?”

“It can take as long as you’d like, sir,” she said, nearly giddy with delight at finally getting to show someone around her beloved exhibit.

The tour began with John Kennedy’s defeat of Nixon in the 1960 presidential election. In 1961, the guide—Raisa—said, the good President Kennedy was unfortunately influenced by the military adventurists of the previous administration, and decided to attack the peace-loving Cuban workers.

“Previous administration? The previous administration was Republican, there weren’t any holdovers,” Paul said.

Raisa lowered her eyes. “President Kennedy wouldn’t do that on his own,” she said softly. “He loved the working class, he fought for the advancement of the proletariat. It was the previous administration.”

DeVere opened his mouth to disagree, then realized all he would do was hurt this girl’s feelings.

“Yes, I see.”

Raisa perked up. “Then in 1962 the Cuban Missile Partnership paved the way for good relations and trust between America and Cuba.” She moved on to the next panel, celebrating Kennedy’s 1964 narrow re-election over the evil Barry Goldwater, his 1965 Civil Rights legislation ensuring the complete equality inherent at the center of Communism—“already we can see his longing to join the Soviet Union”—his ability to keep the U.S. from meddling in South and Central America during the successful Ché Guevara revolution in the late 1960s, his wise statesmanlike policy to allow Southeast Asian workers and revolutionaries to throw off the imperialist French shackles binding those societies, and the election of Robert F. Kennedy in 1968. Raisa looked at the picture of Robert F. Kennedy the way Grace looked at pictures of cheetahs in full stride.

Robert F. Kennedy, that was the disk Grace needed, deVere remembered. Her class was studying the Robert F. Kennedy administration. “Robert F. Kennedy,” he said to etch it in his mind.

“Oh yes,” Raisa said, looking up. “Most historians prefer John Kennedy, but I like Bobby. He had more insight, I think, and he didn’t have the other Kennedy’s, ah… problems.”

DeVere nodded as Raisa prattled on about Robert F. Kennedy’s brilliant War on Poverty and ability to focus the attention of the U.S. on social injustice at home and not get involved, as some misguided reactionary elements in the government were advocating, when the Malay Peninsula adopted Communism in the late 1960s.

“Unfortunately, after the Kennedys left office, President John Lindsay committed America to stopping the advancement of Communism in Western Europe, but his reactionary Euro-Centrism only allowed the forces of progress, under the brilliant leadership of Fidel Castro and Ché Guevara, to liberate Central and most of South America. Naturally, we hope to be able to liberate the rest of Western Europe some day as well.”

The pictures showed a smiling Castro in Nicaragua, and a determined Ché in Mexico City standing next to a pinch-faced frowning soldier with a general’s insignia. Paul recognized him as the American defector who had helped Ché’s campaigns.

She moved in front of the largest panel, which depicted America’s capitulation. DeVere knew the story. In the late 1970s, Ché and Castro assembled an army of a million foot soldiers on America’s southern border. The Soviet Union and China fought the first of their two Great Wars. In an effort to oppose Soviet expansion, the United States supported China, which was then devastated by Russian nuclear and biological weapons. Millions, including over 315,000 American soldiers, died like ants. Then chemical weapons were detonated in Phoenix, Houston, and New Orleans, and a dirty bomb in St. Louis. In order to prevent America from suffering the same holocaust that the Soviet Union and China had just experienced, the United States signed an appeasement deal in the early 1980s, ceding the central and southern states to Soviet control and agreeing on what was then called “Hong Kong status” for the Northeast, the West Coast, and the Great Lakes states. As part of the deal, and to prevent any East-West holocaust, the United States had surrendered all of their own weapons of mass destruction, which had been quickly seized by international arms inspectors.

She talked cheerfully about the advancements of Soviet science making life better for Americans: the microchip, personal computer, and cellular telephone technology. “Unfortunately, there are revisionists who want to credit Americans with those inventions, but that’s to be expected,” she said.

He was about to thank the girl for her time and really mean it, when she pointed to a picture deVere hadn’t seen. “Soviet medicine and health care immeasurably improved the lot of the thousands of Americans who weren’t able to afford even basic medical services,” she said, pointing to a picture of a spit-and-polish Soviet ambulance in front of a house. Two uniformed EMTs were hurrying with a stretcher carrying a young boy. A young boy almost… Peter’s age.

Suddenly, he was in that hotel in Tulsa, Oklahoma again, sharing a room with his twin brother, Peter…

Peter started coughing again, but this time it went beyond the usual brief racking fit. He kept coughing and coughing, kicking off the bedclothes and falling to the floor. Alarmed, Paul scrambled off his bed and knocked on his parents’ door across the hotel hallway.

“Honey?”

“Mommy, Peter’s coughing a lot.”

His father opened the door, fumbling with his trousers. His mother, hugging her flannel nightgown, shot by him into the boys’ room, where she picked Peter off the floor and placed him back in bed, bending over him to keep him on the bed.

His father appeared in the doorway. “It’s time to call the ambulance,” his mother said. His father nodded and went to the phone in their own room and called the Soviet ambulance service. His mother sat staring out the window into the blackness as Peter writhed in agony under her hand. She kept massaging his head, saying over and over, “It’ll be all right, sweetie, it’ll be all right.” In the next room his father called. And called. And called. And…

“Sir?”

DeVere snapped back. He blinked and looked around until he saw the face of the guide looking up at him. She looked as if something were wrong with him.

“Sir?” she repeated.

“Sorry, lost in thought,” deVere said.

She nodded. “It happens a lot with people of your generation.”

“Old people,” he said kindly.

She flushed, looking at the floor. “My grandfather, you remind me of him.”

“I’m not that old,” he said.

She smiled and took the joke. “No, of course. Thank you, sir.”

“Thank you. You’re good at what you do.”

She nodded. “I think everybody should understand how we got where we are today. It’s important.”

“Agreed,” deVere said.

He went to the bookstore and told the clerk what school his daughter attended, her class number and the assignment code. He looked it up on his computer and burned the disk.

“Why can’t she download it from the site?” deVere asked.

“We try to encourage the students to come to the library,” the clerk said. “Get them out away from their computers for a bit, look around the library some.”

“So you see a lot of parents on their way home from work, do you?”

The clerk sighed. “You’re the eighth today.”

DeVere drove home, tracing his finger around the locked reinforced steel case on the seat beside him. Yes, he said to himself. It’s most important we know how we got where we are today. So the mistakes of the past can not only be avoided in the future, they can be undone.

Chapter 3

Natasha Nikitin wiped the palm of her left hand across her forehead before drying it on her bed sheet. Even stripped down to her panties and a loose T-shirt the heat pouring in her open bedroom window from the Dorchester street below immobilized her. She sat splayed on her bed, her laptop and IM3 decoder opened in front of her. For a moment she wondered if closing the window might provide relief, but rejected the idea.

The locals remarked that this was becoming one of Boston’s hottest Julys in years. Yesterday, at the quaint Independence Day celebration and concert along the Charles River, the heat had been oppressive. She had asked Nigel to take her home even before the Boston Pops had performed their legendary rendition of the 1812 Overture to cascading fireworks, and the Overture was one of her favorite pieces-even though it had been co-opted by Americans in the Northeast District as some sort of stirring nostalgic reminiscence of past glory.

Natasha readjusted the search mode on the IM3 and continued hacking into Paul deVere’s computer files. The IM3 was the latest in Soviet computer intrusion technology, and it was making quick work of the clumsy passwords and trips that deVere, or more likely Lewis Ginter, had set. Despite the ease of intrusion, Natasha consistently came up as empty in her hacking efforts as she had in searching deVere’s office. In the eight weeks she had been in Boston she had gleaned zilch on deVere and his activities.

Computer hacking was not limited to Boston—heck, any agency operative could have hacked into most files from a cubicle in Yeltsengrad—but MIT had a closed circuit on-line file sharing system which required MIT access. The defense system wasn’t perfect but it did require an agent to be physically in the campus loop to achieve penetration. For Natasha, the MIT closed circuit on-line file system was not distressing. It had, after all, required her to be stationed in the Northeast District. Natasha sometimes found it hard to believe that only eight weeks ago she had hurried across the headquarters of the Central Agency in Yeltsengrad. Winner of a plum assignment in the Northeast District, she had had to report to Igor Rostov, now her handler.

She had found his building, his floor and his office and knocked on the door. No answer. She knocked again. No answer. “Comrade Rostov?”

“Come in.”

She opened the door cautiously, peering around the frame into the dimly lit interior. Igor Rostov sat behind the desk staring at a computer screen. He didn’t look up when Natasha entered.

“Close the door.”

Natasha did, and walked toward the lone empty chair. The office surprised her; she had expected something more impressive. Even her own office was nicer.

“Sit.” Igor still had not taken his eyes off the screen.

Natasha sat. Igor typed something in the computer, closed the screen, then turned to face Natasha. “Tomorrow you leave for your new posting in Boston,” he said.

“Yes sir.”

“First time in the Northeast District?”

“That’s right.”

Igor nodded. “MIT lab intern.”

“That’s right.”

“Excited, are you?”

“I’m happy to have the chance to serve my country.”

Igor snorted. “Oh, no doubt. You aren’t even thinking about the bars and nightclubs, cars, restaurants, clothing boutiques or the much higher standard of living than we have here in Yeltsengrad.”

“I’ve done my homework,” Natasha said simply.

“Of course,” Igor said, clasping his hands behind his head and leaning back. “I expect nothing less, considering how many agents apply for Northeast postings and how fierce the competition is for them. No doubt you’ve done your homework, and probably a few other things to get this posting.” He let his gaze move down to her chest.

“I believe I was chosen based on my qualifications,” she said, readjusting in her seat and hunching forward.

“That and the fact that you’re the best-looking agent we have.”

She glanced away.

“Best-looking smart agent, put it that way. Both assets will come in handy in the performance of your duty, Comrade Nikitin.”

“I pride myself on my ability to fulfill my assignments.”

“Of course. And I pride myself that my agents do so, or else they don’t stay in the Northeast District too long. There are always monitoring posts open in eastern Nevada, you know.”

Natasha waited for him to continue.

Igor stood up and sat on the corner of his desk. “You’ll have a good time in Boston,” he continued, softening his tone. “I was posted there once myself, and it’s a challenging place to be, you know. That’s why we chose the best person we could put in the field.”

“Thank you.”

He waved. “Hey, let’s get out of this overgrown cubicle and go over a few things in the conference room. Tea?”

“Thank you.”

Igor buzzed for two cups of tea to be brought to the conference room. He opened a connecting door and ushered her in. After tea and pleasantries he switched off the lights, and she turned to face the screen.

“Boston,” Igor said from behind her. He touched the laptop and the Boston skyline appeared on the projection screen. “Hell of a pretty place, but also the most dangerous place on earth for a Central Agency operative. We’ve lost more promising agents there than anywhere else in the world. Some are killed by hooligans, some defect, some have to be prevented from defecting.”

He turned to look at her. She avoided his eyes and studied the screen.

Click. “The Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Department of Astrophysics. Outside of work the faculty here can’t mention the titles of their papers without losing listeners. Only the best of the best work here. And one of them is…”

Click. “Professor Paul deVere.” Natasha scrutinized the face. About the age her father would have been, she guessed, early fifties. A nice face. Lacking that hard, protective shell Soviet males acquire by their late teens.

“One of the most brilliant minds in MIT. Family man, lives a quiet life in Concord, faithful to his bitch of a wife, dotes on his teenage daughter.”

Click. “The Astrophysics research lab at MIT. Tallest high-rise in Cambridge. Secured building. DeVere is one of five professors with complete security clearance.”

Click. “Six months ago deVere began staying later at the lab. He didn’t have any new research projects or classes, which is to say, there was no obvious reason for his doing so. He had been reading up on time travel intensely during that time as well.”

“Time travel?”

“Hawking, Sone, David. Seems absurd, of course, but we’re not sure where it will all lead.”

“That isn’t his area of expertise, though,” Natasha said.

“I see you read those stupefying briefing books,” Igor said. “Yes, but coupled with his new hours in the lab, we are, naturally, curious.”

“Naturally.”

“Cameras can only show so much. And even people in the Northeast District know better than to discuss anything sensitive over a phone or Gorenect-mail. We need an operative in the lab. That is where you come in.”

Click. “Your background in physics is suitable for this assignment, which is why you get to sample the joys of freedom,” Igor said, his voice dripping sarcasm, “while you find out what deVere is up to.”

“He’s working alone?”

Igor nodded. “At this time we don’t have reason to think there’s anyone else involved. Another department member is Lewis Ginter”—click—“a veteran of the Balkan Wars of ’04, Special Operations and a known anti-Soviet, as you might guess. From what we can tell, he’s deVere’s only real friend in the department. They appear to be drinking buddies, they meet in sports bars after work and when deVere absolutely has to get away from his wife he’ll go to sporting events with Ginter. They seem to have some sort of attraction for the Boston Baseball Club although Ginter, being from New York City, appears to be a fan of the New York Metropolitans baseball team. And for a Negro, Ginter’s unusually bright. It’s my personal belief he’s colluding with deVere, but I really don’t know since he’s single and his social life tends to be rather, ah, colorful. Difficult man to keep up with, being former Special Ops and all.”

“Balkan Wars?” Natasha asked. “Did the former United States fight in the Balkan Wars? I thought that—”

Rostov’s snort interrupted her. “What was left of the old United States sent a force of volunteer military adventurers. It made no difference.”

“I see.”

Click, click, click. Igor showed a few other department members, all under appropriate surveillance and none suspected of anything other than working for tenure or research grants. “Not like the old days of the gulag,” Igor said a bit wistfully, “when we had the Jews and other dissidents to watch. Those were the days.”

Click. The screen went white. “Any questions?”

“None right now.”

Rostov nodded as he turned the lights back on. “I expect they’ll come fast and furious once you’re in the field. One thing about deVere…”

“Yes?”

Rostov put his hand to his lips, searching for the best way to put this. “Professor deVere has an animosity against the Soviet Union. He doesn’t only resent us, they all resent us. He hates us. The file doesn’t explain it, and that worries me. I can deal with what I understand. But I have no idea why deVere has this visceral hatred of the Soviet Union.”

“He lived in New Hampshire before the Second Revolution,” Natasha said. “His family were farmers. There must be something in his history to explain the abnormality.”

Igor snorted again. “His extraordinary abilities in math and science were detected while he was young, and he was sent to the best schools. His family were members of the old Democratic political party. Of course, having been Democrats in New Hampshire was probably enough to have made anyone feisty. Sometimes these things really do have simple explanations, but to hate us so… well, it would appear that he has no justification for hatred of the Soviet Union after all we did for him.”

Natasha nodded. “I’ll see what I can find. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

Igor shook his head. “Sit down.”

She looked up at him. He closed the blinds and locked the door. He sat across from her and looked into her eyes. “Comrade Nikitin, why is the Northeast District allowed to exist?”

“The Soviet Union believes in allowing people the right of self-determination, and we never compel anyone to—”

Igor waved his hand, cutting her off. “Skip the propaganda.” He stood and stepped back to a large map of the American S.S.R. mounted on the wall behind his chair. Natasha noted that all 37 Communist states of the A.S.S.R. were shaded in deep red. The three semi-autonomous zones were colored light blue.

Without looking back at the wall, Igor tapped his finger in the middle of the map, landing on Kansas. “We give the people here what they want,” Igor explained. “They are indeed allowed their ‘self-determination’ as you phrased it. We have learned a lot about governing other peoples since the 1930s, you know. That’s why we are called neo-Soviets. We let them teach Creationism in their public schools and ban the teaching of evolution. They want to outlaw abortion? We tell them we value life too and let them. We let them have their silly prayers in their schools. What do we really care? They see us as the protector of their values and believe we are on their side. They appreciate the security and peace that we have given them for over 40 years. They are loyal citizens.”

Igor drew a deep breath. “But the districts are troublesome. Of course there are hooligans everywhere, but they are especially concentrated in these districts, which is why we do not annex them. You know as well as I do why the Northeast District exists as an autonomous entity, when we could annex it before lunch tomorrow. Same reason the rest of the Free Enterprise Zones do, Great Lakes states and the West Coast—they make a hell of a lot of money, which we need. And their schools, MIT, Syracuse, Yale, produce some of the best minds and products. As you know, Comrade, industrious enterprise isn’t a natural by-product of the Soviet system, neo or not.”

Natasha stiffened a little. She wasn’t sure if Igor were leveling with her, or subtly testing her true beliefs, a last-minute screening. “I find a lot to commend itself in Soviet business,” she said carefully.

Rostov scoffed. “You know what the radicals in America say, ‘Nobody in the Soviet Union works worth a shit since they get paid anyway.’ The Northeast District workers bust ass, because their pay depends on performance. We need that.”

He sounded genuinely contemptuous. Natasha took a chance. “And we use the Northeast District as our trading port to the rest of the world.”

Igor nodded. “None of that propaganda garbage now, Natasha. I must know that you see reality.” He resumed his seat.

“Of course,” Natasha answered.

“As the old China needed Hong Kong, we need the Northeast District. Over half of all American S.S.R. business goes through there—three-fourths of all business with Europe. If we screw with that we’re committing economic suicide. Basically put, everybody who’s anybody in the Party makes their real money through the Northeast District, and we—they’d—all like to keep it that way.”

“Of course.”

“But the damn thing about freedom is that people do unapproved things. Which we feel deVere might be doing.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know. Something to do with time travel? Probably rubbish. But whatever it is, we need to find out and either control it or stop it. My gut feeling, after working in the Agency for thirty years, is that it might be something.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“Of course you will. Otherwise… well, we don’t need to talk about the ‘otherwise’ part, do we, Comrade Nikitin?”

“No,” she said, suddenly uncomfortable again.

Rostov glanced down at a file that lay open on his desk and flipped over a page. “There’s not much on your family in your personnel file, Comrade. That is unusual.”

“There wouldn’t be. My parents are dead. I was raised an orphan.”

Rostov nodded. “Killed in the Second Great War. Your parents were heroes.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“You were raised in a home made possible by the Soviet system.”

“For twelve years.”

“I see you have a degree in history from Karl Marx University. Strange beginning for a future physicist. And you have an older sister,” Rostov continued, turning a page. “She has a rather nice apartment.”

Natasha stiffened slightly. “It’s sufficient.”

“Sufficient my ass,” Igor laughed. “It’s a hell of a lot nicer than most loyal comrades get. It’s downright bourgeois. I assume it’s due to your position as one of the most promising young agents we have. We like to keep people like you happy.”

“I’m sure we all appreciate it,” Natasha said.

“And I’m sure your sister wouldn’t much fancy moving back to… let’s see, what’s that hellhole, Jovanograd?”

Natasha blanched. “I’m sure she wouldn’t.”

“Of course not. And as I’ve said, we’re all anxious for your mission in Boston to succeed. I’d hate to wake up one morning and read about deVere in the newspaper, or in one of those intelligence briefings that come with the black tape, know what I mean? I don’t like surprises. And my superiors don’t like them much either.”

“Of course not. You can count on me.”

“Let’s hope so,” Igor had said.

But thus far she had come up with nothing she could send back to Yeltsengrad. The Agency certainly wouldn’t conclude from that that deVere and his cronies were clean—indeed, the total sanitization of his files would be a suspicious tip-off. But she was at a loss to formulate a cogent report to her superiors. And, there was nothing in deVere’s personal history that revealed any clues. For the umpteenth time, she checked the thick paper file she had brought from Yeltsengrad. Born October 2, 1972 in Manchester, New Hampshire. DeVere had grown up in Bedford, New Hampshire, on one of that town’s last dairy farms. Educated in public schools, then at Cal-Poly, a Master’s Degree from the University of Michigan, a PhD from Cornell, a teaching fellowship at MIT followed by the quick achievement of professorial status. A career straight and uneventful. No evidence of radicalism.

Natasha tossed the folder aside on her bed and reached for the nail polish. She had done her left toes first—she always did—and as she waited for the IM3 to hack into another folder she began applying the mauve to her right ones.

DeVere’s computer files were of little help. His career was uneventful until two years earlier when he had participated in the discovery of a subatomic particle now known as SU44, for sub-uranium 44. The discovery had made a mild splash in geek circles. A particle of SU44 could be accelerated to speeds faster than light without converting to pure energy so that it would momentarily appear in two physical locations simultaneously. This was a slight anomaly to Einstein physics, but its existence had been theorized for years. Not exactly Nobel Prize winning quality but interesting to physicists and warranting an inside story in the Boston Globe. Shortly thereafter deVere’s personal files included references to Stephen Hawking, Kip Sone and that Bennett David crackpot. Then eight months ago deVere had stopped making references about his research or his interests.

There was nothing further in his files. And this troubled Natasha the most: the sanitization of all his folders. No trace to sexually explicit websites, no chatting with unhappy marrieds, no anti-Soviet jokes clandestinely Gorenected between fellow closet Soviet-phobes, no gambling pools on college football bowl games, not even the storage of the television schedule for his beloved Red Sox baseball team. If deVere were up to something, he wasn’t storing the information in any of his computer files, and he wasn’t hiding it in written form at his office. It had to be recorded somewhere. What was he up to?

Natasha finished the toes on her right foot, studied them for a moment as she wiggled them around, and then impulsively slammed her laptop shut. She threw herself back on her bed and stared at the ceiling.

Maybe tonight she’d catch a break. Nigel was picking her up for a Sunday evening department barbecue at deVere’s home in Concord. She didn’t especially like Nigel—he wasn’t her type—but feigning reciprocal interest allowed her to get invitations. Without Nigel, there was no way a lab intern could have wrangled an invite to the department chairman’s home, especially since anyone with half a brain suspected she was Agency.

As an added benefit, Nigel was the old fashioned type who still paid the tab on his dates. On a lab intern’s salary—agents still had to live on their cover’s salary—that kicker was appreciated.

She wiggled her toes again. Satisfied they were dry, she removed the cotton balls and pondered what to wear. She smiled mischievously as she considered ignoring the heat and going with the short black leather shirt with open toed stilettos. THAT would cause a reaction, especially in a wolf like Ginter. Ultimately, she settled on perpetuating the struggling lab intern motif: flat Birkenstocks, bell-bottom jeans and a loose fitting white pullover top. With bra. And long hair put up, of course.

She got up and walked to the bedroom’s only window. The heat continued pouring in. Along the street windows were thrown open but she doubted that the other residents were experiencing any more relief than she was. Maybe, she mused, she should have given in to Igor’s clumsy advances and gotten the air conditioned Charles River digs. The night before leaving she had stood in her Yeltsengrad apartment looking out at a half darkened city when the phone rang. The caller ID showed it was Igor. Strange, as a matter of course, all calls from the Agency were ID-masked. He must be calling on a personal line, she thought, although why he didn’t mask that as well, she had no idea.

She picked it up. “Hello?”

“Natasha?”

“Yes. Igor Nikolayevich?” she asked, using the Russian patronymic form of address.

“Yes, I apologize for calling so late. I hope I’m not disturbing you?” His voice was slurred.

“No problem. What can I do for you?”

Pause. “I’m sorry, I didn’t finish the briefing today.”

“Not to worry, I can come in first thing in the morning.”

“You fly out tomorrow morning.”

“Afternoon, actually. It won’t be a problem.”

“Rather do it tonight.”

“I appreciate your consideration, but I am rather tired, and I do think tomorrow would be better for me.”

“Busy tomorrow, please tonight?”

Natasha sighed audibly.

“Won’t take half an hour,” Igor said. “Promise.”

“Well…”

“Great. Meet at the front door of the Agency in twenty minutes.”

“The front door?”

“Right. Bye.” He clicked off.

Irritated, Natasha put her skirt back on. These Agency lifers… no reason why it couldn’t be done tomorrow, no reason at all. The only business still to be completed was her housing assignment, and that was usually left to the last minute as a precaution against leaks.

She drove down to the Agency, the big cold stone facade gleaming in the pale streetlights. In ten minutes Igor drove up, narrowly missing a light post. He parked on the sidewalk and left it there. No policeman in his right mind would bother a Mercedes in front of the Agency at night. He would check to make sure the lights were off, and move on.

Igor lurched over to Natasha, still sitting in her idling car. “That’s better, you drive,” he said, climbing in the passenger seat.

“Aren’t we going in for a conference?”

“Safe house,” he said, directing her to start driving down Ché Guevara Boulevard. “Secret stuff.”

Whatever, she thought, as she drove down the deserted streets, backtracking and stopping in the middle of the street as Igor “remembered” the right way to go. She’d heard that in the Northeast District, the streets were busy as late as eleven o’clock at night. Amazing.

They finally pulled up in front of an unremarkable—but weren’t they all?—office building. Natasha let Igor go in first, and discreetly nudged a stop in the front doorway as she followed him in. Not that she thought Igor would try anything, but it was better not to be locked in.

He took her to an office on the first floor. It was surprisingly well appointed, with comfortable tables, couches and chairs. It reminded Natasha of those pictures she’d seen of Ramada and Holiday Inn hotels in the Northeast District, which looked so luxurious for ordinary people that she suspected they were fake.

He flicked on a large computer overhead screen. “Housing.”

He showed her a streaming video of the Charles River in fall. People biked or strolled along the river, and a scull moved silently and smoothly in the background.

“We have an apartment on the first floor of this five story brownstone here”—Igor pointed with the on-screen cursor. “Two bedrooms, air conditioned, kitchen with a stove, oven, microwave, dishwasher and all the modern conveniences. And unusual for a building with only ten apartments, it has underground parking.”

The video switched to the apartment’s interior. Natasha’s eyes grew wide as the camera panned over rooms of paneled walls, Oriental carpets, wood and leather furniture, glass-topped hand-carved tables, crystal and Tiffany chandeliers and lamps, a bathroom with a tub on feet and other things she’d seen only in American movies.

Igor watched her. “Nice, isn’t it?”

“The Agency has this apartment?” Natasha asked in disbelief.

“We secured it some time ago to keep an eye on Professor Ginter who lives on the top floor. We’ve kept it since.”

Natasha struggled to control herself. “How far is it from where I’ll be working?”

“Twenty-five minutes by bike,” he said, moving the video feed to the garage. “Which is a fifteen-speed Fuji you see here, beside the car. Your car.”

Natasha squinted at the screen. In the lower corner of the picture behind the red bike with the sleek titanium frame protruded a yellow fender. Could it be?

“Is that a Subaru?” she asked cautiously. It couldn’t be.

Igor consulted his paper file and flipped over a page. “Yes. It says WRX-51, whatever that is.”

Natasha sucked in her breath. The Subaru WRX-51, right out of the showroom without any modifications, was supposedly the fastest car ever made. She had never seen one, but recognized the sleek fender from magazine pictures.

“My car?” she asked cautiously.

“Of course. It goes with the apartment.”

“Looks functional,” she managed to say.

“We like to keep our best agents happy,” Igor said. “Of course, there are other options.” He clicked the video to a quite different neighborhood.

“This is Dorchester.” The camera panned a street of houses in various states of disrepair, with mostly black people staring suspiciously at the camera.

“This neighborhood?” Natasha said almost in disbelief. “We have a house here?”

“This one,” Igor said, zooming in on a corner house. The first floor was ugly brick with rusted but solid-looking iron grating. “As secure as the one on the Charles, if not more so. Nobody expects an Agency operative to live here, of course, so it’s a wonderful cover. If anybody suspects you of being Agency all you have to do is let them follow you home one night and they’ll be cured.” He chuckled.

“How far is this from my work?”

“Half an hour, in good traffic.”

“And the car?”

“It’s on a bus and subway line,” Igor said. “Most convenient. Although we can arrange to lease a Trabant for you should you fill out the necessary paperwork.”

“Given the sensitive nature of my work…”

“Yes, yes, you need the apartment on the Charles. Fancy. I’m so surprised you should think so, Comrade Nikitin.” He clicked back to the first apartment, and let the video run as the camera panned from the heavy wood door of the apartment with beveled stained glass to the restaurants and markets within easy walking distance of the apartment. White mothers and Hispanic nannies played with children along Commonwealth Avenue. Outdoor cafés were busy with what looked like foreign exchange students from Italy, Spain and Scandinavian countries laughing over drinks. The screen showed clothing boutiques and homemade ice cream shops a few minutes walk from the apartment…

“I said, do you have a preference?”

“I, I think the first apartment would be more suitable to my mission,” Natasha said.

“Oh I’m not sure,” Igor said, pausing the video on the view from the back den of the Charles River. “As you know, I have complete discretion in the assignment of housing for Northeast District operatives.

“I would think you could influence my choice,” Igor said. “You see, I don’t get to the Northeast District much, but when I do I like having a place to stay.”

“Of course,” Natasha said.

“I prefer to stay at the Charles River location, as it’s closer to the airport and, as you say, generally more convenient to my mission in Boston. I don’t mind sharing it with you so long as when I’m in town you don’t mind sharing it with me. Make it seem a little less… lonely.” He began caressing her shoulder.

“So show me how you share,” Igor said, moving his hand down Natasha’s blouse. “Good working relations are—yow!” He jumped up, his cheek stinging. Natasha stood across from him, hands held in the defensive posture she’d learned at the academy.

“You know, I could send you to gulag for that,” he snarled. “I could throw your potato-eater of a sister in Siberia. She’d wish she was in Jovanograd.”

Natasha didn’t say anything. She didn’t doubt that he could.

“Normally I would. There’s no shortage of agents willing to cooperate, here and in Boston.” He touched his cheek again. “But there’s somebody above me who wants you there. You’re lucky, Comrade Nikitin, if this were completely my project you’d be on the next train to Nevada. But someone else in the Agency hierarchy must get into your pants.”

Natasha blinked and looked up at him, a look of surprise etched across her features.

“Enjoy Dorchester,” Igor said, digging a key out of his pocket and throwing it on the floor.

For a split second Natasha reconsidered. She saw the wood-paneled rooms and cafés, the bicycle and river, the stroll over the Charles Bridge to MIT and the walks along Commonwealth Avenue. Then she thought of Igor showing up for weekends, and expecting her services, since something told her he’d find reasons to visit Boston frequently.

“Why thank you, Comrade,” she said, stooping to pick up the key without taking her eyes off him. “I think Dorchester should be fine.”

Chapter 4

Natasha and Nigel pulled up in front of deVere’s residence a little after 7:30 p.m. Nigel guided his BMW hybrid convertible in behind a cream colored vintage Ford Pinto parked directly in front of the house. Natasha raised herself up from the deep leather seat to read the sticker on the Pinto’s rear bumper. “The United States will rise again,” the slogan read. At the left end of the bumper sticker was a caricature of the Statue of Liberty and on the right, a waving Stars and Stripes.

“Where does one get such bumper stickers?” Natasha asked in wonderment.

“Oh, those.” Nigel cleared his throat in an embarrassed manner. “A lot of the fire-eaters are putting them on their cars this year. You can get them at the Harvard COOP but you have to ask. They keep them under the counter.”

“Is that Professor Ginter’s car?” Natasha asked.

“No, that one belongs to Judith Wolfe in the Astronomy Department. She and Ginter are old car hounds. I was told she restored it herself.”

“How old is it?” Natasha asked, exiting her door and slinging her bag over her right shoulder.

“I think it’s a 1975 but I’m not sure,” Nigel answered as he came around the BMW and slipped his arm around Natasha’s waist. He appeared annoyed at the question.

The sky was still bright though the sun was low in the sky. The air outside the city was noticeably cooler. Natasha resisted the urge to recoil from Nigel’s arm and instead looked up and smiled shyly. As they proceeded up the walkway he smiled back.

The two-story house was painted bright yellow with five windows across the top and two windows flanking each side of a red center doorway. A mammoth brick chimney painted white protruded from the peak of the roof. Natasha assumed it was a reproduction colonial dating from the 1980s until she saw the granite foundation behind the shrubbery. Inside, the lower than usual living room ceiling confirmed her suspicion.

If her host were disappointed at her attendance he hid it well. “Miss Nikitin!” he beamed upon spotting her. “Nice of you to come.”

He turned and introduced Natasha to his wife and daughter. Natasha estimated Grace to be about 16 years old. Valerie deVere, a tall, thin blonde, looked Natasha up and down before coolly offering her hand. It was a look Natasha recognized.

Natasha shook the woman’s hand and smiled. No, bitch. I’m not sleeping with your husband.

Nigel ushered her through the house and out the rear kitchen screen door to the back yard. Natasha would have preferred to see the rest of the house—especially deVere’s study—but Nigel’s encircled arm was insistent.

“Yes, I do believe that I’ve met Dr. Arnold,” Natasha said in response to the introduction. Arnold was a squat, balding man with a large head, a former professor who had drifted into some administrative position at the University and who no longer dealt with students. The students were likely pleased. And, according to his file, Arnold was pro-Soviet. Natasha sighed and wondered why it seemed to be the ugly ones who were pro-Soviet.

Professor Phyllis Fletcher stood with drink in hand, chatting with a lanky grad assistant Natasha didn’t recognize. She made a point to pass close to them on the way to the picnic table and heard the grad assistant mutter something about “sine wave reductions.” Natasha kept moving.

At the picnic table Lewis Ginter stood with one foot on the bench, facing off with Judith Wolfe.

“I’ve never seen that,” Wolfe was protesting. “Are you sure?”

Ginter took a sip from his beer and shook his head. “You’ve got a goddamn PhD. Didn’t they teach you anything at Columbia?”

Natasha turned her back to them and deliberately filled a plastic cup with ice.

“I just haven’t seen it,” Wolfe slurred.

“Well, then watch. I’m telling you, every single time. Two strikes, doesn’t matter how many balls. With two strikes he always chases the outside curve ball. With one strike or none he knows enough to lay off but with two strikes he’s got this goddamn protect-the-plate-at-any-cost mentality, and he always, always chases it.”

Natasha finished fixing her drink and moved off, leaving Wolfe shaking her head.

“Nice grounds, huh?” Nigel had reappeared at her side.

“It’s beautiful,“ Natasha said, and meant it. The yard sloped slightly downhill to the woods 100 feet away. Two paths, approximately 50 feet apart, led into the trees.

“Those woods are so beautiful,” Natasha gushed. “And the house. It must have been expensive.”

“You know, a full professor at MIT makes good money.” Nigel moved closer. “I expect to be a full professor soon.” He indicated the back yard. “Something like this will certainly be possible.”

Natasha ignored the bait. “Whose woods are those?” she asked. “Does he own them?”

“No, we don’t.”

Natasha turned back quickly. She hadn’t heard her host approach.

“Oh, Professor,” she stammered. “I was just admiring your yard.”

“It only extends to the wood line. That’s a nature preserve back there.” DeVere pointed straight ahead.

“And the paths?” Natasha asked. “Do those two paths lead through the preserve?”

“The one on the left leads down to an old stone icehouse near the pond. The icehouse is still there. Rumor has it that Thoreau stayed down there in a cabin at the end of the path.”

“That’s Walden Pond back there?” Natasha asked incredulously.

DeVere chuckled. “No, it’s not. It’s Warner’s Pond. But the story is that while waiting to move into his cabin on Walden Pond he stayed there for a few weeks. Or something like that. We call it our own Walden Pond. It was probably just a realtor’s marketing lie.”

“I see,” Natasha answered. “And over there, where does that other path lead?”

“Nowhere in particular,” deVere answered hurriedly. “It just loops around and joins the other path on the far side of the icehouse.”

“Giving the tourist riff?” Lewis Ginter joined the trio.

“Good evening Nigel, Miss Nikitin,” he added. “Surprised to see you here,” he said coolly, addressing the intern.

“Oh, Professor Ginter,” Natasha blushed. “I get out once in a while. Nigel was kind enough to invite me.”

Ginter smiled blandly at the junior professor. “I’ll bet he was.”

“Well,” deVere interrupted. “Please make yourselves at home. There’s plenty to drink and I’m told the burgers will be ready soon. Not that we need hot food this evening.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Natasha said as Ginter and deVere moved off. She turned to her companion. “Nigel, would you please get me another drink?”

As Nigel moved off toward the picnic table, Natasha turned and let her eyes wander over the grounds. Between the house and the woods, a series of iron posts supported lines from which were strung Japanese lanterns. Their light provided a warm glow over the yard. The impression was fantasy-like and Natasha was reminded of a scene from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It was amazing how much brighter everything seemed in the Northeast District. Back in Yeltsengrad on any given night half of the city could be without electricity. Yeltsengrad’s power grid was structured to take power from poor neighborhoods first, then inessential public consumers such as schools and hospitals, then from low-security police precincts, then prosperous neighborhoods—the ones with higher percentages of high Party officials were carefully noted—and few power outages had gone beyond that.

A few feet away Ginter whispered to deVere, “I don’t like her being here.”

“Who, our Miss Nikitin? Relax, Lewis. Nigel is single and obviously interested in our young intern.”

“And you think she’s here because she loves warm summer evenings and barbecues in New England? Or is Nigel more charming than my eyes can see?”

“Who knows?” deVere asked. “Maybe with enough burgers she’ll get co-opted.”

At the edge of the woods the pair halted and glanced back up at deVere’s yard. The moon had risen. The mosquitoes were not yet out in full force. When they arrived they’d drive the guests inside.

Ginter turned and ducked onto the path with deVere in quick pursuit.

“I did it,” Ginter said as soon as the two had stepped onto the path.

“And?”

“I don’t know.” The pair continued down the path for several minutes without speaking until they came upon a windowless stone building approximately 20 feet by 12 feet. A rusty iron door hung ajar at one end.

“I found a wormhole from this afternoon to a spot in the New Mexico desert in 1846. March 3, 1846 to be precise. Return wormhole was one second later. I used a rat.”

“And?” deVere asked anxiously.

Lewis shook his head. “Like I said, I don’t know. It worked all right. The rat went back to 1846 and returned. But when the rat returned it had collapsed.”

“Dead?”

“No, it revived after a minute or so.”

“Injured?”

Ginter shrugged. “I don’t know. Nothing I can find. But I’m not a goddamn veterinarian. And we can’t exactly ask one.”

“How do you know the rat really went back? The time of departure on these wormholes is the same instant as the time of arrival on the return wormhole, so how do you know the rat ever left?”

“One moment it was standing on its hind legs, the next moment it was lying collapsed. It never fell. Just at one point standing and then instantly collapsed. I can show you the video.”

DeVere nodded. “Could something have attacked it in the dessert? Bitten or stung it? A snake or other animal?”

“I thought of that before I sent it back. That’s why I chose a wormhole with a one second span between arrival and return. To keep anything from getting it. And to prevent it from wandering out of the spatial window. There wouldn’t have been enough time for anything to have gotten it at the other end. And there were no visible injuries.”

“Where’s the rat now?”

“Back at my house. Seems to be O.K. I’ll keep watching it.”

“We need to try this on a person,” deVere suggested after a moment.

Ginter shook his head forcefully. “No, we can’t risk discovery. When we go back, we go back. We’ll take the risk then.”

DeVere started to respond when Lewis Ginter raised his hand and forcefully placed it on deVere’s chest. DeVere stopped in mid-sentence. Lewis slowly turned and calmly called out, “Why Nigel, what brings you to the icehouse?”

“What? Oh sorry,” Nigel stammered from behind a lilac bush. He stepped out. “I was just looking for Natasha. Have you seen her?”

“The last time I saw her,” deVere answered evenly, “was back where she was waiting for you to bring her a drink.”

“What? Oh, right. I’ll go back.” Nigel turned and headed back up the path. DeVere and Ginter watched him disappear back into the trees, his feet crunching the leaves and twigs.

“You think he heard anything?” deVere asked nervously as Nigel moved out of earshot.

“I’m more concerned with why we didn’t hear him approach,” Lewis replied. “Let’s get back to the party.”

At the top of the path Lewis Ginter spotted Christine Worbly speaking with Dr. Fletcher. Dr. Fletcher headed into the house, Lewis following close behind.

The mosquitoes were arriving, harrying guests inside. In the kitchen people hovered around the granite island inhaling chip and dip. In their midst Valerie deVere stood replenishing food trays. Next to the refrigerator, Judith Wolfe was embroiled in an animated discussion with Dr. Arnold.

Arnold was scoffing. “You and your silly boycott. Who is going to be hurt by not going to the library? The grade school students, that’s who.”

The kitchen door slammed and Lewis turned to see Natasha and Nigel standing just inside. Natasha looked grim and stared straight ahead as Nigel tried to whisper to her. Lovers first fight, Lewis thought.

“Finished feeding the mosquitoes?” Ginter asked mischievously.

“We heard there was more food inside,” Natasha answered without looking at her companion. She moved past Ginter and reached for a ridged chip. In front of her, Arnold and Wolfe’s discussion became more heated.

“What loss is there in not going to a library that is filled with lies?” Wolfe sputtered.

“You’re naive!” Arnold boomed loud enough that several guests paused at the island. Nearby, Valerie deVere stood quietly, a look of concern spreading across her pale features.

“Naive?” Judith challenged, her speech more slurred than it had been earlier. “What’s naive about wanting this country to be the way it was, strong and independent?”

“Country? There is no country! If your so-called country was so strong why did it collapse in the face of the superior Soviet system? You are living in the past, Dr. Wolfe, in a nostalgia-laden past that has no foundation in reality. And you and your pathetic bumper stickers can’t change reality. There is no U.S.A. And pining for the past will not restore it.”

“My past is a past where this country, this nation, stood up for itself. Where it wasn’t exploited to perpetrate and support a tottering Soviet system that’s rotting from within. You Soviets survive by taking what isn’t yours, our oil, our coal, our wheat.” She shot a quick look at Valerie deVere. “And you’re apparently no different, Dr. Arnold.”

Arnold stood up and for a moment Natasha thought that he was going to punch Judith Wolfe. Next to him Valerie deVere flushed deeply, turned and strode from the room. Arnold turned to say something to her but she was already through the doorway. He turned back to Judith Wolfe and spluttered as she stood swaying, hands on hips.

Arnold flashed a look of hatred at the astronomy professor before hurrying from the kitchen after Valerie.

The room was silent for a moment until Dr. Worbly burst into the kitchen and announced, “Hey everyone, the burgers are ready!”

Natasha scanned the room and gratefully noted that neither Paul deVere nor his daughter were present. Even Lewis Ginter had somehow disappeared from the kitchen.

The poor man, she thought. I wonder if he knows?

Chapter 5

Thursday, July 9, 2026

Paul stood back in the alley as Lewis fished a key from his pocket, manipulated the padlock, and rolled the garage door aside.

“Lenin’s tomb is open,” Ginter said.

Paul ignored the sarcasm. After glancing up and down the alley he followed Lewis inside. Together they rolled the garage door closed and Paul watched as Lewis drop bolted it in place.

“If there’s a raid that door won’t stop anyone,” Paul offered.

Lewis switched on an overhead fluorescent light and moved to a small refrigerator as the bulb flickered to life. He pulled two beers from the Wal-Mart mini-fridge and flipped one open before handing the other to Paul. He took a small silver disk from his pants pocket and waved it around before checking it intently. He nodded to Paul.

“No bugs. It’s more the vandals I’m afraid of in this neighborhood, not the squishheads,” Lewis remarked, taking a deep chug. “We’re safe here.”

Paul popped his beer and took a sip. “I heard that Arthur Pomeroy got picked up. I can’t confirm it. A secretary in the department was talking this morning about a raid in Newton and mentioned some names. I was in the next room but I think she said Pomeroy. I had to pretend not to be interested and that’s all I heard her say. You knew him, didn’t you?”

Lewis opened a tool cabinet and took out a series of wrenches. “If it was Pomeroy I’m not surprised. I never talked to him much but I’ve seen him around. He always drank too much. You don’t become Sam Adams by drinking it all day.”

Paul pulled up a metal folding chair and wiped it off with a soiled rag. He set it facing Lewis’ vintage Plymouth Roadrunner. He settled down and took a second sip. “You think they can get back to us through Pomeroy?”

Lewis paused before answering. “I don’t think so. You never ran into him, did you?”

Paul shook his head.

“Last time I saw him was at a meeting in Somerville a few months ago,” Lewis continued. “Drunk as usual. He was with some woman down from Maine. She ran some sort of pamphlet operation—left pamphlets at restaurants, something like that. He was spouting off about trying to blow a ship or barge or something coming into Portland. Would supposedly close the harbor for six months. He had a map of it spread out in front of him. I knew then he was toast so I gave him a wide berth. I wouldn’t worry about him.”

“What if he gives them someone who can torch us?” Paul asked.

Lewis shrugged. “What’s anyone going to say? You haven’t joined any group. Christ, Paul, you never meet with anyone. So, I’ve been to a few meetings. Who hasn’t around here? The squishheads can’t lock up half of Cambridge, can they?”

“But, the project…” Paul began.

“What about it?” Lewis demanded. “It’s no one but you and me. Nothing on our computers. No notes left lying around. Arnold doesn’t even know what half the equipment we’ve bought is for, not that he ever did,” he added contemptuously.

“What about the money trail?” Paul asked nervously. “They’ve funneled a ton of dough to us to build this thing. Perry knows about the money. Lorrie Maddox delivered most of it to you. She knows. And we’re gonna’ need more to get additional fuel to run more tests.”

“She knows about the money, that’s all,” Lewis corrected. “She still thinks we’re developing explosives.”

“Jesus, Lewis, how the hell does that help? You think Vodkaville will leave us alone if they think all we’re doing is building bombs? You think they’ll figure that’s O.K.?”

Lewis sat on the bench opposite his friend. “Look, there’s nothing we can do. We need the money, we need Perry and we need Lorrie. Besides, even if they trace us they won’t make any move until they know what we’re up to. They’ll be afraid of not getting all of us and ending up with a 50 car freight train lying on its side outside Chicago. If they nab someone close to me we’ll know and have time. They won’t do a thing until they figure out what we’re up to.”

“What about the lab intern?”

Lewis nodded thoughtfully. “Natasha’s probably Agency. Smart too, and not just as a spy. Nigel says she really knows her stuff in physics. If she wasn’t a Russkie she could probably be a real help to us. But it’s just routine. There’s always a plant in the department.”

Paul shook his head. “Not always. There hasn’t been anyone for awhile. The last guy you spotted as Agency was that janitor two years ago.”

“You mean the guy from Boston College? That was two years ago?” Lewis laughed. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. Well, Vodkaville has had funding problems. They don’t have the dough to watch everyone. Hand me that wrench, will ya’?”

Paul searched around the floor before bending over and retrieving the wrench closest to his feet. As he handed it to Lewis he glanced around the garage.

“Not the cleanest place to plan a revolution,” he mused aloud.

Lewis grunted at an especially tough engine bolt. “Yeah, well, we’re off the beaten track here. What office building around town isn’t bugged? Any outdoor meetings are sure to draw attention and I don’t exactly fancy freezing my ass off half the year. You know the problem with public places, you never know who’s in the next booth. Besides, I really want to get this Superbird on the road. Can’t let Wolfe beat me on this.”

Lewis inserted an eight-track tape into a player on a nearby metal shelf and cranked up the volume. Paul winced at being forced to listen yet again to Steppenwolf.

“So, what’s the next move?” Lewis asked. “Gimme’ that ratchet set.”

“Next move is we pinpoint a time to go back.”

“Got one in mind?”

Paul shook his head. “Not really. We need someone who knows a lot of the details. Someone who has access to the real stuff, the history, the primary sources. We can’t afford to hit the wrong time.”

“Like a professor,” Lewis said. “Watch your feet.” Paul lifted his feet and Lewis rolled under the car to work on a brake line. “Ratchet,” he called out, extending his hand.

Paul handed him the ratchet set. “Know anyone?”

“Maybe,” Lewis said. “There’s a new associate professor of 20th Century American who joined the faculty this month. Published extensively on the Kennedys and Lindsay, and from what I’ve heard through my contacts, spouts off anti-Soviet.”

“Who doesn’t?” Paul asked, taking some greasy piece of metal from Lewis and placing it on the workbench beside him. “That establishes his I.Q. at 80-plus. What’s his name?”

“Her’s. Nigel said he was thinking of asking her out, evidently she’s a decent little number. Her name’s Hatch, I think. Amanda Hatch.”

Paul kicked over Lewis’ beer.

“Hey, what the hell, man?” Lewis asked as beer trickled under his coaster.

“You… Amanda Hutch?”

“Hutch, that’s it, yeah. What’s wrong?”

“Oh nothing,” Paul exhaled. “She and I went out in grad school is all. At Cornell. She’s at MIT now?”

Lewis rolled out and sat up, grinning. “And Nigel’s asking her out? She’s probably desperate for a real man, Paul.”

“I have got to start reading those faculty circulars.”

“How well do you know her? Not in the Biblical sense, I mean.”

Paul shook his head. “She’s anti-Sov, that’s for sure. Or at least she was. And she was the top student in her department, she knows her stuff.”

Lewis reached over and turned the tape player up. “If she’s at MIT she knows her stuff. Could you work with her?”

“I don’t… I could ask her.”

“Over drinks?”

Paul shook his head. “I’m a happily married man, Lewis.”

Lewis looked at Paul. “Correction. You’re a married man.” He lay back down and rolled under the car again. “You ought to get out a bit more often, Paul. Rattle Valerie’s cage some. Be up to something with a hot history prof. Maybe she’ll notice and realize it’s worth her time to treat you a little better.”

“It would hurt Grace too much,” Paul said quietly. “She’d pick up on it. But you could ask her out. Take one for the team.”

Amanda Hutch.

Lewis sighed. “I don’t believe in mixing work and pleasure like that. Besides, she’s Ivy League, right?”

“We were at Cornell together, yeah. So?”

“So let’s just say the only blacks she probably interacted with growing up were wearing coveralls. Call me paranoid, but that’s my experience. Ain’t nobody alive more afraid of and more patronizing to successful blacks than liberal Ivy League white girls.”

“Maybe she’d like to find out if what they say about black men is true,” Paul said mischievously.

“Phillips.” Lewis took the proffered Phillips screwdriver. “It is.”

“I could tell her Grace is doing a history project and ask her to identify a tipping point. There must be an event which could flip the balance of power the other way.”

“Yeah, you could. Or you could take her out for drinks, confide in her that underneath your mild-mannered scientist exterior you’re really James Bond bent on destroying the Evil Empire and would she like to discuss a few items of great interest in bed.”

Paul laughed. “Do I hear the voice of experience, Lew?”

“Not me. Wire cutters. Hey, I already got Sox tickets for next year, did I tell you? You gotta’ buy ‘em a year in advance now.”

Paul let his mind wander. Amanda Hutch. Why hadn’t they gotten married? They’d dated all through grad school and spent almost all their free time together, which was to say one evening a week they’d get Chinese and rent a silly old movie. They rarely saw the end of the movies. They’d either be in bed or Amanda would have remembered something she had to do.

“…so I said all right, I’ll take the lower deck. Paul, I have always—always—had season tickets along the third base line.” Lewis paused. “Earth to deVere, Earth to deVere, come in Space Cadet deVere.”

Paul snapped back in. Lewis was staring at him from under the chassis. Paul replayed the tape in his mind that had been collecting since he’d decided to turn his brain to other things. It was a skill of his, honed from many years of marriage. She’d been charmed by his intense preoccupation with his fascinating work when they were dating, but irritated that his head was always in the clouds rather than listening to her after they were married.

“The third-base seats were gone. So whatja’ do?”

Lewis rolled out halfway and grinned. “Well, I notice the ticket clerk was a rather attractive lady so I turned on the groove. In about three minutes she was agreeing to discuss this little ticket matter over drinks.”

“And?”

“And I’d hate to have to go through a whole season in the upper deck, y’know?”

“I take it you don’t have to, after your evening over drinks.”

“Better seats, even.”

Paul shook his head. “What’s with hustling ticket clerks? Weren’t you seeing some lady from Springfield last I knew?”

“Rachel,” Ginter said, rolling back under the car.

“Yeah, Rachel. What happened to her?” Paul asked.

Ginter laughed. “Remember in April when you and I had that four day conference in Worcester?”

“Yeah,” Paul said cautiously.

“Well, she called on that Thursday and said that she was going to visit her girlfriend, Margarita, in Boston that weekend so I asked her to stop by on her way in the next afternoon. She gave me some vague thing about her car needing new tires and she didn’t know when she could pick it up from the dealership on Friday but she’d call me. I got the impression she was trying to avoid seeing me. Then, Friday afternoon she called and said that the dealership had to put her old, bald, unsafe tires back on because they didn’t have the right ones in stock and wouldn’t be able to get them until Monday and they had told her not to drive it so she was going to take a bus into town and Margarita would pick her up so we couldn’t get together. She was sorry, that type of thing.”

“Yeah, so?” Paul asked, perplexed.

“Paul, have you ever seen them work in a dealership repair bay? The most important thing in their billing is lift time. No dealership is going to get a car up on a lift, take off the wheels, and then strip the tires off the rims unless they have the new tires right there next to the lift before they begin. Her story about the dealership remounting her old tires was total bullshit.”

“You broke up with a girl because you didn’t believe her story about tires?” Paul asked incredulously. He could hear Lewis tugging on bolts.

“No, not just that,” Ginter said. “On that Sunday she sent me a G-mail describing her weekend in Boston while I was in Worcester getting bored out of my mind. She told me how she had gotten into South Station at around six and she and Margarita had gone out to eat in the North End, had walked around Newbury Street shopping on Saturday afternoon, and then she had caught the 1:00 bus back to Springfield on Sunday.”

“I still don’t get it,” Paul said, slightly confused.

“I figure she must have taken the bus rather than drive for some other reason. I told her that her tire story was crap, and then she changed it and admitted that the dealership had put on new tires but that they were the wrong size and they hadn’t balanced them, which made even less sense. When I told her I didn’t believe that story she changed it again to say that she took the bus because it was too cold to drive to Boston.”

“Huh? Too cold?” Paul asked, now clearly intrigued. “To drive a car? So, what was she up to?”

“That’s what I couldn’t figure out at first,” Ginter said. “Then I remembered that her ex-boyfriend was this older guy who was into aroma therapy or some other alternative mental health hokum and that he had moved to New York a few years ago when he couldn’t make it around here. I checked the connections from South Station to New York and the return times on Sunday and guess what?”

“Did she admit it?” Paul asked.

“Never did. But I never mentioned New York to her either. She stuck with her too-cold story and then a couple of weeks later she told me that she and Margarita were going up to Prince Edward Island in Canada for a week so that Margarita could do some amateur photography up there. To put me at ease she said I could call her on her cell all week.”

“When was this?”

“End of April.”

“And?” Paul asked.

“I called her a couple of times on her cell and she’d answer during the day but never at night, and she called me a few times and would say that she and Margarita were in the car driving here or there to take photos. But the connection never sounded like it does when someone is on a cell in a car, you know what I mean?”

Paul nodded.

“It also wasn’t the conversation you have when someone is sitting right next to you either,” Ginter continued. “Once when I called she said that they were at the motel and that Margarita was in the bathroom.”

Paul was laughing now. “You’re a suspicious bastard,” he said. “Did you confront her?”

“Nah, never had to. I called her on my cell and then called the cell company—we have the same one—and asked if they had towers on Prince Edward Island and they don’t. Then I asked for the location of the receiving tower for the cell call I had placed.”

“And?”

“Manhattan,” Ginter answered, giving an especially tough bolt a final tug.

“That’s great!” Paul said, laughing. “But how could she call you from the old guy’s apartment? Wouldn’t he have minded?”

“I figure he was at work hawking aroma bottles during the day and at night she just turned her cell off.”

Paul shook his head. “Where’d you learn to be so damn clever, the army?”

“Hey, I was in the army, I wasn’t a cop,” Ginter said. “I just figure it pays to be always thinking, if you know what I mean. Never trust anyone. There are too many pathological liars out there.”

Paul continued to chuckle. “So anyway, when do the Newark Yankees come to town next year?” he asked.

“Middle of May. You cool to go?”

“I’ll have to check. You’re talking next year for crying out loud.”

“’Cause I got a favor to pay off, y’know?”

“The ticket agent wants to see the Yankees?” Paul guessed.

“Ever since they moved to Newark they’ve been her team.”

“Pencil me in. Promise her for later in the season, she’ll forget all about you by then. That’s a whole year away.”

“So how’s wild, wonderful Concord? Can you hand me that oil pan now? The barbecue was nice.”

Paul got up and took what he assumed was the pan from the bench and put it in Lewis’ outstretched hand. “No different from the last time you asked. No different from the first time you asked. No different from when the last Redcoat left, except for the increased traffic and strip malls.”

“Man, you’re suffocating there. Nice house and all, but still.”

“I’m sure not in the Cambridge bachelor pad anymore.”

Lewis nodded. “That Agency apartment in my building’s still empty.” He tapped a few times with the screwdriver and smacked his palm on the fender as he stood up. “Good to go.”

“The tall blond guy with the crew cut? When did he clear out?”

“When his plane went down over Chile.”

“Ah.”

“I snagged the barbecue. They’ll never notice.”

“You robbed the dead?”

“No, I robbed the next guy. He never used it. He wasn’t there too long either. Have another beer, Paul.” Lewis held out a can.

“Stays on my breath,” Paul said. “Valerie’d kill me.”

Lewis shook his head. “How’s Grace?”

“Grace is Grace. She’s first in her class, and her project on Robert Kennedy made all-Northeast District.”

“Smart kid. Good thing she’s got her mother’s looks, too.”

Paul chuckled before turning serious. “You know that Grace is adopted, don’t you?” he asked.

Lewis nodded.

“She actually does have her mother’s looks,” Paul continued. “And she has both her parents’ brains. They were good people, both of them.”

“You knew them?” Lewis asked. “I don’t think I knew that.”

“Chuck was with me at Cornell. It was always Chuck and Beth, me and Amanda. I guess we thought we’d always be.” His voice trailed off.

“They got married?” Lewis asked softly.

Paul nodded. “A few years later. By then Amanda had moved on and Val and I were married. When Chuck and Beth got pregnant Val and I had been married about four years with no kids. Didn’t look like we were ever going to have them,” he added ruefully.

“What happened?”

Paul shrugged. “They were so excited when they got pregnant. Beth was older, mid-thirties, and they had been trying for a while. During a routine ultrasound they found cancer. They told her that she could have chemo but it would have meant…”

Lewis nodded. “Yeah, I know. What happened to Chuck?”

Paul snorted. “About three weeks before Grace was born Chuck just dropped dead. No warning, nothing. A brain aneurism—a congenital time bomb that finally went off. Nothing could have been done. That sort of thing. Beth couldn’t even leave the hospital to go to the funeral. She called me to Albany, where he had been teaching. She asked us to adopt Grace at birth. She knew she didn’t have much time.”

“How much time?” Lewis asked.

Paul swore. “She died when Grace was less than two months old. They released her for hospice care and we took them both back with us.”

“You and Val?”

Paul nodded. “I picked them up at the hospital in Albany. Beth was pretty weak but she got to spend her final days with Grace.”

“And Valerie was O.K. with that?” Ginter asked carefully.

Paul took another sip of his beer. When he finished he let out a soft burp. “Grace was born in March. I was teaching three classes that semester. This was before you got here but there was a hiring freeze back in 2010. Mai Johansson was the department chair, remember her?”

Ginter nodded.

“A real witch in some ways,” Paul said. “I told her I couldn’t finish the semester because I was going to do hospice care for a friend. She nearly had a stroke. She threatened to fire me on the spot, told me she’d make sure MIT sued to get my whole salary back. Said I was all done. I figured I was.”

“What happened?” Ginter asked.

Paul laughed. “I told her I didn’t give a shit. I guess back then I still didn’t.”

Paul took another sip. “Anyway, it all worked out. Wolfe covered one of my classes. Would have covered all three if her schedule had allowed it. She’s a good egg. Then, after taking my head off, Johansson covered a second one. She grumped like hell and I limped through the third class until the end of the semester. By then Beth was gone.”

Paul turned to Lewis. “When I look at Grace I can see Beth so clearly. It’s scary how much she looks like her mother. I guess she’s the last link I have to Ithaca. Amanda and I didn’t make it and Chuck and Beth are dead. Grace is what I’ve got left. Things don’t work out like you think they’re going to when you’re 25.”

Paul sat staring at the far wall. He started to take another swig of his beer but the can was empty. He threw it against the wall. Lewis watched wordlessly.

“Okay, I’ve decided what to do about Amanda,” Paul said suddenly.

“Be still my beating heart,” Lewis said, packing up his tools.

“I’ll pretend Grace is working on a summer school project about 20th Century America. I’ll ask her what was the one event she’d nail as the turning point between free America and Soviet America.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Lewis said. “Then what?”

“What do you mean, ‘then what?”

“After she tells you, do we bring her in?” Ginter asked.

“Bring her in? Why would we do that?”

“Guidance. There’s a lot more we could learn, Paul.”

“It’s risky. Too many people in the know,” Paul said quickly.

“It’s even riskier going back without knowing what the hell we’re doing,” Lewis said. “In Special Ops we learned that over half of every operation is intelligence. Put the best guys with the best equipment in a situation with skimpy intelligence and they’ll get their clocks cleaned by tribesmen with spears.”

“You think we need to bring her in?”

Lewis wiped his hands. “Let’s see if you think she’s trustworthy first,” he said.

“Too many cooks spoil the broth.”

“Three heads are better than two.”

“Brevity is the soul of wit.”

“Don’t let your meat loaf.”

Paul laughed. “Your—all right. You win. Hey, when are we going to take this tin can out on the road?”

“Soon,” Lewis said, turning off the garage light and holding the door for Paul. “Soon.”

“It’s just that…” Paul said from the alleyway.

Lewis stopped. “Yeah?”

“Amanda was always out for Amanda. That’s why we didn’t get married, I think. You get the sense that she’s really working for herself in everything.”

Lewis shrugged. “Aren’t we all?”

“But it’s like… ah, it’s hard to explain, but if she joined in with us she’d expect her objectives to dominate.”

“See what they are,” Lewis said. “If she’s the fire-eater you remember that shouldn’t be a problem. Do you trust her?”

Paul thought for a minute. “I did. We’ll see if I still do.”

Paul went home. Grace was at another sleepover and Valerie had said she had stuff to do. Paul had come home early after work and found her getting dressed upstairs. He had his own meeting with Lewis and hadn’t argued.

The house was in darkness. He went around turning on lights and then pulled down all the shades. There was fried chicken left in the refrigerator. He reached for a Tab but then grabbed another beer and plunked himself down in front of the TV.

When the TV came on it was turned to Fox news. He decided against listening to more neo-Soviet propaganda and flipped to a movie on one of the nostalgia channels. At one point he thought he heard Val’s car come up the street and muted the volume but the car pulled into a neighbor’s driveway. He realized when he un-muted the television that he hadn’t been paying attention to the plot.

Amanda Hutch. Was it really 28 years ago…?

“Don’t you want to sit in the bar?” he had asked her.

The Thursday night crowd at The Chestnut Tree, just off the Cornell campus, had been unusually sparse, and Amanda always preferred the bar in order to smoke. This time, however, she shook her head.

“Let’s sit in the back.”

Must have something to talk about, Paul reasoned.

As she made her way to the back he ordered the usual from Sal, a pizza half mushroom and half hamburg, and without being asked Sal filled a pitcher with beer and handed two mugs to Paul. When he reached the rear booth Amanda already had her coat off. He filled both mugs.

“I got the decision today,” she began right off. “From the Committee.”

Paul sucked in his breath.

“It was filled with the usual summation. Crap about me espousing dangerous thoughts. Undergraduates find my seminar ideas uncomfortable and subversive. My teachings and lectures are basically ‘history with an agenda.’ That type of crap.”

She laughed. “It was just over 45 years ago the tide in this country was running the other way and everyone was witch-hunting Communists. Now look.” She laughed again, this time more ruefully. “You gotta’ love the irony.”

Paul took a swig from his mug and waited.

She stared off around the pub, not looking directly at him. Finally, she pursed her lips and turned toward him.

“They said they won’t approve my certification. They’ll even hold up my PhD.”

When Paul started to speak she held up her hand.

“Oh yeah, they can,” she said. “They can do it. They can keep me from getting a job at even a community college.”

“Isn’t, isn’t there any, any appeal?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No. Nothing.”

Paul sipped his beer. Amanda’s lay untouched in front of her.

“There’s no one you can go to? Nothing you can do?” he asked.

“There is something I can do,” she answered. “Their letter started off with their ‘findings.’ They concluded by saying that they thought I could benefit from some re-education. The bottom line is that if I agree to teach American history over in Leipzig, right in the heart of the Reds, they’ll grant me a provisional PhD. I think they need teachers over there and this is just a ruse to get one.”

She was angry, and despite the sarcasm Paul knew she was hurting.

“For how long?” he asked.

“Five years,” she answered immediately, and it was at the moment of hearing those words that Paul realized that no matter what, his life from that day forward would never be the same.

He sipped more beer, and then drained it off and refilled his mug. He studied Amanda’s face.

“I love you, Paul,” she said. “And I always will.”

“I love you too,” he answered, but she was already shaking him off.

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to marry you. I want to… I don’t need to teach. At least not in college. We can get married, and I can teach elementary school or junior high school, or heck, even high school, maybe. The Committee can’t do shit about that. We can settle in some small town, maybe even back in your New Hampshire in some place where they don’t give a fuck about the Committee. If we stay in the Northeast District they can’t touch us here. Not really. Not at the high school level. We can do it.”

The light from the fireplace was dancing off her face. She was beautiful, and on this evening the reflection from the glowing embers gave her face its own glow, one he had never seen before. She was so alive, full of spirit and fight. Her eyes were the color of Cayuga Lake, yet whenever he told her that she would laugh him off and ask if that were before or after it had become polluted.

It had all suddenly become so complicated. He struggled for words.

“If you’re teaching in Hicksville, where am I going to teach?” he asked. He knew he was at that point in his life his grandfather told him everyone reaches. Do you do what is most comfortable or do you do what is right?

“You can’t,” he said, wishing even as he spoke that he wasn’t saying it. “Amanda, you love history and research more than anyone. You live it. How long would we be happy teaching high school in some small town? How long before you began resenting your decision, resenting everything we had given up, and then resenting me because of it? You’re not a high school teacher, you belong in a major university. We’ve got to prioritize. Leipzig is only five years.”

At some point Sal had brought over the pizza, and, seeing their faces, put it down without his usual banter. But, as with the beer, Amanda never touched the food.

Chapter 6

Friday, July 10, 2026

Tonight was probably as good as any. She had heard Ginter and deVere talk about “grabbing some dogs outside the park.” They were attending another baseball game. They had both left the lab by 4:00, and once they were gone, the support staff had quickly found reasons to leave. Natasha stood alone outside Paul deVere’s lab.

She slipped her right hand inside the v-neck of her shirt and lifted the chain from which her DNA-encoded pass card dangled. Taking the card in her left hand, she swiped it through the lab door’s scan reader while simultaneously placing her right hand on the palm reader.

“Natasha Nikitin, Access Denied,” came the computer voice from the door speaker.

Well, it was worth a try, Natasha thought, smiling wryly. Now she would have to do it the hard way. She walked down the hall, passing deVere’s and Ginter’s locked offices. It was unlikely that she would have any better luck with those doors, and she would only increase the possibility of discovery. Two weeks before she had walked into Paul deVere’s office and found him checking the computer’s log of accesses to his office. A task of boredom? Or was there something to hide in the office? She had slipped in once when he had gone down the hall to visit the “little scientists’ room,” but her hasty search had found nothing. Tonight she would be more thorough.

She opened the custodian’s closet and removed the six-foot aluminum stepladder and carried it back down the hallway and into the General Astrophysics lab which abutted deVere’s locked lab. Swinging wide the double doors to the file room, she opened the ladder just inside, and slung her shoulder bag atop a file cabinet. She climbed the ladder and pushed the ceiling tile up from its frame. She slid it over and reached into her shoulder bag. Her hand found the headlamp and cordless saw. The air duct was just where the building schematic had shown it. She knew that the shortest distance between two points was a straight line, but her experience had shown that sometimes straight lines ran over the tops of walls meant to keep out intruders.

She made one more reach into the bag for the safety goggles, duct tape, and cordless screwdriver. No need to have the night’s mission detour to the emergency room at the Mass Eye and Ear Infirmary. Despite their stellar reputation, sporting an eye patch the next morning would doubtless draw the wrong sort of attention.

Goggles and headlamp in place, she made short work of the sheet metal on the far side of the ductwork. She tore two lengths of duct tape that she folded over the metal’s rough edges. Grasping the support brackets, she pulled herself up until her knees were level with the opening, and then threaded herself into the ventilation system.

“I hope this holds,” she muttered. Like an inchworm, she crawled the few feet until she reached the air diffusing register in the high ceiling of deVere’s lab. She studied the register in the intense halogen beam of her headlamp. Not even screwed in place! She lifted the register and placed it gently ahead of her in the duct.

She poked her head down into the lab and played the lamp’s beam across the floor. Finding it clear, she dropped lithely down from the duct. A momentary panic hit her. How will I get back up? Her head swung about as she scanned the room for a chair. But how would she get it back in place afterwards? Then she laughed aloud. Linear thinking again! Better to keep the mind open to other possibilities. The security system worked to keep people out, not in. She would just walk out the door.

She turned on the overhead light and turned off her lamp. She propped open the door with a notebook. Back in the General Astrophysics lab, she remounted the stepladder, and duct taped the sheet metal panel back in place on the far side of the duct. She admired her handiwork from the file room floor.

Good as new, she decided. She folded the ladder and returned the lab to its original condition. The lab door automatically locked behind her as she carried the stepladder into deVere’s lab. She set it up beneath the opening in the ventilation duct and mounted it to coax the register back into position. Looking around the now-lit room from her perch, the top of the back wall caught her eye. Something was not right. A thin dark shadow ran the length of the wall.

The register dropped into place with an audible “huff.” Natasha started down to the floor, never taking her eyes from the shadow. The shadow disappeared as she approached ground level. She walked over to the wall and rapped her knuckles on it. A hollow thunk. She rapped in another spot, and heard another hollow thunk.

“Are you kidding me? A hidden room? In an MIT lab?” She laughed. “The door has to be here somewhere. OPEN SESAME.” The lab remained unmoved by her forceful delivery. The hollow wall was bare, save for two file cabinets and a poster announcing the arrival of the tall ships to Boston in 2025. She walked to the file cabinets and pulled open the top drawer of the first. It was empty, as were all the other drawers. Natasha took a step back, and began to twirl a lock of her hair—a thinking habit she had had since childhood. She looked at the wall, and back at the cabinets.

On impulse she grabbed one of the filing cabinets and walked it away from the wall. Behind it was a ragged hole in the sheet rock, three feet wide by four feet high. She tugged away the second one. She switched her headlamp back on, ducked her head and leaned in, allowing the lamp to play over the floor. Satisfied, she stepped into what she was coming to think of as deVere’s Treasure Cave.

When deVere built the wall, no doubt with Ginter’s help, he had placed it well. The wall separated a six by twelve foot space from the rest of the lab. It was lit from above like the rest of the lab, though it was poorly ventilated. It had a stale smell from a lack of air circulation. They probably spent little time in here. The space was mostly empty, except for some sort of machine.

At first glance it looked like a microwave oven balanced atop two tall computer towers that extended over six and a half feet from the floor. The towers were about four feet apart and extended almost the whole width of the cave. Extending from the top of the “oven” were three heavily wired, flexible arms. The arms stretched toward the ceiling in the center of the space, and then focused their dish-like heads at a white taped X on the floor just beyond the towers. From the microwave looking box at the top, several power and cable cords were strung together and ran down the near tower and then across the floor to the wall. Natasha assumed that they ran back out to the lab.

Doesn’t look like much. Doesn’t look like much of anything I’ve ever seen before. And they went to a lot of trouble to hide it, she thought. She considered “firing it up” from the red power switch on the front of the right tower, but common sense prevailed. It would be enough for now to keep pace, and get the jump on them when they were further along. She wondered just how far along they were.

She checked her watch. It was a good night’s work. She stepped back into the main part of the lab and slid the file cabinet back into position. She folded the ladder and carried it out into the hall. Returning to the lab, she looked around, ascertaining that all was as she had found it. She removed her notebook/doorstop from under the door, brushed it off, and put it back on the counter. After turning off the light she stepped from the darkness into the brightly lit hallway.

It was late, and she was tired, so she considered taking the elevator down the twenty floors to the lobby. But her training dictated that stairs were safer. You never knew who might be waiting when an elevator door opened. Stairs always meant options.

Chapter 7

Monday, July 13, 2026

“Paul!”

“Hello, Amanda.”

Amanda Hutch placed her briefcase on the table in the otherwise-deserted history faculty lounge. “What a surprise. I knew you were here, of course,” she flustered. “I mean, MIT’s a small place, really, you’re bound to run into the other professors sooner or later, especially the physics faculty in the history lounge. Makes sense.”

“So, how are you, Amanda?”

“I’m good,” she said. “You’re looking good, Paul. Married with a beautiful little girl, I hear.”

“Grace is an angel.”

Amanda nodded. She looked down at her purse and reached in. “I know. I heard about Beth,” she said, fumbling a cigarette out of a pack.

“Oh don’t start,” she said, lighting up.

“Smoke away,” Paul said. “Your lungs aren’t my concern any more.”

Amanda smiled. “Nice to know you still care.”

Rather than answer Paul smiled. The ironic thing, he told himself as he stood there looking at her for the first time in 28 years was that he was surprised at how much he was caring. Oh, he had thought about her all right—every time he and Valerie had fought and he had told himself that this time he would not apologize under any circumstance, for instance. He had been able to roughly follow her career from a distance through the occasional Gorenect-mail from an old classmate with a casual reference. But until he again gazed at her shoulder length brown hair framing that thin pushed face with high eyebrows over bright eyes, he had forgotten how much he still cared.

Paul mellowed. “I always told you smoking was bad for you. You just never listened to me.”

“I know,” she said puffing out through the corner of her lips. “And I paid the price.”

“Price?” Paul asked, confused.

“Cancer,” she answered matter-of-factly. “Breast cancer and ovarian cancer. Double whammy. Survivor.”

Paul caught himself before his eyes instinctively moved downward. As if reading his thoughts Amanda spoke. “Right one. Everyone asks.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. How’d you do?” he asked uncomfortably.

Amanda shrugged. “Surgery, and chemo. That was six years ago though.”

Paul nodded. “What was the, ah… surgery?”

“For the breast? They removed it,” she said simply. “But don’t worry,” she added with a nervous laugh, “they built me another.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, realizing how lame he sounded. In all the years of fantasizing a meeting with Amanda Hutch he never thought that the conversation would go like this. He seemed to be trapped in the topic. Twenty-eight years and within seconds of meeting her again he was discussing her surgery.

“You already apologized,” Amanda said. “Don’t. And don’t worry; no one knows what to say or how to react.”

She reached over and stamped out her cigarette. “Look, it was all six years ago. I’m officially known as a survivor. I’m also open about it. Maybe too open. I speak to other women on a regular basis who are facing what I faced. Kaffee klatch stuff.”

She laughed again. To Paul it sounded forced.

“But you’re still smoking, I see. How can you?”

Amanda shrugged again. “Hey, they say the cancer wasn’t caused by the smoking. Who knows? But anyway, I’ve cut back tremendously. I actually kicked it for over five years. I just took it up again recently.”

Paul was desperate to change the subject. “I heard you got married too?” he asked.

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

“How is he?”

“Good, I hear. We divorced.”

“I’m sorry,” Paul stammered.

“Married twice, actually. Yeah, well, you know me. Married to my career. Smart men stayed away.”

Paul didn’t answer.

“I did get the world’s greatest little boy out of it, though, with Will, my first husband.” She turned and fumbled through her pocketbook before pulling a picture from her wallet that she showed Paul. “Jeffrey. He’ll be fifteen next week.”

“Looks like you. Cute kid,” Paul said studying the photo. “Does he live with you?”

“No, his father’s remarried and living in Braintree, actually. It’s a good home for Jeffrey, and it’s a stable life, as opposed to traipsing around with a university vagabond. I’ve taught in Leningrad, Leipzig, Prague and Chapel Hill. It’s no life for a kid.”

“You see him, of course.”

“I do. He stays with me for much of the summer, and sees his father and step-mom on weekends. Will picks Jeffrey up for the weekend, and by the time he brings him back he’s got a list of things I’m doing wrong.” Amanda sighed. “I know I should ignore it, but sometimes it gets to me.”

“Does Jeffrey enjoy living with his father?”

“Oh, are you kidding? They go camping, sailing, Will took him off-roading in New Hampshire last week. Jeffrey loves it. I will say that for Will, he’s an awfully good dad.”

“Jeffrey’s lucky,” Paul said.

“Yes,” Amanda said. “I guess he is. His stepmother’s quite nice, too.”

“You were married twice?” Paul asked.

Amanda opened her pocketbook and pulled out her purse. She again studied the photograph of the smiling red-haired boy before stuffing it back inside.

“You know, one of those European marriages that sound great sitting around a bistro someplace,” she said as she slammed the purse back inside her bag.

“You came to MIT because Jeffrey’s in Braintree?”

“Partly,” Amanda said looking up. “Also, I heard you were here,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him.

Momentarily nonplused, Paul started to speak and then stopped.

Amanda laughed and looked away. “I’m no home wrecker,” she said. “I think we can be friends, Paul.” She looked back at him. “I’d really like that.”

“So would I,” Paul said. He looked around, saw no one, took a piece of paper out of his pocket and showed it to Amanda. “I’ll trust your thinking is the same as it used to be. I hear it is. Do you know where this is?”

“1416 Sou —”

Paul moved quickly and clamped his hand over her mouth. Amanda’s eyes flared up for a second, then she blinked and nodded in understanding. Paul took his hand away.

Amanda studied the address and the rough directions Paul had written. “I can find it.”

“Great. It’s our bowling league, and if you’d like to join a team we’re a man short. Say, seven-thirty Thursday night?”

Amanda shrugged. “I’ll bring my bowling shoes. Well, have to get to class. I’m teaching summer school.” She stood up and took Paul’s outstretched hand. She seemed to hold it an extra moment. “Is this the sort of team I want to join?” she asked.

Paul nodded. “I think so. We may be playing for the championship soon, and we need you.”

Amanda shook her head. “Seven-thirty,” she said.

Chapter 8

Tuesday, July 14, 2026

“Were you followed?”

Lewis Ginter stepped inside the front door of the Beacon Street brick Victorian in Newton and collapsed his black umbrella. Rainwater ran off the fabric and dripped onto the hardwood floor. Lorrie Maddox stepped around him and glanced nervously up and down the street before closing the wooden door.

He contemplated not answering but every crease of Lorrie’s face seemed to betray real fear.

“No, of course not. I parked two blocks up on that back street and doubled past the house twice. There’s no one on the street.”

Lorrie hesitated as if considering whether to believe him. Finally, she nodded slowly.

“Everyone’s downstairs,” she said and turned toward the rear of the house. Lewis followed her through the foyer to the kitchen and past the granite topped island.

“Beautiful house,” he said.

Without looking back she nodded. From the rear of the house he saw a blue light flickering from the solarium and heard the voices of the Red Sox announcers.

“Not raining in Ohio, I see,” he offered and then added, “What’s the score?”

“Six nothing, Cleveland,” she answered without looking back.

As he passed the entryway to the solarium he saw Lorrie’s husband hunched forward staring at the screen. Lewis followed Lorrie down the cellar stairs. At the bottom he ducked under a protruding beam. He stepped onto a squishy carpet and instinctively lifted each foot. No use. Through a casement window he could see water cascading off the back roof and pooling in the window well.

In front of the window six faces turned as one to look at him as he entered.

“They still sell sump pumps, you know,” he offered. No one smiled. Lewis recognized four of them. A tall, longhaired guy dressed in denim was unknown to him. To that person’s right stood a blonde woman who Lewis estimated to be about 35, no, a bit younger, and who looked vaguely familiar.

Lorrie turned to face Lewis. “It’s only a problem when it rains,” she said simply.

“And my tires only get flat on the bottom,” he retorted. “But that’s no reason not to do something.” Lewis could see the strain on her face. Next to her stood Carlos Gonzalez from the Boston Herald and behind him a man Lewis knew only as Jimmy. To Jimmy’s left was Shauna Duffy, a schoolteacher, and another fellow Lewis knew to be a Somerville ophthalmologist. Eckleburg, Thomas J. Eckleburg, Lewis remembered, and behind them stood the jean clad guy and the blonde.

Lewis resisted the urge to look inside the fridge against the side wall for a beer and instead got right to the point.

“So, what’s the rush? You know having this large a group isn’t safe.”

A few exchanged nervous glances.

It was Lorrie who spoke first. “We’re worried.”

Lewis snorted. “Who isn’t, now-a-days?”

She shook her head. “No, more than that. There’ve been more pick-ups.” She glanced back at the group. “Disappearances.”

“Yeah, I heard. Pomeroy got nabbed in town here.”

The blonde woman flinched at Lewis’ words. The eye doctor shuddered.

“It was on the radio,” he assured them. “The name is already out in public so I’m only reporting what the radio announced.”

“It’s not just Arthur,” Lorrie said quickly. “He got arrested here in town and they actually announced his name. But there’ve been others. There’s still that missing campus police officer over at MIT. She just disappeared.”

“That’s not unheard of,” Lewis said evenly. “Vodkaville has picked up others in the past and shipped them off to Guantanamo, or even worse, Tucson.”

Dr. Eckleburg cleared his throat. “But it’s who. We just found out that about two weeks ago Collinson disappeared. No trace, nothing.”

Now it was Lewis’ turn to look blank. “Collinson?”

“Ralph Collinson,” Shauna Duffy answered. “He ran the Patriot Coffee Shop out on 2A. He’s a good friend of your deVere’s.”

At the mention of his friend’s name Lewis flinched. Mentioning names of those not present was taboo, especially when there were strangers about. But Lewis noted that no one reacted to the name. They know. They all know.

Lewis turned back to Lorrie. “Have you scanned the room?” he asked.

“It’s safe,” she said. “You can trust everyone here.”

Lewis moved to the interior wall and found a spot on an overstuffed sofa. As he sat down he could still feel his feet squish beneath him. He leaned back.

“So, what’s going on?” he asked, stretching his arms to the back of the couch. “I don’t know this fellow you mentioned as having disappeared. But the fellow you mentioned as his friend never comes to any meetings and isn’t involved with anyone here.”

It was the ophthalmologist again. “Collinson was a good friend of deVere’s. DeVere would stop in on the way home and they’d talk. He mentioned deVere several times and made no secret of his true feelings to deVere. Now he’s disappeared.”

“So?” Lewis asked, trying to mask a rising anger.

“So,” Dr. Eckleburg answered, “what do we really know about Paul deVere?”

Lewis resisted the urge to spring across the room and throttle the doctor. He remained reclined in the sofa, feigning disinterest. He looked casually at the doctor and then let his gaze drift to each of the others. But all he saw was steely resolve.

“I don’t know what you’re implying, Doctor. I’ve known… this fellow you mention, for a number of years. He didn’t turn in the coffee shop guy if that’s what you’re implying. And besides, why would he, what was the coffee shop guy into?”

The doctor flushed and was about to answer when Lorrie stepped in front of him. “Lewis, that’s not what we’re saying. It’s just that, just that…” She hesitated and glanced back before continuing. “It’s just that, don’t you see? Arthur gets arrested here in town. He’s from Portland and was working on an op up there. Ralph was involved at this end. Arthur had talked about it in front of you at a meeting in April. And you are connected with deVere. And deVere knows Ralph and then Ralph and Arthur both disappear. And that campus security officer. Her car was found in a lot near deVere’s office.”

“Guilt by association. Seems obvious to me. Why don’t you just go and kill Paul deVere?” Lewis asked sarcastically.

“Lewis, it’s not just that,” Shauna answered impatiently. “It’s just that we’re all worried. We’ve been pouring a lot of money into this thing you’re doing with deVere and we don’t even know him. We’ve been taking your word on it. But now someone close to him has disappeared, someone who was working with someone you knew about, and everyone is starting to wonder about all this money we’ve given you. We delivered a lot of money that could have gone down South.” She turned to the woman behind her. “How much, Lorrie?”

“So far over 500,000 Noams,” Lorrie answered quietly.

Shauna turned back. “Half a million North American dollars is a lot of money, Lewis. We don’t even have a clue what this weapon will do, or whether it will even work.”

Lewis ran his hand over his chin. He took a deep breath and paused as he studied the seven intent faces. He was tempted to try an arrogant response but rejected the idea.

“DeVere is O.K.,” he began quietly. “The Intervention Project is O.K. You’ve gotta’ trust me on this.”

Lorrie Maddox shook her head slowly. “We can’t, Lewis. Half a million is a lot. A lot of risk by a lot of people went into getting that money. We haven’t been able to raise that kind of money easily and God knows it could have gone elsewhere. That botched assassination plan on Commissar Bush in Houston probably would have worked if they had a better detonator. And the Alamosas want to try again.”

Lewis snorted. “That was a stupid plan anyway. Knock off a civil administrator. Should have gotten her grandfather 40 years ago is who they should have killed. Kill her and her brat will just take over.”

“We can’t go on like this,” Lorrie continued, ignoring the criticism. “We need to know where the money is going. Not all of us, of course, but it can’t be just you and this deVere fellow. What happens if something happens to you? Not just caught but what if you get killed in an accident or something? We have no idea what you’re up to and we have no other connection with deVere.”

Lorrie shook her head. “It was O.K. when it was 70 or 80 thousand. But now it’s like the Big Dig. We have to at least see where the money’s going.”

“What you really want to know is if we’re embezzling your money,” Lewis answered hotly. “You don’t think we’re inept. You’re afraid we’re squishers siphoning off dough from the Descendants of Liberty. Or else crooks scamming you.”

“Lewis, calm down!” It was the doctor again. “No one thinks you’re crooked. We don’t know your friend, or where the money’s going. We have no idea if this super weapon you guys are building will ever work. We don’t know how much more it’ll cost. We don’t even know what it’s supposed to do. We’ve given you this money because of you. No one else could have gotten half a mill on trust.”

The doctor’s voice trailed off and silence filled the room. The rain continued to pound against the basement window. Behind the group Lewis could see the window well filling even more. In the distance he thought he heard a thunderclap. Across from him the faces did not flinch. He was out of room, and almost out of time, and he knew it.

“OK,” he said, exhaling. “So, what do you want to do? We can’t have too many people know. And there’s no way we can get a group into the school where we have this thing. There’s little audio surveillance there but there are cameras everywhere and some are frequently monitored. Some are on tape delay but any group going in is going to—”

“One person,” Dr. Eckleburg said evenly.

“Huh?”

“One person. We just want one person to see if deVere is wasting our money. One person to report back to us.”

“It’s kind of a technical weapon—” Lewis began.

“Pamela,” Lorrie said simply. She glanced back at the blonde woman and instinctively Lewis followed her gaze.

The pamphleteer! Lewis realized. Damn! Of course! The blonde woman was the pamphleteer from Maine—the girlfriend of Arthur Pomeroy.

“I didn’t recognize you,” he said apologetically.

She smiled shyly. “That’s good, right? My hair was brunette the last time I saw you.”

“Dyed it blonde I see.”

“Actually, it was dyed brunette then.”

Ginter nodded approvingly and pursed his lips. “Nice one.”

“She’ll go to the lab with you,” Lorrie announced matter-of-factly. “Check it out and get back to us. All she needs to tell us is yes or no. We don’t need… we don’t want… details.”

Lewis stood up. “We need another hundred and a quarter to buy the fuel for some additional tests. After that it’ll be ready to go. And it’ll go. One way or another.”

Lewis cast one look more look around the room at the expressionless faces before following Lorrie back up the stairs. They don’t trust us, he thought as he walked through the kitchen toward the front foyer. The television was off in the solarium as the watcher had apparently given up and gone to bed. At the front door Lewis retrieved his umbrella and looked out the doorway before stepping out onto the front landing.

“When?” Lorrie asked.

“Soon,” Lewis responded. “I have to make arrangements to get her in to the lab without raising suspicion. It’s all access restricted and there are guards during the day. None are university employees. Even on nights and weekends there are still cameras.

“We really do need another hundred and a quarter,” Lewis continued. “It’ll be enough to make enough fuel to do some tests and then to operate this thing. When can we get it?”

Lorrie shook her head. “Lewis, there’s no way. There won’t be another dime until we get a report. Shauna is real spooked by these arrests and disappearances and the connection to your deVere. Eckleburg wants to shut you guys down now. He may not say it but I can tell he wants out. He thinks the whole thing is one big money drain and that we’re buying a pig in a poke without the pig.”

Lewis put up his umbrella without answering. As if reading his thoughts, Lorrie became adamant.

“They’re serious, Lewis. Don’t try and stiff us on this by getting the money first and then blowing off Pamela. No tour and approval, no money.”

“Why her?” Lewis asked, turning back.

“Pamela knows explosives,” Lorrie continued. “She’s the one who builds the bombs for Arthur. Or she did, until…” Her voice trailed off.

Lewis nodded and swallowed hard. “I understand. I’ll be in touch.” He stepped off the landing and walked out to Beacon Street. At the sidewalk he turned left away from his parked car and surveyed the street. No one was about and at the corner Lewis turned left again. Another left and a two-block walk brought him to his car. He started it up, checked the mirror for any activity—there was none he could see—and drove back to Beacon Street. He watched his rear view mirror, and as he pulled out onto Beacon Street saw a parked vehicle pull out behind him. He hadn’t noticed anyone sitting in it when he had driven past. He headed straight home checking his mirror every few blocks. The car stayed one block behind him.

That made no sense. Lewis decided that this had to be either a clumsy tail or else an innocent chance vehicle heading in his direction. Since there was little reason to tail someone back to where they lived he settled on the latter explanation.

Chapter 9

Thursday, July 16, 2026 7:34 p.m.

“Beer?”

Amanda nodded. Paul opened three beers, and handed one to Lewis and one to Amanda. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” They all drank. Lewis inserted a Rolling Stones tape into the player, and “Exile On Main Street” filled the garage. Amanda smiled.

“My favorite. Paul must’ve told you,” she said over the music.

“Lucky guess,” Ginter said. He didn’t smile back.

“It’s mine too,” Paul said.

“That’s right,” Amanda said. “I’d forgotten. So, you guys need a historian to help get this muscle car back on the road?”

“No.” Paul looked at Lewis, who palmed the metal disk and waved it in a circle above his head. He studied the readouts before nodding to Paul.

Paul took a deep breath. “You know how I loved The Time Machine?” he asked.

Amanda nodded. “The movie? Yeah. The Warlocks? Or Oarlocks? Or whatever they were called?”

“Yeah, whatever. Well, you remember that I read Hawking and Sone and—”

”Don’t tell me.” She didn’t flinch. “You’re shitting me. Either that or you’re insane. Can you pull it off?”

Paul was stunned at the quick turn in conversation. Amanda had always been so damn smart, but he had forgotten just how perceptive she was.

“We already have,” he stammered. “Contrapositive wormholes. Bennett David showed us the way. All points in time and space are connected by wormholes. Hawking and Sone knew this. But they could never figure out how to do it.”

“And you have?” Amanda asked.

“You know the team here discovered SU44?” Paul continued. “The subatomic particle that can be accelerated to a speed faster than light?”

Amanda shook her head.

“Well, we did. Lewis and I were on the team. Then at about the same time Grace had to do a report on a famous scientist of the 20th century. She picked Stephen Hawking, and she asked me to help her get some information about him. I started poking around with his writings again. God, I hadn’t looked at them since grad school. He had always said that time travel was impossible.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Has to do with the effects of quantum mechanics. I won’t bore you—”

“—with the details?” Amanda finished. “You always thought I bored extremely easily.”

“Never made it to the end of any explanation I ever tried to give on my studies,” Paul said. “If I started on it now I wouldn’t stop until I went all the way.”

“Might not be such a bad thing,” Amanda said coyly.

Paul ignored the retort. “Yeah, so anyway, Hawking said no, he didn’t think it was possible to construct a time machine. He was writing in the 1980s and 1990s, so it wasn’t exactly the last word on the subject. It got me thinking. I started looking around some more, and ran across another late 20th century relative theorist, Kip Sone, who had looked into the matter more deeply than Hawking did. He thought that wormholes could act as time machines, since if you—”

“Wormholes?” Amanda asked.

Paul waved his hand. “Later. Sone thought that by constructing a space ship capable of traveling at close to light speed, and that according to the principles of the special theory of relativity time moves slower for objects traveling at light speed, you can travel in time, and—”

“Paul?” Amanda asked.

“Yeah?”

“Bore me. What’s a wormhole?”

He looked up at her face. She looked… it wasn’t her features, which he’d always found fascinating, or even her figure, which she’d kept, it was her… interest. She really wanted to know about wormholes. Nothing attracted Paul to people like seeing a spark of vitality in them, a natural curiosity, a love of learning simply for the sake of learning. Like Grace. And Peter.

“Wormholes are basically shortcuts in space and time,” deVere said. “Look at it like this.” He looked around and picked up a parts list from one of the boxes. He removed a pen from his pocket and drew a time line across it, marking “1950” and “2026” on opposite ends.

“We’ve come from here,” he said, putting his finger on 1950, “to here.” He rested his finger on 2026.

“And you’re saying we can go backwards?” she asked, brushing his leg with hers as she moved closer.

“Not backwards, exactly,” deVere said. He put his finger on 2026, almost on the right-hand edge of the list, and picked up the other end, curling it over his hand until 1950 hovered above 2026.

“We take a short cut.” He bounced his finger up and down between the two ends of the paper, between 1950 and 2026. “Space is curved, remember?”

“Einstein,” Amanda said, nodding. “You taught me that in Ithaca.”

“Exactly. A wormhole is like a short, narrow tunnel between different parts and times of the universe. If this piece of paper is the universe, and the universe is curved, then the idea is instead of trying to go across the surface of time, we simply drop through a hole.” He laid the paper flat on Amanda’s skirt.

“How do you know where the wormhole is?” Amanda asked.

“That’s half the problem,” deVere said. “Wormholes aren’t static, they don’t always exist. Lewis would have to explain the math, but the real problem is that matter has to have a negative energy density relative to a light beam to pass through one of these things. It’s called exotic matter, because nobody knows of any sort of matter that can do that right now.”

“Except… you guys?”

“Lewis’ math showed that evaporating black holes implied the existence of this exotic matter. Our discovery of SU44 confirmed it. But if the wormhole focuses, which it does on ordinary matter, the field’s strength grows and destroys the wormhole. If it’s exotic matter, however, the wormhole won’t focus and will stay stable long enough for the matter to pass through. It’s like a tunnel that will try to crush anyone it notices trying to pass through, but if it finds it can’t crush somebody it lets that person pass through.”

“Wow. You guys aren’t fooling around. How do you know where you’ll end up?”

“Think of it as a garden hose. One end is fixed at the faucet. But you can turn the other end anywhere you want. On the lawn, the hedges, or the rose bushes.”

“But the water in the hose doesn’t decide where it goes.”

“That’s true,” he said. “But imagine if the water points the hose nozzle before the spigot’s turned on.”

“You guys can do that?”

DeVere smiled. “We already have.”

“You’ve turned yourselves into exotic matter?”

“Not quite. Lewis identified a wormhole that connected the Accelechron in our lab with a spot under the Concord Bridge a little over one year ago. We set a chronometer to zero, started it ticking, and sent it back in a canister. I drove out and recovered it. The chronometer showed it had been there over a year.”

“So, it can be done. How do you come back? Or do you?” Amanda asked, becoming alarmed.

“David. Dr. Bennett David,” Paul said. “The Father of Time Travel.”

“David,” she repeated. “Didn’t he become… sort of…?”

Paul nodded. “Yes, well, before all that, he was a brilliant theoretician. He reasoned that for the universe to maintain its equilibrium there had to be contrapositive wormholes. For every wormhole that linked a time and point in space with another time and point in space there had to be a wormhole that linked back that point at a future time with the original time and point. And anything that came through the first wormhole could go back through the contrapositive wormhole without needing to be accelerated again.”

Amanda nodded slowly. “And since there are an infinite number of wormholes—”

“Virtually infinite,” Paul corrected.

“Virtually infinite, whatever that means, you just identify the one you want and get on.”

”Exactly.”

“Why didn’t the canister come back then?”

Lewis spoke up. “I selected a wormhole whose contrapositive had not yet occurred. Otherwise we never would have known if the canister had gone anywhere since the departure and arrival times are identical.”

“Ah, I see. So you just have to go someplace, do whatever, and return to that same spot in time for the return trip.”

“There is some window of allowance, but yes,” Lewis explained.

Amanda shook her head. “So you’ll pop down the rabbit hole and boom, Alice lands in Wonderland.”

“Boom,” Paul repeated.

“Have you done it yet? I mean, with people?” Amanda asked.

“No, not yet,” Paul answered. “But it’s still just a matter of time.”

“Cute joke,” Amanda retorted.

“Sorry,” Paul apologized.

“I liked it,” Amanda said, studying the Roadrunner. “So, why me?”

“Will you help us?” Paul asked.

“Need a flesh and bones guinea pig to send back first?” Amanda asked.

“No, Amanda, we’d never test on a person what we weren’t absolutely sure—”

“Paul, lighten up, it was a joke. Seriously, what do you need me for? I don’t know anything about time travel. How can I help?”

“We need you to pinpoint the time and location for us,” Lewis said.

“What do you mean ‘pinpoint?” she asked cautiously.

“When should we go back?” Lewis continued. “Identify a nerve point, a crucial step that we can undo. We’re not going back with an army; it’s me and Paul. We need to draw up the mission before we go back, freelancing won’t work.”

“What mission?” she asked warily.

Lewis looked at Paul before turning back to Amanda.

“Your mission,” Lewis said, “should you decide to accept it, is to go back to a point in time in the old United States and change something that will prevent the demise of the U.S. of A.”

There were several moments of silence before anyone spoke. Finally Amanda asked deliberately, “That’s it? That’s all you want to do? You’re not talking science here, you’re talking history, changing fucking history.”

“Yeah, well, Paul and I feel that ‘fucking history’ as you call it hasn’t been so great for the good guys and if there were a different one we might all be better off. So that’s what Paul and I want to do.”

“You and Paul? Oh, I don’t even get the fun part?” Amanda asked.

“Well, uh, certainly if you’d like,” Paul said, cutting a glance at Lewis who shrugged and drank some beer. “I mean we didn’t assume you’d want to, it’s pretty risky—”

“No riskier than asking me to join you.”

Paul stopped with a slightly panicked look on his face. Amanda burst out laughing.

“Paul, you really can’t see a joke when it hits you in the face, can you?” Amanda asked. “Of course I’ll do whatever I can to help you guys.”

Paul let out a sigh. “I really didn’t know what you were going to say.”

“So, you were taking a chance?” Amanda asked.

He nodded. “Lewis and I talked about whether we should include you.”

“I can be trusted. Even if it does mean that when I come back I will no longer be qualified to teach.”

Lewis glanced at her face as she spoke. Amanda hadn’t looked at either of them when she had answered. He turned back to the carburetor.

Paul studied Amanda who sat quietly on the grimy work stool.

“Is there a problem?” Paul asked.

“Not a problem,” she began. “I’m just not sure…”

“About what?” Lewis interjected sharply, looking up from the carburetor.

“When you sent that canister back. It went back a little over one year in time. So when you went to pick it up under the bridge it had been there one year, correct?”

“Yeah,” Lewis answered warily.

“So,” she continued. “Since it had been there one year what would have happened if you had gone to the bridge the day before you sent it back? Would the canister have been there?”

Paul and Lewis looked at each other.

“Go ahead,” Lewis said, nodding at Paul.

“It’s called the Temporal Paradox,” Paul explained, turning to Amanda. “No, it would not have been there the day before. It was only there for one year previous after we sent it back—after we changed history.”

“But then this is what I don’t get,” Amanda said. “We have a year that we all experienced with no canister under the bridge. Had we gone there, there would have been no canister. And now you tell me there was a year in which it was there. Which year is real? The year with the canister or the year with no canister?”

“Both,” Paul continued. “There was a reality in which there was no canister and one where there was a canister. This gets into the theory of infinite realities that David talked about.”

“Infinite realities? What the hell does that mean?” Amanda demanded.

“What it means is that in an infinite universe there may be an infinite number of realities,” Paul explained. “In an infinite universe there are realities for everything having happened. Right now we can safely say that for one whole year one chrome canister was under that bridge. That is a reality. Now let’s suppose that tonight we send another canister back. We would then create a reality, a universe if you will, where there were two canisters under that bridge for a whole year. Then we could send a third. Given enough time Lewis and I could create an infinite number of realities where everything has happened. David theorized that time travel might simply be lateral movement to any one of an infinite number of parallel planes discovered by the travelers.”

Paul paused to allow this to sink in.

“So,” Amanda said slowly, “what you are saying is that there is a world, a universe, where Lee won at Gettysburg and where Hitler got nuclear weapons?”

Paul nodded. “That is one theory.”

“Which means,” Lewis continued, “that time travel may just be lineal movement between what are essentially parallel realities. All of this effort may just end us up in a world in which Lee loses at Gettysburg but there may also be worlds in which he wins and The South wins.”

“Sounds discouraging,” Amanda concluded.

“But that’s just a theory,” Paul added hurriedly. “It may be nothing more than that. David speculation. I know what has happened in our world and the question for us now is do we want to try and change it?”

Amanda shrugged. “Like you said, recent history hasn’t been too good.”

Chapter 10

Natasha sat in her Dorchester apartment with her laptop open. The feed from CA was a bit disjointed. She tried to review the film from Monday. She zoomed in on the piece of paper but couldn’t read the address. It was too late now to put a trace on Amanda or Paul’s car. She had no interest in staking out a bowling alley, but she needed something to send back to Yeltsengrad.

The phone rang. Without looking Natasha picked it up. “Hello Igor.”

“Comrade Nikitin. How is life in the wonderful free world?”

“Wonderful. I haven’t been shot or mugged in this neighborhood yet. My collection of malt liquor and chemical wine bottles is improving.”

“The natives are getting restless,” Rostov said. “We appreciate hearing all about the dashing British junior professors you date, of course, but if you could throw a little more meat in the stew that would be greatly appreciated.”

“Igor, I’m sending reports. I’m not holding anything back, honest. I need to cultivate Nigel as a source.”

“He obviously likes you. He agreed to hire you. Not that he would have had much choice. But, we didn’t put you in Boston to send back wallpaper.”

“I’m trying. Just a little more time,” she said.

Rostov sighed. “Would it be enough of an inducement to dangle the Charles River apartment in front of you in exchange for useful information?”

“Oh no, you’re serious about upgrading to the Charles River apartment?”

“It’s on the first floor of Ginter’s building. You two’d be neighbors.”

“Beats this dump. But what is the, ah… cost?”

“Now, Comrade Nikitin, you sound ungrateful for the arrangements. There you are, living in what they claim is the most charming city in North America, and you’re witching about what part of town you live in.”

“Igor, the windows in the car were broken again last week.”

“So don’t keep anything sensitive in the car overnight. I’d think that much’d be obvious.”

“Igor.”

“All right, all right, I’ll… see what I can do about the apartment. Does this mean you and I can be roomies when I come to Boston?”

“In your dreams.”

“You’re making this an easy decision, Comrade. You must like Dorchester more than you’re letting on.”

“I’ll leave the good vodka within reach,” she said. “Sorry, but that’s as hospitable as I’ll get.”

“Here’s an idea. Why don’t you date deVere instead of Nigel Stufflebottom, or whatever his name is?”

She shook her head, instinctively revulsed, and was glad Rostov couldn’t see her. “He’s as straight as they come,” she said. “He doesn’t even flirt with me. Still calls me Miss Nikitin.”

“Damn. We need to find out what they’re up to, Comrade.”

“I know, Igor, I know.” She paused and considered. “It may have to do with time travel, after all. At least I think so.”

“Time travel?”

“I think they want to go back in time and… undo Soviet America.”

“Can they do that?”

“I think that they’re going to try. If anyone in the world can do it they can.”

“When? How? Where?” Rostov demanded.

“When I know, you will know.”

“Dorchester’s a paradise compared to where I can send you next, you know.”

“Of course.”

“All right,” Rostov said, his tone softening. “But we do need to find out the details, I have this gut feeling something’ll happen soon. You can’t put any bugs at work, I guess?”

“No audio stuff. Too many sensors around.”

“Think you could get to Ginter?”

Natasha paused. “I’m sure I could get him to come up and look at my etchings, if that’s what you’re suggesting, but I know it wouldn’t do any good. He’s ex-special-ops, he’s a bright boy.”

“How about this Nigel character?” Igor asked. “What’s he worth again?”

“He’s a junior professor in the department. I’ve seen him and deVere talking. I need to learn if deVere’s confiding in him. Look, Igor, I’ll find something. I promise.”

On Monday morning Amanda touched Paul lightly on the elbow as they stood in line at the faculty cafeteria. “Join me outside for lunch?”

“Uh, sure,” he said. “Is this—?”

She pressed her finger to his lips and smiled. “Outside.”

He paid for his turkey sandwich and potato chips and followed Amanda out to the south lawn, a favorite spot for faculty lunches that didn’t need to be overheard. “Oh shoot,” he said, sitting down beside her on the bench. “Forgot to get a drink.”

“That’s okay,” Amanda said. “We can share.”

We can share… Paul stared in space until Amanda brought him back by flicking her fingers in front of his eyes.

“I say something wrong?” she asked.

“No, no, it’s… that was how Valerie used to say it.”

“Who?”

“My wife. When we were dating.”

“Sorry,” Amanda said. “Didn’t mean to bring up a sore point.”

Paul looked at her. “It’s not a sore point,” he said hotly. “Valerie’s a good wife and good mother.”

“Not from what I hear. Sorry it’s such a… well, never mind. Now I get to ask you something.”

Paul glanced around. “Go for it.”

“Has to do with the basics of why we’re doing this.”

Paul looked around again. Amanda touched him on the elbow again and pointed to the small metal disk in her palm. He relaxed. “You mean how the idea came about? One day Grace—”

“Face toward me,” Amanda said.

“Oh, sure,” Paul said. He turned so his knees and Amanda’s lightly touched. She didn’t pull down her skirt to cover them, although Paul guessed she could have. He started to shift back but she put her hand on his knee.

“Closer’s better,” she said. “And look down.”

He glanced at her exposed knee, and decided it wasn’t a bad place to concentrate his gaze.

“You told me that already. Is it Peter?” she asked gently.

Peter was a fiend for science; he could never get enough of it. That’s why Paul became a scientist, after all. He worshiped Peter and the room they shared was always crammed so full of his science experiments—many of which involved frogs and mice, that Paul had to navigate his way to bed each night and check the sheets carefully before crawling in. But Peter would insist on explaining each one to Paul, making sure Paul got it, his eyes dancing in pure delight…

His father finally reached the Tulsa ambulance service. The deVere family had traveled to Tulsa to visit Norman deVere’s brother, and to allow Paul and Peter to meet their cousins. But Peter had been sick the whole way.

A Russian voice, obviously drunk, finally answered, and, sounding exasperated, agreed to send an ambulance. By this time Peter’s cough had worsened, and from where Paul stood behind his mother he could see his brother’s eyes closing and opening, closing and opening, closing and opening.

“Forty-five dollars?” his father roared into the phone. “I have to pay forty-five dollars for you to take my son to the hospital?”

“In cash,” Paul heard the voice on the other end of the line shout. “Dollars, not that Russian shit.” He heard a click and watched his father hold the receiver, not knowing whether to hang it up or throw it out the window.

Half an hour later the ambulance showed up. Peter was coughing less, but harder. His coughs now were accompanied by anguished cries. Paul saw his mother wiping the blood away from his mouth as she handed him to the orderly, who was so drunk he promptly dropped Peter. His father, crimson with impotent rage, snatched up Peter and cradled him in his arms. “Let’s go, Ivan,” he snarled.

“First, the money,” the driver said, weaving unsteadily.

His father thrust some bills in the man’s hand. “Here’s for the free Soviet healthcare, Comrade,” Paul’s father said in a cruel voice.

“Thirty-five dollars here, I said forty-five.” The man crossed his arms. “We don’t go until I get forty-five.”

“The boy’s dying,” his father shouted. “Can’t you hear?”

The orderly flicked his eyes down on Peter’s convulsing form. Paul watched wide-eyed from his mother’s side. “Forty-five dollars.”

“How about this?” his father asked, hoisting Peter over one shoulder and whipping out a Colt .45 from the other. “This get your stinking Russian ass in gear, Comrade?”

Drunk as he was, the orderly recognized what was being thrust in his face. He mumbled something about letting it pass this time and opened the rear of the ambulance. He went to start the motor. On the fourth try he started the engine and Paul, standing alone back at the hotel window, saw the ambulance lurch away and head for a tree until someone jerked the steering wheel back on the road…

“Paul?”

He snapped back in and saw Amanda’s face, worried and anxious. “Are you all right?” she asked as she touched his cheek.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Distracted. Sorry.”

“Oh,” she said, looking down at his hand. He’d squeezed his sandwich so hard the turkey oozed out from between his fingers.

“What were we… wormholes,” Paul said, cleaning his hand with his handkerchief. “Give me your napkin there.”

Amanda handed him her paper napkin. He smoothed it out on his leg and took another bite.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s Peter.”

Tuesday, July 21, 2026

Igor Rostov reviewed the last few dispatches Natasha Nikitin had sent. Their quality had decreased markedly, and seemed more concerned with the activities of the flighty British professor of only marginal value.

Rostov guessed that deVere had found some way to keep Natasha in the dark. His immediate supervisor had not been pleased, which had led to the scene in his office that morning:

“Ah yes, Igor Nikolayevich, come in, come in,” Petrovchenko had said.

“Thank you, Comrade,” Rostov had responded. He’d heard stories about being called to Petrovchenko’s office.

Petrovchenko seemed to be in a good mood, though. “Igor, how are you?”

“Fine, sir,” he’d mumbled. Part of the folklore of Petrovchenko’s office was correct: There weren’t any comfortable chairs to be had.

Igor selected the chair that appeared too hard, as opposed to the chair that seemed too tight or the one that seemed to be tilting at an uncomfortable angle.

“Most interesting operation you’re running in Boston, most interesting,” Petrovchenko said. “The agent is a Natasha Nikitin. Highly rated on all agency reports. You appear to be handling her well.”

“Thank you, sir,” Rostov said, shifting in his chair.

“Of course that’s to be expected from a man in your position. Otherwise you wouldn’t be in your position, would you? You’d be monitoring prisoner recreation in Siberia, right?”

Rostov didn’t say anything, and Petrovchenko looked up and laughed. “Oh come on, Igor, it was a joke. Lighten up. We’re happy with your work, you’re not going anywhere.”

Rostov allowed himself a small breath of relief. “I’m glad you’re pleased, sir.”

“Oh very pleased,” Petrovchenko said. “It looks like you’ve managed to procure some quite useful intelligence on this time travel they’re fooling around with.”

“I hope it has been satisfactory, sir,” Rostov replied.

“Oh, more than satisfactory, quite impressive, actually. At least the first dispatches were.”

Rostov’s stomach tensed. “Yes sir?”

“Any third-form student could see that your operative lost her pipeline to the good information between this report”—he threw a paper on the desk—“and this one.” He threw another paper. “What happened, they change the locks on the filing cabinets there?”

“I don’t have that information at the moment, sir, but I will certainly find—”

“You’ll certainly know very soon,” Petrovchenko snarled. “And you will remind your operative that not only does her presence in Boston depend on reestablishing that pipeline connection, your position in the agency depends on it as well. Do you follow?”

“Yes sir,” he said.

“No doubt you do,” Petrovchenko said. “As I can see by the files here you took over your position from Dmitri Volkov, who is now running a gas station in St. Louis, isn’t that correct?”

“I haven’t kept in contact with Dmitri Alexeyvich.”

“Not since you pulled the rug out from under the poor bastard’s feet,” Petrovchenko laughed. “Can you imagine anything worse than running a gas station in St. Louis?”

“No sir.”

“I can. Best hope I don’t decide to show you. Nice bit of work you did, feeding Dmitri worthless reports, which he dutifully passed up the line, while keeping the real stuff on disk for the investigators. Classic backstabbing.”

Igor squirmed. “I’m sure I acted professionally and, and in respect to the reports, they were true and correct to the best of my knowledge at the time, sir.”

Petrovchenko burst out laughing. “Ah yes, I myself used the same line when explaining to Moscow how I’d stabbed my supervisor in the back here. Know what that wretch is doing now?”

Igor shook his head.

“I don’t either. Last I heard he was on a security detail responsible for the Central Committee’s dachas in Finland. Arranging shopping tours for wives when their husbands are interviewing secretaries in the hot tubs. Does that sort of work appeal to you, Igor?”

“No sir.”

“Of course not. You’d like my job, wouldn’t you?”

“Sir, I want to do the best work possible in my present position.”

“Sure you do, sure you do,” Petrovchenko said. “And maybe this Natasha wants to do the best work in her present position, did we ever think of that?”

“Sir?”

“I mean,” Petrovchenko said, “maybe this Natasha is funneling the good stuff around you. Maybe she’s a whole lot smarter than you are, no?”

“I have full faith and confidence in Natasha Petronovna,” Igor said.

Petrovchenko chuckled. “No doubt, no doubt. Like my superior had full faith and confidence in me. Her reports, in their original form, are quite interesting. Did you know that she thinks our scientists are going to try time travel?”

“Yes sir.” Rostov cleared his throat. “It was in my report, sir.”

“Presumably Dr. deVere wants to go back in time to undo the Soviet takeover of America.”

“Comrade Nikitin has discussed that possibility with me, sir.”

“No doubt. But Comrade Nikitin speaks only in general terms, Igor. As you know we need detail. We need to know who, what, when, where and how.”

“Of course, sir.” Igor leaned forward. “Couldn’t we just arrest the lot, sir?”

Petrovchenko tilted his head back and roared aloud. “Or have them all killed? We could use our Comrade Nikitin for that, I suppose. Given her training at the academy and all. No, Igor,” he continued returning his focus, “we can’t do that. This is why I’m in charge and you are not. First of all, who do we arrest or kill? Do we get them all? If we miss one he or she will become more secretive, recruit others, and eventually try again. If you have ants in your house you must get the nest. And do not kill any ants until you have followed them back and discovered where the nest is. Do you see?

“I suggest improving the quality of the reports you put on my desk, Igor. If that means putting your foot up this Natasha’s ass, be my guest. If that means assuming personal supervision of the operation that wouldn’t be a bad choice either.”

“I understand,” Rostov said.

“Do you?” Petrovchenko asked, leaning back in his chair. “Tell me Comrade, do you think I have forgotten how a good operation should be run?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you take me for a fool?”

“Of course not,” Igor repeated, starting to squirm.

“Let me tell you something, Comrade Rostov,” Petrovchenko said, leaning forward again and jabbing with his finger. “I know very well how to run an operation of this type. In my younger days I ran many operations like this one. Your Comrade Nikitin is an insolent bitch. And I knew very well how to deal with problems like the one you are having here with her. Do you think me too old now to still do that?” Petrovchenko asked accusingly.

“But Comrade,” Rostov protested, “the Descendants, as they call themselves, are not like the older generation of resisters and anarchists. They are very careful.”

Petrovchenko snorted. “Yes, Comrade, but I am careful too. Very careful. You don’t get to my position without being careful and always having a back-up plan. One must know how to get around the Descendants, just as you should know how to get around this Comrade Nikitin if she is not doing her job, or doing it for someone else, no?”

“Of course, Comrade,” Igor agreed.

“As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking, it might be good for your career, for your future with the agency, to get in a little more field work,” Petrovchenko said, suddenly becoming more friendly. “They say Boston’s lovely this time of year.”

“They do,” Igor agreed, relieved at the change in the conversation’s tone.

“I notice you were once posted in Boston.”

“That’s right,” Igor agreed again.

“I imagine you’d like to get back, it might make a more effective meeting with your Comrade Nikitin. Why don’t you go for a few days? I’ll personally see that you get rooms at the Copley Plaza, it’s said to be the finest hotel in the city.”

“The Copley?” Igor asked. “I’d appreciate that, sir.”

“Yes, well, we like to keep our best men happy. I think if we can pull together on this Boston operation we can give your career quite a boost,” Petrovchenko said.

“Yes sir, I agree sir.”

“Absolutely,” Petrovchenko beamed. He checked the paper calendar on his desk. “Why don’t we say in a couple of weeks after you finish up with that problem in Chicago? Would that be enough time to prepare?”

“That would be fine, sir,” Igor added, almost as an afterthought.

“Grand. I’ll have Stasha make the arrangements. Make sure that you leave a list of ongoing operations you’d like me to keep an eye on in your absence,” Petrovchenko said.

With pleasure, Igor thought as he smiled, shook the man’s hand, and left.

Wednesday July 22, 2026

“Natasha, Igor here, no doubt you’re out sampling the finest French restaurants in Boston while we gnaw on dried beets back here in Yeltsengrad. I’ll be in Boston at noon two weeks from this Saturday, so do please pick me up at the airport. And do pack your bags. I’ve decided to transfer you to the Charles River apartment. I think you should be closer to the action. I’m convinced something’s going to blow soon. Having you—”

“Igor!” Natasha picked up the phone. “Serious? I’m moving to the Charles River place? No strings attached?”

“You mentioned vodka?”

“All you want.”

“If that’s the best I can get.”

“You wouldn’t like me,” Natasha said. “I can’t cook.”

“Neither can my wife,” Igor said. “Two weeks. Write it down.” He hung up.

The Charles River apartment. Natasha punched the pillow as she sank back on the bed. Hot damn!

In his Yeltsengrad office Rostov tapped his pen on the desk. His ears were still ringing from the blistering Petrovchenko’s superior, a man he knew only as Vanya, had given him when he learned Natasha was in Dorchester. Whoever her patron is up in the hierarchy he’s sure watching out for her, he thought. Must remember that.

Chapter 11

Friday, July 24, 2026

“All right. What happened with the chronometer?” Lewis asked.

Paul looked around the Friday night crowd at The Marbury, an off campus nightclub, and put his hand over his mouth to start talking.

“Hold your glass up,” Amanda said. “Looks less suspicious.”

Paul held his glass up—and stared past Amanda at the crowd. Out on the dance floor the college crowd was jamming the too small parquet floor while the older patrons—and Paul ruefully put himself in that category—kept to the surrounding tables.

“That’s one way to keep them from listening in, don’t say anything,” Lewis said. “Come on Paul, it’s clean.”

“Natasha,” he announced, putting his glass back down.

Lewis turned to look. Natasha came by the table with Nigel.

“Rather a surprise seeing you here, didn’t know this was your cup of tea,” Nigel said as he shook Lewis and Paul’s hands. Natasha smiled at them and at Amanda. Lewis and Paul smiled back. On the giant video monitors The Rolling Stones Experience kicked off a 65th Anniversary tribute tour from Phoenix.

“Professor Hutch’s birthday, so we thought we’d surprise her,” Lewis said.

“Surprised?” Nigel asked her.

“Quite.”

“Cheers, and happy birthday,” Nigel said to Amanda as he led his date back out on the dance floor.

“Cheers,” Amanda said, wiggling her fingers at them. The three watched as the pair boogied to the far side of the dance floor.

“Well, fancy that,” Lewis said. “Think she’s on to us?”

Paul shrugged. “This is the hep spot, if they’re going out they’d probably come here.”

“I don’t know,” Lewis said, drumming his fingers on the table along with the Stones. “It’s strange. I’m convinced she’s probably Agency.”

“How do you become convinced that something is probably the case?” Amanda asked mischievously.

“Well, she’s Russian. She lands in our department just when we start up on this for real. But on the other hand she does live in some hellish part of Dorchester.” Lewis kept his eyes on the pair as they began dancing on the floor.

“Dorchester?” Paul asked.

“Would the Agency ever put anyone there?” Amanda asked. “Especially a number like that. Plus, her educational background’s legit.”

Lewis stared momentarily at Amanda and appeared about to speak when Paul interrupted him.

“Anyway.” Paul held up his glass to his lips as he told them that the day before he’d sent the chronometer back to 1923, kept it there until 1933, and brought it back. “It worked perfectly.”

“Hot diggety dog,” Lewis said. “This calls for a drink.” He hoisted his whiskey and took a long hit. When he was done he exhaled approvingly, momentarily studied his raised glass, and then put it down. He turned to Amanda.

“Paul tells me you have something for us.”

Amanda nodded. “It’s the Cuban Missile Crisis,” she said. “That is the pressure point. That changed everything.”

Paul finished his drink. “The event we need to undo?”

“If you’re looking for a one-shot strike, something that can be accomplished by two or three people, I can’t think of a better place to intervene,” Amanda said.

“Why?” Paul asked.

Amanda sighed. “In 1962 the United States had, hands down, the best military in the world. The Soviets didn’t even have a navy. Not one to speak of anyway. They had a Communist government in Cuba that Eisenhower approved being overthrown in early 1961 with an invasion by a ragtag group of Cuban expatriates trained by the CIA. But Kennedy got elected and wouldn’t commit American air power to support the invasion. Without air support the whole campaign fell apart at the invasion point known as the Bay of Pigs.”

It was Lewis’ turn to nod. “One of history’s blunders. We studied that operation, the CIA recruitment of the Cubans, the training process, the battle…” he grimaced. “Studied it all in school.”

Paul discerned Lewis’ pause before saying “in school.” It was often Lewis’ euphemism for military training.

“Kennedy’s decision had a number of long term effects,” Lewis finished.

“It had three big ones,” Amanda continued. “First, right wingers in the U.S. believed that Kennedy was soft. Second, Khrushchev realized that he needed to do something to strengthen Cuba’s hand if Castro were to stay in power. And third, Castro himself realized that he needed to expand Communism to South and Central America if he was ever going to challenge the U.S.”

“That was 1961, though,” Paul protested.

Amanda nodded. “In response to all this Khrushchev sent missiles to Cuba which could be loaded with nuclear warheads. In October of ’62 Kennedy found out about them and a debate erupted in the administration as to what to do.”

Amanda leaned across the bar room table toward Paul. “I’ve listened to the tapes of the meeting. Every one of his advisors recommended invasion to remove Castro and Cuban Communism. Senator Russell, Senator Fulbright, General Curtis LeMay, everyone. The risk, of course, was that Kennedy feared a nuclear war.”

“Was he right?” Paul asked.

“No, absolutely not,” Amanda answered. “Khrushchev never would have done it. If Kennedy had invaded Cuba the U.S. would have won and there never would have been any Ché Guevara to foment a Central and South American revolution. As it was Ché was almost stopped in Bolivia except he was saved by General Lee.”

“General Li? Chinese?” deVere asked

Lewis rolled his eyes. “No, an American traitor who had defected to Cuba and joined the Cuban guerillas. Named Lee. He later became a general and won a crucial battle at Acapulco. We studied his campaigns in training school. They became the blueprint for Communist guerrilla activities everywhere.”

“Oh yeah.” Paul remembered the picture of the thin-faced man on the wall at the Kennedy Library Exhibit. He had forgotten his name. “Any relation to Robert E. Lee?”

Amanda snickered. “No, no relation to Robert E. He was O.H. Lee. Anyway, Ché lucked out. A successful invasion in ’62 would have made Kennedy wildly popular and may have given the U.S. the courage to stay and fight in Indo-China. As it was, the American military advisors were pulled out in early ’64.”

“So, what do we do?” Paul asked. “How do we convince Kennedy to invade Cuba in ’62?”

Amanda sipped her beer. As a waitress drifted close she held up three fingers. She waited until the waitress had moved away before answering.

“We don’t,” she answered. “The press does. We use an indirect approach. First, we get cash. As a history professor I can get access to the old American money plates at the museum and can print up a bunch of old United States money. Real paper and everything. Every so often someone will do it for a party or Halloween or something. It’s not a big deal. Obviously, the currency is no good today but valid in ’62.” She smiled. “At least we’ll be rich.

“Second, Lewis gets us all communicators with extended energy packs. No satellite communications back then but strong scrambled radio transmitters with coast-to-coast range.

“Third, three laptops filled with scanned newspaper articles from the New York Times and Washington Post. And of course, three printers since they’ll be none there.”

Paul nodded. “Anything else?”

“Firearms,” Lewis answered. “Just in case.”

Amanda shrugged. “That’s up to you. I don’t need any. But anyway, gun laws were more relaxed back then before the Soviets took over.”

It was Paul’s turn to shake his head. “It was that damn NRA and their idiot president. First thing the Soviets did was go to the NRA building in D.C. and grab the member list. They didn’t need gun registration. Once they had that, they were able to eliminate 85% of the private gun ownership in the country.”

“But not their bumper stickers.” Amanda smiled.

“Then what?” Paul asked. “How do we use the newspapers?”

“The two most important newspapers were the New York Times and the Washington Post,” Amanda continued. “We approach Ben Bradlee at the Washington Post and Harrison Salisbury at the Times, prove who we are by showing them copies of the newspaper articles from the next day’s papers which we’ll bring with us, horse racing results, etc., and convince them of the need to go to war. William Randolph Hearst was once able to convince the United States to go to war against Spain—we can do it again.”

“And?”

Amanda raised her eyebrows.

“What happens if Kennedy changes his mind and invades?” Paul asked.

“He also might not pull out of Vietnam. Pulling out was a mistake.”

“He should’ve stayed in?”

“They called it the Domino Theory,” Amanda said. “There’s a guy nobody remembers today named John Foster Dulles, but he was brilliant. If anybody knew what they were talking about back then, he did. His theory was that if Vietnam goes, next goes Laos, next goes Cambodia, one after the other, next thing you know all Indochina’s Communist. Which is exactly what happened.”

“Do tell,” Paul snickered.

“Exactly,” Amanda said. “I’m of the opinion that without Castro to worry about, Kennedy would have stayed in Vietnam. Even if we change just one thing, maybe the first domino never falls and worldwide domination by the East is stopped in its tracks. If we stop just one country from going we might stop it all, and preserve our western way of life.” She snickered. “We wouldn’t be living under a bunch of goddamn civil administrators hand picked by Vodkaville.”

“Hell of an assumption,” Paul said.

“Got a better one?” she challenged.

“Hey, that’s why you’re here,” Paul said. “You’re convinced of that?”

She sighed. “No, but it’s the best I’ve got.”

Paul raised his glass before remembering that his beer was already empty. The waitress had not yet arrived with the refills. Ordinarily he would have stopped at one, driving home and Valerie smelling it but tonight, tonight… He put his glass down. Amanda was the historian, she’d forgotten more 20th Century American history than he’d ever known, but still, there had to be something more certain than that.

“So we go back to change Kennedy’s mind in October of 1962,” Amanda continued. “I say we go back earlier, say mid-summer, do the drum beat, stay through the Cuban missile crisis to make sure Cuba gets invaded, and get out of there in the late fall returning here the day we left. We won’t even miss one faculty meeting. Otherwise we give Ché and Ho Chi Minh a free pass, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

“Why even screw with trying to start an invasion?” Lewis asked suddenly. The pair turned to look at him.

“That can’t be that certain a thing to do,” Lewis continued. “Why not just go after Ché Guevara himself? We know where he’ll be in Bolivia in 1968. I can pin point the day and locale where they almost got him. Let me train 12 guys—two snipers with eight or ten for perimeter protection—and we can find a wormhole back to the spot a few days early, set up an ambush, and wormhole right back afterwards leaving him dead in the jungle. That seems a lot better than hoping we can convince a bunch of newspaper guys to convince the public to convince Kennedy to start a war.”

Paul stared across the table open mouthed. “Are you crazy, Lewis?” He looked around the pub nervously before turning back to his friend. “How are you going to give 12 guys military training without getting noticed? You think you can do that? And where the hell you going to train them? The Public Garden? C’mon!”

Amanda shook her head forcefully. “Paul’s right. Where are you going to find a dozen people you can even trust? And there’s no way you could train them for a guerrilla attack. That would take daily training for weeks. Months even. The satellites would pick that up in an instant, you know that.

“And,” she continued, “how would you ever get them all into the lab at once without raising suspicion? And where would you get the weapons?”

“But, could Lewis’ plan work?” Paul asked cautiously.

Amanda shrugged. “That’s the other thing. Even if we did this training thing and killed Ché Guevara how do we know that Castro wouldn’t have sent someone else to pick up where Ché left off and maybe still be successful?

“No,” she said forcefully, slapping her beer back down on the table so that some sloshed out. “The key is Cuba itself. Take out Cuba in ‘62 and no one can be sent to Bolivia. And the only way to do that is with an invasion. Invade Cuba and Ché never leaves for Bolivia.”

Lewis took another sip without answering. He stared straight ahead. “Maybe,” he mused. “Maybe.”

“The Bay of Pigs was an unmitigated fiasco for JFK,” Amanda continued. “The Cuban Missile Partnership—what they used to call the Cuban Missile Crisis—boiled down to America removing first-strike nukes from Turkey, another colossal blunder by Kennedy. Simply put the guy couldn’t afford a third strike with re-election coming up, so he pulled out of Vietnam rather than get waxed there.”

“But we could have won in Indo-China?” Paul asked.

Ginter snickered. “Absolutely. America was the strongest power in the world. We would have clobbered a bunch of guerilla fighters in Vietnam.”

“So exactly what happened over there?” Paul asked.

“It was quick and brutal,” Amanda said. “In November of 1963 Kennedy decided to pull out. Evacuation was complete in ’64. By the end of ’64 the country’s under Ho. Mass retribution everywhere, thousands of arrests and summary executions of suspected sympathizers and French collaborators, a bloodbath. Kennedy washed his hands of the whole thing and got reelected.”

The waitress arrived with the three replacements. Paul paid her in cash. When she had left Lewis spoke up. “O.K., I’ll buy it. We can find a wormhole that will fit.”

Paul and Lewis each hoisted their own glasses but Amanda left hers untouched. Lewis studied her over his whiskey glass before slowly setting it down. He shot a glance at Paul.

“What’s the matter, Professor, doubting your own theory?” Ginter asked.

She sighed. “No, it’s not the theory, not the history. It’s more the ethics, or maybe the collateral consequences.”

“Such as?” Paul asked.

She turned to him. “When you first told me about this, you mentioned different theories. What happens if we go back and change history but we change something so that our parents never meet and so we are never born? Then there is no one to go back and change things so does the old history come back again? And what happens to the people who are alive today but who are never born because we change things? Have we in essence killed them?”

“Love birds,” Lewis announced as Nigel and Natasha sidled back to the table, hand in hand. Paul noted that Nigel seemed more intent on keeping Natasha’s hand than Natasha seemed interested in being led.

“Shall we join you?” Nigel asked cheerfully. He looked down at the table. “Say, with a birthday isn’t there usually cake?”

“Diet,” Amanda announced.

Paul was desperately hunting for an excuse for why Nigel couldn’t join them when Natasha saved him.

“Come on, Nigel,” she pleaded, squeezing his hand. “I want to dance some more.” She leaned in and whispered something in his ear. Nigel laughed and the pair moved off again.

“I wonder what she sees in him?” Paul asked.

“I wonder why she didn’t press him on joining us?” Lewis asked.

“Well, if you’re right,” Amanda added breezily, “she can’t think that we’d say anything in front of her. So, what about my ethical quandary?”

Lewis turned back and shrugged. “The Theory of Merger. David theorized that all life forces might be static, almost pre-programmed. Sort of like programming on your computer that’s not yet installed. It’s still there and at certain points in time the person will be born, the installation will occur. Changing historical events only changes the history, not the people, not the life forces which remain constant. Under his theory, if you come back through a return wormhole, but have changed things so that you never would have left, then the returning life force will merge with the one that never left and the memory of the returning life force will dominate.”

“So, you’ll remember your old life while resuming a new one,” Amanda mused.

Paul shrugged and took another sip. “But it’s all just a theory.”

“Do you believe it?” Amanda asked.

“No, I don’t,” Lewis answered. “It conflicts with what we know about genetics. But if life forces can have other genetic make-ups well, then maybe.”

“Maybe you’ll be white,” Paul added.

“Or a party member,” Lewis retorted. “Or a guy who hates cars.”

The three laughed.

“In any event,” Paul said, “if we change something and come back, our reality would indeed be permanently changed. That doesn’t prevent there from being an infinite number of realities; there is always that theory. And the two kind of tie in.”

Amanda nodded soberly. “Where Lee won at Gettysburg.”

“And Hitler got nukular weapons,” Lewis added. “Like that neo-Soviet civil administrator in Tex-Arkana would have said.”

The three laughed again, but softer this time.

After a moment, Paul asked quietly, “How did it all happen?”

Lewis looked at him quizzically. “How did what happen?”

Paul gestured around the room. “This. All this. How did the Reds take over?

“You know the history,” Lewis answered in a bewildered tone. “Weren’t you just listening to Dr. Hutch here?”

Paul shook his head. “I don’t mean the military history. I know about Ché Guevara and the Malay Peninsular. Even with all that how the hell did we allow them to not only take over, but actually be supported? Tell me why people in Kansas or Missouri or Ohio for Christ sakes support the Reds?”

“Fear,” Amanda answered without hesitation. The pair turned to her.

“People are afraid,” she continued simply. “They are afraid of war, and of being attacked. Fear is history’s great motivator for inaction. People who are afraid will trade their liberties, their freedoms, their basic political essence for not being afraid again, for what they perceive as security. And evil forces are always ready to take advantage of that. That’s how Hitler came to power. And after what happened to China, the chemical weapons here, and that dirty bomb in St. Louis, when what, 3,300 people died, Americans were too willing to trade their freedom, their liberties, hell, their very way of life as Americans, in order to feel safe again. The Reds promised that. And on some level, they have delivered it.”

The table grew quiet again.

After a while Amanda asked softly, “So, we’ll be ready in a few weeks?”

Paul shifted uncomfortably. “We do have a slight funding issue. We need more money to get fuel to conduct a few more tests. We have some fuel but not enough to run more experiments on animals, and then test it on one volunteer, and then send us all back. We don’t have enough for all that.”

“Is the department that short funded?” Amanda asked.

The two men looked at each other for a moment before Paul answered slowly.

“It’s not exactly department funding. There is no way we could justify that amount of money. We are being funded, we’re getting our money from… contributors. And right now they are in the dark and money has been cut off unless they are brought in.”

There was a pause before anyone spoke. Finally, Amanda broke the silence.

“This isn’t good,” she said.

“No,” Paul agreed. “It isn’t good at all.”

Saturday, July 25, 2026 12:30 a.m.

In front of the red brick apartment house in Dorchester Natasha Nikitin ducked out of Nigel’s BMW. “Thanks for a great evening,” she said, casting a quick smile through the open passenger door.

Nigel hesitated, disappointment etched across his face.

“It’s still early,” he tried.

Natasha glanced at her watch and laughed. “Nigel, it’s twelve thirty.” She pouted and cocked her head sideways. “I’m really tired, maybe some other time, though?”

“I say, are you sure I shouldn’t at least walk you in?” He glanced around the street. “This isn’t the greatest neighborhood.”

“The door is right here. I’m fine. I’m just tired after some really great dancing. Promise you’ll call me tomorrow?”

Nigel brightened. “Sure, I’ll wake you up!”

Natasha threw him another smile, slammed the door shut and walked up the sidewalk without looking back. As she fished through her pocketbook she listened for the sound of either the car being shut off or accelerating away. She smiled to herself when she heard neither. What a gentleman! She let herself into the foyer and closed the door behind her. She stood waiting in the darkness until she heard the BMW pull away from the curb. She looked out the foyer’s side window, and watched the car’s brake lights come on at the corner and the car turn left. She gave it a few more seconds and then let herself back out the front door. She turned right in the direction in which Nigel had just driven off and began walking briskly.

It was a little over six blocks to the Dorchester post office. Nigel was right, it wasn’t a great neighborhood but Natasha had little concern for her safety as she hurried along. She checked her watch again. Main post offices were supposed to be open for full service all night—an improvement from the Soviet system—but she knew that the Dorchester service window might not be manned after 1:00. She reached the building before one. As she swung open the front glass door she was relieved to see a clerk reading a newspaper. He started when she entered but quickly relaxed upon seeing her. She read his nameplate: Sean Murphy.

“Can I help you?” he asked, folding the Herald.

Natasha swung her pocketbook off her shoulder and onto the counter. She reached inside and removed a thick yellow envelope heavily sealed with tape.

“I want to send this P.C.,” she said, rummaging inside her pocketbook.

“I’m sorry ma’am, but I’ll have to see some… Oh, I’m sorry, yes of course, Agent Nikitin,” Murphy said as he saw the ID badge Natasha was now holding in front of him. “We can send this out ‘Priority-Confidential’ right away. It should be there by Monday.” Murphy reached under the counter, opened a drawer, and removed a stamp. He rolled “Priority-Confidential” in red across the front and back of the envelope and then turned and gently laid it in a bin behind him.

“Thank you, Comrade,” Natasha said. She cast one last look at the bin and turned and walked out the front door.

Murphy watched her walk out the door, focusing on her legs. A pair of six-inch heels would look good, he thought. With straps, of course.

After the door had swung shut Murphy turned and retrieved the yellow envelope. He hefted it in his hands and then walked out back. In the warehouse workers slowly pushed wheeled bins back and forth. At a rear workstation three men sat hand-sorting mail while a supervisor hovered nearby. There were only a few post offices in the Northeast District that still weren’t automated and Dorchester was one of them.

As Murphy walked across the cement floor the supervisor broke away from his duties to meet him. Together they walked to the far corner of the warehouse. They said nothing until they reached the wall.

“What’ve you got?” the supervisor asked.

Murphy held out the envelope. The supervisor took it and studied the back side with the thick tape across the flap. The red “Priority Confidential” stamp had been applied below the tape.

“You should have seen the hot little Russkie number who dropped this off. Short skirt and killer legs. Not 30 years old. I could teach her though.”

“Not 30?” the supervisor asked, surprised. “And she had an Agency ID on her?”

Murphy nodded. “I swear, no way she was 30.” He indicated the envelope. “You think Eckleburg will want to see that? The doc says he wants to see everything Agency that comes out of here. See. I rolled the stamp below the tape just in case.”

Rather than answering the supervisor turned the envelope over. He studied the address and then laughed. “This isn’t going to Vodkaville. Look at the address. ‘Vladimir Romanov, Karl Marx University, Eichenstrasse 10, Leipzig, DDR.”

“So?” Murphy asked defensively.

“She’s probably a grad student there and this is her boyfriend. If it was Agency stuff she’d be sending it west. She’s probably the kid of some official and just has the ID.” He held the envelope up to the light. “It’s probably just a porn video of her and her boyfriend.”

Murphy licked his lips. “Maybe we should still open it? I tell you she was a fox.”

“Hey, if we’re gonna’ go to Gitmo’ it ain’t gonna’ be over some Russkie’s porn video, fox or no fox.”

The supervisor laughed again. “Think I can get it in from here?” He reached back and launched a jump shot of the envelope to the nearest out-bin 20 feet away. The package clanged on the bottom of the empty cart.

“Nothing but net,” the supervisor said.

“You ever miss?” Murphy asked.

“Only when I’m sober,” the supervisor answered as he swayed back to his workstation.

Murphy watched him walk away. For a moment he lingered where he stood, his eyes drawn to the bin, and he considered the package that lay inside. Maybe, just maybe I should… He knew there was still another hour before the next pick up. Then, abruptly, he turned and walked back to the front.

Chapter 12

Saturday, August 1, 2026

“Any idea what’s wrong with it?”

Paul deVere stood in the driveway of his Concord home peering over the left shoulder of Lewis Ginter who bent under the hood of the 1969 Plymouth Roadrunner. Ginter had the air filter off and was poking at a hinged metal flap that deVere suspected might be part of the carburetor.

“Probably the timing chain,” Ginter answered without glancing up.

DeVere nodded sagely. He had no idea what a timing chain was, or whether it was important.

“Can you fix it?” he asked, trying to sound helpful.

“Not here.” Ginter stood back up and replaced the air filter and a cover that he screwed back on with a wing nut. He grabbed a rag from the fender and wiped his hands. “I’ll probably have to tow it home.”

Minutes earlier Lewis Ginter had driven up deVere’s street, the deep throaty rumbling of the Roadrunner announcing his arrival. It was the Plymouth’s first day on the road. Ginter had called that morning to say he was on his way to give him the long promised ride in the restored muscle car. Besides, the pair had to talk.

DeVere had barely suppressed a smile when he heard the car approaching. Valerie’s disgusted look and haughty retreat into the kitchen had not dampened his enthusiasm. But just as Ginter had swung the ‘Runner into the driveway, the engine had quit with a screech and the car had rolled to a stop at the side of deVere’s house. Ginter’s efforts to restart it had resulted only in pointless cranking of the starter.

That had been 10 minutes ago and deVere had spent the time since staring at the engine compartment while feigning knowledge.

“Is it a big job?”

“Big enough,” Ginter answered. “Have to take the engine apart and basically rebuild it.” Lewis unlatched the hood brace and let the cover slam down. He made sure that the hood was closed before turning back around. “I guess you’re not gonna’ get your first ride today after all.”

Across the street deVere’s neighbor rode a mower across the front lawn while occasionally glancing at the automotive behemoth parked in deVere’s driveway.

“That’s O.K.,” deVere answered as he watched his neighbor turn the front corner of his house. “Just having it here is worth it. Why don’t you leave the hood up? It looks more imposing that way.”

Ginter shot deVere a quizzical look before following his gaze across the street. “Oh, the neighbors aren’t real fond of the huge hood scoop in the yard of their MIT professor, I see.”

“Jealous,” deVere said.

“I have to call Triple A. They’ll tow it for me.” Ginter pulled a cell phone from his belt and switched it on.

DeVere reacted with alarm. “Tow it? To your house or to Lynn?”

“Lynn,” Ginter answered. “I can’t rebuild the engine at my apartment. No tools there. Besides, I can’t use my spot in the garage for that.”

DeVere kept his eyes on his neighbor as the tractor rounded the rear of the house. When the neighbor disappeared he turned back to his guest. “Do you think that’s safe? I mean, letting Triple A know about the garage in Lynn and all?”

Ginter shrugged. “Why not? That’s why I rented it. Remember? To rebuild this thing.”

DeVere nodded. “Just jumpy, I guess.”

Ginter was already punching in numbers.

“You seem to know the roadside assistance number by heart,” deVere observed.

“When you’re a single guy and you drive what I like to drive, the numbers you get to know very well are take-out food and Triple A.”

“You could just buy a fast car if that’s what you like. That new WRX-51 is supposedly the fastest car ever made and that’s right out of the showroom without being tuned. According to the Globe, that is.”

Ginter was already speaking with a customer service representative and giving directions to deVere’s house. When he finished, deVere turned and walked to the back yard. Ginter followed alongside.

“Valerie ban you from the house today?” Ginter asked as they moved into the back yard. “Or is it just me?”

DeVere winced. “It’s too nice to be inside. Besides, Grace is home.”

DeVere led Ginter to the rear of the clearing where a brown picnic table stood under the shade of a large maple. As deVere swung one leg over the bench to face the house a breeze rustled through the branches. Ginter sat opposite, facing the woods.

“Suburban life. Not bad,” Ginter commented.

“So,” deVere said once he was settled. “What did you find?”

“I found a wormhole. It took me about three hours. I’m getting better at this. It connects this coming September first at 8:08 p.m. in the lab with July 23, 1962 at a point in Central Park, New York City at 2:48 a.m. The wormhole will be open for a little over 38 minutes at this end, and about the same, about 43 minutes, at the other end. Hell, we could stay at The Waldorf,” he chuckled.

“The return is from December 24, 1962, the day before Christmas, at 3:32 p.m. It gives us five months and one day to change the world.”

DeVere nodded absently, his eyes fixed on the back of his house. “Why Central Park?” he asked.

Ginter shrugged. “It puts us in New York City which is where we want to go. Parks are actually a good idea. There are no buildings there and we can assure that there were none there in 1962. According to geological maps of the park I’ve dug up the arrival spot is near a clump of trees, so there’s a decent chance of us not being seen when we appear. Especially at two in the morning.”

“If we appear,” deVere corrected.

Ginter leaned back. “Well, there’s always that. But you’ve got to admit that the experiments have gone well. The rat shows no ill effects.”

“We still need to test it on humans. We need an observer to go and come back. Once. One of us needs to go someplace and come back. That way…” deVere’s voice trailed off.

Ginter snickered. “That way if it fails and one of us dies the other will be around to… do what, try again with someone else?”

“It’s just safer,” deVere insisted. “We can’t just jump into this. We have to be careful.”

Ginter’s snicker turned into a full laugh. “Careful? Careful about what? If we actually do what we’re hoping to do the whole damn world is changed to we don’t know what. How the hell careful is that?”

DeVere flinched. “Do we have the fuel?” he asked.

“You mean to go?” Ginter asked.

“No, for a test run. Do we have enough for more experiments?”

Ginter shook his head forcefully. “No way. Right now we have enough to open one more wormhole and do a big send-off and of course the return opens automatically. But we don’t have enough to do more experiments and also a send-off.”

“Can we get more? Enough of it?”

Ginter shook his head again. “Not without more money. And the Descendants seem pretty adamant on this. No more money unless they are brought in to see what they’re buying.”

“What about Lorrie?” deVere asked.

“Lorrie too,” Ginter answered. “But she had no choice. Eckleburg won’t give her the money unless this Pamela Rhodes person is shown what we’re doing and reports back to them. Eckleburg wants to see all.”

“Why her?”

“They still think it’s explosives. She’s the boom expert.”

“I thought she was a printer. Pamphlets or something.” DeVere was confused.

“That too. But she’s also some sort of explosives expert. Or so she says. They picked her to check us out. Or rather, to check you out. Unless she says O.K. there’s no more money and without the dough we can’t get any more fuel.”

“What about a legit purchase? Through the school? Most of our work is already done anyhow.”

“No way,” Ginter answered. “We need too much and Arnold would get suspicious. Plus, he’s such a tightwad he’d never O.K. it. We have to buy it off-market. It’s risky, and expensive.”

DeVere frowned. “We’re going to have to bring her in. Show her what we’re doing.”

“Why?” Ginter asked, making a face. “She doesn’t know anything about time travel. She’s a freakin’ bomb expert. Besides, if Eckleburg finds out he’d go ballistic. They all would. I say we just go. Screw Pamela Rhodes. Screw ‘em all. Crank it up September first and off we go. You, me, and Hutch.” Ginter paused. “That is, if you still want to take her,” he added, glancing back at the house.

DeVere looked down at the ground. The lawn hadn’t been mowed in almost two weeks. It was starting to go to seed in some places. He wondered why Valerie hadn’t started nagging him about it. Maybe she just doesn’t care anymore.

“We need Amanda,” deVere said. “We’ll need her there. She knows the history. She’s been getting the 1962 stuff loaded into her laptop. No one is suspicious about that. That’s her field of study.”

Ginter nodded noncommittally. “We can still just go. The three of us, just go.”

“No!” deVere said forcefully and turned squarely to Ginter. “It’s too risky. If we all go and end up dead, or unable to interact with the physical world, there’ll be no one to take our place and try again. We have to be sure it’ll work on humans and that whoever is sent back can actually interact. Not just float around. Let me go someplace first. That way, if it fails you and Amanda can try again.”

Ginter turned sideways on the bench. He raised his right leg and hunched forward over his knee. He cast his gaze to the house and then back at deVere.

“What do you think of her plan?” deVere asked.

“I don’t know,” Ginter answered carefully. “She’s the historian and all. But I always thought the big screw up was at Yalta. When Roosevelt gave away Eastern Europe. If I thought we could land on the navy cruiser Quincy in January of 1945, as it transported FDR to Yalta, we’d convince him to stand firm. Without that toehold in Eastern Europe the Sovs may not have gone anyplace. But of course we could never get a wormhole targeted on a moving ship. How could we ever figure out its location at a given moment in time?

“Or else we could stop Ché Guevara in Bolivia when they damn near had him. If we could just undo that…” Ginter let his voice trail off.

He paused and looked at deVere. “Why, what do you think of her plan?”

DeVere shrugged. “There’re probably a hundred things we could do. But this Cuban invasion seems as good as anything else. Get Kennedy to invade Cuba, get rid of Castro, stop Ché Guevara and the United States has a decent shot in Southeast Asia and maybe Lindsay will have a shot in Europe.”

Ginter turned his back to deVere. He reached into his pocket and retracted an object. Although deVere could not see the end of Ginter’s arm he knew he had a scanning disk.

“A little late now, isn’t it?” deVere asked.

Ginter waved it around before returning it. “Force of habit, I guess.”

He turned sideways to his host. “Do you trust her?”

DeVere was taken aback by the question. “Valerie?” he asked dumbly. “Do I trust her?”

“Not your wife,” Ginter retorted. “Hutch. Do you trust her?”

DeVere reddened. “Yeah,” he answered. “Yeah, I trust her. Don’t you?”

Ginter shrugged. “I don’t know. There’s something about her.”

“Such as?” deVere asked warily.

Ginter swung back around and spoke deliberately. “Didn’t it seem a bit strange to you that she jumped on this whole idea so quickly? We tell her about it, that we’re planning on changing history, and her response was when does she pack for the trip?”

“So?” deVere asked defensively. “She’s been through a lot. Hey, she’s beaten cancer. Pretty big surgeries. Maybe that’s made her realize quicker than the rest of us the value of not wasting time. She’s anti-Soviet. Always has been. Was anti-Soviet in grad school, for Christ sakes.”

“Paul, that was a long time ago.”

“Lewis, if she were going to turn us in she would have already done so. It’s only you and me. The squishheads would have swooped down and we’d both be in Guantanamo now.”

“What do you know about her recently? Paul, you’re 53 years old. You were what, 25 when you last saw her? It was easy to spout anti-Soviet stuff back then. You were both young and rebellious. Times have changed.” Ginter looked steadily at deVere. “People change.”

“Not Amanda,” deVere insisted. “I know her.”

Lewis Ginter shrugged. “You mean you knew her.”

“Hey,” Paul answered angrily. “You’re the one who told me she was anti-Sov before you knew that I knew her, remember?”

Lewis Ginter shook his head. “What I said was that my sources were telling me that she said anti-Soviet stuff. There’s a difference.”

DeVere took a deep breath before continuing. “Is there something in particular that troubles you? I mean other than the fact that she used to be anti-Sov, still says anti-Sov stuff, and is eager to help us?”

Despite the tension Ginter chuckled at the argument. He turned and looked at the woods. “I have nothing concrete. It just seems that she threw in here too quickly. I’m also bothered by where she’s been teaching. Prague, Leningrad, Leipzig. Seems to have spent some time traipsing around the Soviet Union. Strange places for a fire-eater.”

DeVere was hot now. “She also taught in North Carolina. All those places you named have universities. She’s an American history prof, for Christ sakes, Lewis. There were openings there.”

“There’s something else,” Ginter said. “After the second Sino-Soviet War when she was still in Leipzig she started traveling to Moscow pretty regularly.”

“So?” Paul asked.

“She went there a lot. An awful lot. According to my sources she started spending every damn school vacation there. Who the hell vacations in Moscow?”

“She could have been doing research,” Paul argued.

“For six or seven years?” Ginter scoffed.

“Is that all you’ve got? Just Moscow?” Paul asked angrily.

Ginter shrugged. “Who knows where she went from there? Could have been going to a KGB training center for all I know.”

“That’s just it, Lewis. You don’t fucking know. She’s a history professor. She travels on her breaks. History professors are supposed to travel and do research, aren’t they? Besides, wouldn’t it be more suspicious if she were going there during the semester when she was supposed to be teaching? This was on her free time.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Ginter answered, trying to diffuse the rising tension. “Maybe you’re not the only one who’s jumpy.”

DeVere nodded. “So, you’re O.K. with her plan?”

“Hey, I have the coordinates. September first. Eight oh eight from the lab. I’ll be ready to go. The money’s printed. You going to keep it here?”

DeVere shook his head. “Valerie might find it. I’ll keep it in my trunk under the spare. That way it’ll always be with me. Besides,” he added with a smirk, “my car is more reliable than yours.”

“Wait for the new timing chain. This thing can really move.” Ginter appeared relieved at the lighter turn in the conversation.

“Hutch knows not to put anything on her computer, right? You’ve talked to her?”

DeVere nodded. “I’ve told her they can hack into MIT. The history stuff is on her personal laptop that’s not on the MIT line. Nothing suspicious about a history prof with historical research, is there? Do you have the communicators?”

“Radios. They were called radios back then. Everything is all set. I’ll keep them in the Lynn garage. A month from today,” Ginter added. “We’ll be ready to go.”

DeVere looked at his house. Through the slider he could see Valerie sitting at the kitchen table, her back to him, talking on the corded telephone. He reacted with a start when Grace moved into view, spoke quickly to her mother, and then moved away.

“Why the face?” Ginter asked.

DeVere hesitated. He shifted and looked Ginter straight in the eye.

“You realize, of course, that this is a suicide mission?”

Ginter squinted in the sunlight. “Suicide? Hell, if you want we’ll let our Portland friend look around, get the O.K. from the Descendants, get more money, buy more fuel, and then I, not you, will go back on a test run. Just send me somewhere where they have lottery tickets.”

DeVere didn’t smile. “That’s not what I mean. Although I think we should do exactly that. Without the lottery tickets. No, I meant we are on a suicide mission either way. If we go back and are successful, we’ll be destroying ourselves. We might as well strap on a bomb and blow ourselves up on some train. We change one thing in history and everything changes. We convince Kennedy to invade Cuba, American soldiers die. Cubans die. They won’t live to have children. Their children won’t have children. If we stay and fight in Southeast Asia people will die there, in South America, in Europe. And not just in the Balkans. Maybe my parents never meet, or never marry, or don’t have sex the night I was conceived. Maybe they have kids, just not me. Maybe Peter lives. Multiply that by a million permutations. You and I and Amanda could all come back from 1962 and we could end up back here corporeally and all but there won’t be any Paul deVere, Lewis Ginter or Amanda Hutch.”

His lip trembled. “There may not be any Valerie deVere or”—he hesitated a moment—“Grace deVere.”

Lewis Ginter didn’t respond. He too looked up the hill and watched Valerie continue her animated telephone discussion.

“Can I kill them all?” deVere asked. “It’s not just me but what about them? What right do we have to—?”

“Kill someone who will never be born?” Ginter finished.

“But what happens to them?” deVere continued. “What happens to all these people who no longer exist? Who will never be conceived, sure, but they exist now. Heck, that house may not even exist. There may be a strip mall here. We’ll reappear at MIT where no one will have heard of Lewis Ginter or Paul deVere. Assuming there even is still an MIT. What if, in the world we create, things are worse—nuclear holocaust, ecological disaster? We could be non-persons in a different world. Drifters. Homeless people in a world we won’t know. If we are successful we may be on a suicide mission. For what? To stop the East from taking over? To prevent most of the United States from becoming Red? What lives will be left? Where’s our reward for destroying everything we know? In heaven?”

Lewis Ginter remained quiet on the bench, his eyes focusing on the woods at the rear of the clearing.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Ginter began. “We don’t know whether changing history changes life forces. David theorized that life forces were static, that there would always be a Paul deVere or Lewis Ginter, maybe in just a different form or with another name…”

DeVere grunted.

“But hey,” Ginter continued, “you might be right. Look, I don’t want to sound corny or trite but there is never success without sacrifice, and sometimes that sacrifice is the ultimate one. People die in every military operation, but that doesn’t make the operations unjust.”

“Tell that to the dead, their families and friends.”

“Yeah, well, what do we do that doesn’t have consequences? If 100,000 cars are built in Detroit we know that a certain number of people will be killed by them. Yet we still build them.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” Ginter asked. “Why?”

DeVere waved him off. “You’re being pedantic. It’s real people we’re talking about. Although, who knows, maybe we’ll go back and find out that we can’t interact with the physical world, we’ll just float around in a different plane unable to affect anything. Like the souls Jacob Marley describes to Scrooge,” he added with a wry chuckle.

Ginter nodded. “I’ve thought of that. There is a test we could run if we get the money. We could build a canister with a spring loaded robot arm—a sort of catapult attached to it. We could load the arm with a biodegradable object, like an apple. We could send the canister back to the middle of nowhere for two hours, and make sure that the spring is powerful enough to launch the apple beyond the mouth of the wormhole one hour after arrival. When the canister comes back without the apple, we know that quantum mechanics exists in the time travel realm and that the traveler will be able to interact with the physical world of the past. We make the object to be tossed biodegradable to minimize the risk of the object itself somehow affecting anything. Send it back to a desert or whatever.”

“Not bad,” deVere agreed, suddenly intrigued. “Why not ice? Prevents the possibility of an apple starting a forest in the middle of a desert and changing the environment.”

“I thought of ice. But if the canister comes back without ice how do we know the ice didn’t just melt in the wormhole?”

DeVere nodded and pursed his lips. “O.K.,” he said. “How about two cubes? Right next to each other? One on the catapult and one in a net of some sort attached to the canister. Find a smaller window of time and bring the canister back. If the netted cube is still there and the other one is not, then the catapult worked.”

Ginter nodded. “Even better.”

“But not perfect,” deVere said. “The problem is that launching an ice cube, or anything else, does not prove that whatever goes back can necessarily interact. It might still just hover in suspended animation outside the mouth of the wormhole. The launch might be successful but it might just be a launch along its own plane.”

“And you don’t think that the canister we sent to the Concord Bridge disproves that?”

“Actually, I don’t,” deVere said. “The chronometer was solid when I picked it up. But what was it for that year when originally it had not been there? Was it physically present? Physicists have argued this one for years. We have to find out before we risk people.”

“So, we need to send back a canister that can interact with the past by bringing something back.”

DeVere nodded.

“A drill bit,” Ginter said. “Sent to the middle of our favorite desert and scoop up some identifiable sand.”

DeVere nodded again. “Not a bad idea.”

Ginter let out a low chuckle. “You’re right. Of course. We do need to do more experiments.”

“Which means we need to contact this Pam woman and let her see what we’re doing.”

Ginter shook his head. “I don’t like that. I don’t know her. She was a friend of Pomeroy’s and he’s disappeared. I have no contacts in Portland. Don’t even like the town.”

“Can we scam her?” deVere asked. “Show her something else?”

“She knows it’s at MIT.”

“Well, can we show her the lab but tell her the Accelechron is something else?” DeVere was desperate.

“I have an idea.” Ginter reached for his cell phone, laid it on the picnic table, and began fishing through his wallet. He located a slip of paper and picked up his phone. He studied the slip and began punching numbers.

“You’re going to call her on an open cell phone?” deVere asked.

“What do you think? I’m supposed to leave a note for her in a secret location at midnight? Don’t be corny. I’ll be discreet.”

DeVere sighed. “I’d think you’d be better organized with women’s phone numbers, given your proclivity to collect them.”

Ginter grinned. He looked at the phone, frowned, and walked up the hill toward the house.

“The reception is only slightly better up there,” deVere called out after him. “At least you don’t have her on speed dial.”

“I’m actually calling Lorrie to set it up with her and Eckleburg,” Ginter said as he walked toward the garage.

As Ginter moved up the slope deVere looked back at his house. Valerie had disappeared from view and the kitchen was empty. He turned back to the woods, stood up, and sat on the table. He raised his face and let the sun’s rays warm his skin. If all went well, in one month he, Lewis and Amanda would be plunging back to the past to change things. And maybe to destroy everything they knew. They would be creating a new world, a different world. For a moment he thought of his grandfather, and his grandfather’s overwhelming faith. His grandfather had believed in God, and Paul wondered whether he should also. Genesis. That was the story of the creation. Of course he had studied it in religion classes in college. Was that what he was doing now, creating a brand new world? A brave new world? If they succeeded, only he, Lewis and Amanda would remember the old one.

It’s not a bad life here. I have a nice home, a nice position, a great daughter; I’m respected and liked by my students. Heck, even Arnold leaves me alone. The squishers don’t harass me. What right do I have to smash up everything? Just to save one person?

Paul deVere looked up at his house again. What right, indeed?

Ginter walked back down the hill, slamming the antenna back into his cell.

“It’s all set. Lorrie says Pam can’t get down here again until next weekend. She’s busy at work.”

DeVere grunted. “Work?”

“Her real job. Insurance something. We all have real jobs, remember?”

“So, when?”

“Next Saturday night. Pam’s coming down to see Lorrie on Friday. They’ve filed a formal request with the Boston administrator to see Pomeroy and she’ll be meeting with a lawyer first, and then with someone in the Administrator’s Office. She’ll be spending the weekend at Lorrie’s so we set it up for Saturday night.”

“You mean next Saturday?” deVere asked. “The eighth?”

“Yeah, why? You got plans? I figured I’d just do it myself.”

“Next weekend the Mets are in town. You and I are going to the game Saturday night.”

Ginter stopped in his tracks. “Shit!” he exclaimed. “I forgot. Hey, maybe we can do this with Pam late in the afternoon and still get to the park by 7:00. If we do it before dinner she’ll be hungry and I’m sure she and Lorrie have dinner plans. Besides, if they’re meeting with a lawyer she may be stressed and not focusing on what I’m going to be showing her.”

“Which is?” deVere asked warily.

“Which is,“ Ginter answered, “not a time machine.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“No,” Ginter said. “Probably not.”

DeVere frowned. “Look, just give the tickets to Nigel. This is too important to screw up. We need the O.K. from Lorrie and she needs it from Pam. It’s going to be tight to get the additional tests in by September first. Besides,” deVere added, “Nigel can always take our favorite CA agent to the game and get her out of our hair.”

Ginter sat staring off at the tree line, slowly shaking his head.

“You O.K.?” deVere asked.

“We must be stupid,” Ginter answered disgustedly. “Or more likely, brain dead.” He turned back to deVere.

“How the hell are we going to design an interactive experiment with a drill bit? The return wormhole is just a safety valve. It will only return what we send through in the first place. The drill bit thing won’t work because only soil that went through the original wormhole can come back.”

Paul deVere took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. He stared off at the yard for several moments before he too shook his head and smiled.

“You’re right,” he said. “I guess we’re back to the spring loaded robot that fires an ice cube out of the projected diameter of the arrival wormhole. Which still isn’t a perfect experiment because it won’t categorically prove the existence of interactive planes, only that the laws of physics apply to whatever plane we end up on.”

“At least that problem won’t apply to us when we attempt to return. The DNA codes will allow all identically coded organic matter to pass through.”

DeVere agreed. “Hey, if we gain five pounds there we can still come back. We just have to remember to wear the same clothes or we’ll arrive back here buck naked.”

Now it was Ginter’s turn to smile. “Shall we remember to tell that to Dr. Hutch?”

From the driveway came the low rumbling of a diesel engine. “I think Triple A is here,” deVere said. He glanced at his watch. “That was quicker than usual.”

The pair stood up. “You must get better service here than in Boston,” Ginter said. They walked up the slope.

“This week,” Ginter said. “We’ll design that robot and do a few more tests. I want to fix the timing chain on the Roadrunner too.”

“I hope,” deVere said as the pair climbed up the hill, “that your design mechanics are better than your auto mechanics.”

A truck with “Bay State Towing” and “AAA” emblazoned across both doors sat backed in Paul’s driveway, the driver fumbling with paperwork while the diesel spewed fumes. Paul watched as the Plymouth was hauled onto the back of the carrier, Lewis climbed into the passenger seat, and the truck nosed out of the driveway and moved off.

When it disappeared around the corner Paul turned and walked back into his house. It was cool for the beginning of August and he gave an involuntary shudder as he stepped inside. Grace was sitting at the kitchen island staring at both a newspaper and a college catalogue that lay open in front of her.

“Where’s mom?” he asked.

“Computer room,” Grace answered without looking up. He was relieved to see that at least she wasn’t on that damn instant messenger again.

“Looking at a particular college?” he asked, opening the refrigerator. He reached for a beer but turned his hand at the last minute and grabbed a Tab.

“Maybe Brown,” she said. “Kim’s thinking of applying there.”

“Good school,” he said, pulling up the flip top. The drink fuzzed over and he quickly lifted the can to his lips.

“You should have come out to see Lewis’ car,” he called out toward the study off the front hallway.

“Yeah, right,” Grace snickered under her breath.

“You didn’t tell me Lewis was coming over,” Valerie called back from the study. “Is something going on at the school?”

“No, nothing,” Paul answered quickly. “We were just going over curriculum stuff for this fall.”

“I didn’t realize that the curriculum ever changed for physics,” Valerie answered dryly.

“Dumb one, dad,” Grace said in a low voice. “You gotta’ do better than that.”

Paul ignored the sarcasm. “Is the catalogue for Brown that interesting?” he asked.

“Actually, today’s Globe has a follow up story on that campus security officer who disappeared at the college. Yolanda Jackson.”

“His car’s pretty nice,” Paul called out. “You should have come out. He’s put a lot of work into it.”

“Apparently not enough,” Valerie called back.

“He thinks it’s the timing chain,” Paul said, trying to sound authoritative.

“The paper kind of hints that she may have been murdered,” Grace said.

He turned back to his daughter. “Murdered? I thought the District Police said she just took off. Had a lot of debts or something.”

“That’s what they said. But the Cambridge Police think she didn’t do that. She had two kids.”

“Kids?” Paul took a sip of his Tab and moved behind Grace’s shoulder. The newspaper was open to an inside page. “I don’t remember them saying anything about kids. I thought they said she wasn’t married.”

Grace rolled her eyes and clucked. “Dad!”

“Well, they didn’t mention a husband,” Paul said defensively as he stared down at a picture of a black man he estimated to be in his late thirties. “Who’s that?” he asked, pointing.

“Mr. Gardner didn’t seem real impressed,” Valerie called from the far room. “Look how trim he keeps his lawn while ours is now the longest in the neighborhood.”

“Dad prides himself on his length,” Grace called out and giggled.

“Grace!” Paul admonished, trying to sound stern, but he couldn’t help but smile also.

“It’s Luther Colvin,” Grace answered, ignoring his rebuke. “He’s the father of their kids. He has them now. The police suspected him at first but he had an airtight alibi. That’s when the District cops figured she had just taken off and closed their file. But the Globe kept digging into this story.”

“And why don’t the Cambridge police think she just took off?” Paul asked, suddenly intrigued.

“They found her patrol car,” Grace said. “Carol Rumsky of The Globe got the inventory list and Yolanda Jackson was an asthmatic. Her inhaler was found in the car. Rumsky figures there’s no way an asthmatic would have taken off and left that behind.”

“That’s it?” Paul asked. “One inhaler? Maybe she had another.”

Valerie appeared at the door, her face flushed. “You know, you two think it’s funny to make sexual references but I hope you don’t do that in public. And I don’t think it’s appropriate to do that with a teenage daughter.”

“I don’t have a teenage daughter,” Grace said standing up and grabbing the Brown catalogue. “So I guess it’s O.K. for me,” she said as she swept out of the room.

“You have any interest in going to a game this week?” Paul asked. “I can get tickets.”

“Not this week,” Valerie said coolly and opened a cabinet. “I’m kinda’ busy.”

Paul was tempted to ask with what but preferred to avoid an afternoon clash. “You used to like going,” he said lamely.

“Things were different then,” she said closing the cabinet rather loudly. “We didn’t have a child, remember?”

“It’s not like we need a babysitter for Grace,” he protested.

She turned on him. “Look, if you want to go, go with Lewis. I don’t care. You’re always hanging out with him anyway. Besides,” she added as she walked back toward the study, “the team used to be good. They stink now.”

Paul grimaced. When she had gone he leaned over, picked up the paper, and folded it back to the front page. A lot of things stink now that used to be good.

Chapter 13

“Okay, here’s the plan,” Paul said. It was Wednesday, August 5, 2026 and Lewis and Amanda sat around the Roadrunner in Lewis’ garage. Music played loudly.

“We’re going back September first.” He faltered, and momentarily Paul couldn’t continue. The finality of the moment hit him—he was going to step out into unknown space. The conservative, privileged, buttoned-down Paul deVere was about to become the most radical and unlikely of revolutionaries. A real fire-eater.

“We’ll come to the lab separately at 8 p.m. Timing is, of course, crucial. Lewis will enter the formulas to put us back exactly where we want to be, July 23, 1962. That time cannot be compromised. The window is open 38 minutes and 16 seconds at this end and 42 minutes and eleven seconds at the other. That’s almost a one to one ratio which is almost perfect.”

“Huh?” Amanda asked.

“A one to one ratio.” DeVere paused. “You know, one to one. Even.”

“No, I don’t know,” Amanda said. “Humor the ignorant. What are you talking about?”

Lewis stepped in. “Think of the wormhole as a tunnel. There is the mouth of the tunnel at this end, in what we think of as the present, and one at the other end, in the past. The wormhole’s openings have mouths and these mouths have sizes. But a wormhole is not three dimensional.”

“It’s not?” Amanda asked, looking at Paul with alarm. “Then how can we fit through it?”

“It’s actually four dimensional, so we can fit through it. Its dimensions are height, width, length and time,” Paul answered.

Amanda looked doubtful. “O.K. I understand it transports us through time but how is time a dimension of the wormhole?”

“The mouth of the wormhole at both ends is open for a fixed amount of time,” Ginter answered. “The departing wormhole on September 1 is open for 38 minutes. Since the temporal opening on July 23, 1962 is also open for about the same length of time, a little over 42 minutes, the ratio is almost one to one. Symmetrical wormhole openings. This means that if two people go through the wormhole at this end three minutes apart they would arrive in Central Park about three minutes apart. The person who went through three minutes earlier at this end would arrive three minutes earlier at that end.

“But let’s say that we have a 10 minute window at this end and a 20 minute window at the other. Then the ratio is one to two. So if someone left here three minutes after the first person he or she would arrive at the other end six minutes after the first person. The two wormhole openings in time are stretched out to meet each other so someone leaving at the beginning of the wormhole here arrives at the beginning of the wormhole there. Someone leaving at the end of the window here arrives at the end of the window there.”

“I think I see,” Amanda answered slowly. “Does that apply to the return also?”

Ginter shook his head. “The contrapositive wormhole is the universe’s safety valve. All returning objects arrive back here at the same instant.”

“Regardless of when they left,” deVere added.

“O.K.,” Amanda said slowly. “So, go on.”

Paul looked at Amanda, wondering if she had that sense of no return that he was experiencing, if she were as worried as he was. But her eyes seemed to betray only interest, and determination, and, as she looked at him, also admiration. Of him. Of what he was doing, of how he was leading them.

He continued. “Lewis will bring the communicators. Virtual coast-to-coast scrambled range and energy packs that will last years. Of course no satellite hook-ups but they’ll suffice. I’ll have the cash. It’s hidden in my car. Amanda will bring three laptops that we’ll load with scanned newspapers—New York Times and the Washington Post. How is that coming, Amanda?”

“Almost done. I’ve got about three quarters of 1962 loaded. I’ll keep the laptops in my campus office. The information on them won’t raise any suspicions since this is my field. I printed a hard copy of Kennedy’s daily itinerary from when he took office in ‘61 until the end of 1964 after the withdrawal from Vietnam. It includes all the Cuba stuff too. It’s a daily log of where he went, how he got there, and who he met with that day. Before we go back I want to learn more about the people he met with and when he met with them concerning Cuba and Vietnam, including anyone he’ll meet with after we return back here.”

Ginter nodded. “We’ll each have a little over fifty thousand United States dollars and a New York State driver’s license. That was the only identification anyone needed back then. Paul will keep the licenses with the cash. There were no photos on them. I used our same names and birthdays but subtracted 64 years from our years of birth. We’ll have to remember our new birth years in case we are challenged but at least the month and day will remain the same.”

The other two nodded. Ginter continued. “Three printers, each with two batteries and three re-chargers which will work fine with the electrical current back then. Anything else we need we can buy once we get there.”

DeVere studied the faces of his two compatriots. He looked from Lewis to Amanda and saw nothing but determination.

“All right, Amanda will once again outline the plan. Also, I guess you have some cultural and historical stuff for us consistent with our new years of birth. Then Lewis can cover the operational aspects.”

Ginter put his hand on Paul’s shoulder. “We’re doing it. We’re really doing it.”

Paul swallowed. “We are.”

Lewis reached over and switched the song to The Animals’ “House of the Rising Sun” and cranked up the volume a notch. “Just to get you all in the right time frame,” he explained.

Amanda sighed before she began her briefing. “You’re off by a few years,” she groused as she began explaining.

Igor’s airplane touched down at Logan Airport at 2:30 on Saturday, August 8, 2026. “Thank you Mr. Adams,” the stewardess chirped as he left first class.

Igor nodded. They don’t call it the Russian Upgrade for nothing, he thought as he glanced at his boarding pass, over which he had simply scribbled with his pen “1A.” In the old days, any agent above the rank of… but these weren’t the old days.

Of course it wouldn’t do to call Natasha and tell her he was finally in town. A five-hour delay in arriving wasn’t half bad now-a-days. Not bad at all. He had called Natasha from the Yeltsengrad Airport when the delay had reached three hours. She suggested that he take a cab as she had afternoon lab responsibilities.

He gathered his bags and hailed a cab. As he was driven past Petrovyards he scoffed at the notion that these simple people could so love an athletic team that had only won two World Championships since the Bolshevik Revolution.

Natasha returned to her Charles River apartment to see Igor with his feet up on her desk, his IM2 laptop plugged into her MIT line.

“Igor. What a surprise.”

“Evidently. However, I note that you didn’t say ‘pleasant.’ I also see that you haven’t been sitting by the phone waiting for my call from the airport. I’d hoped you were out buying some proper vodka.” He swirled a glass. “I had no idea this is such a hardship post that you cannot find any.”

“Nobody here can tell the difference, and with what the Agency pays there’s no point.”

“Right, you’re the wine connoisseur. Being a wine connoisseur in Soviet America is much like being a snow expert in the Sahara.”

“What are you doing on my MIT line? It’s monitored, you know.”

“Not anymore,” Igor said, smirking. “You underestimate us, my dear. I’m downloading Amanda Hutch’s personal computer files.”

“I assume you have authority to do that? Not being the agent on the scene?” she asked carefully.

Igor laughed caustically. “Don’t be timid! When I break this little plot I’ll have all the authority I want.”

Natasha shrugged. “It’s your career.” She sat down on the couch. “Can’t the Agency spring for a new IM3 for one of their top supervisors?”

“I’m used to this one. Interesting society,” he said, standing up and observing the scene along the Charles River. “Far too much freedom, wouldn’t you say? I’d love to put all this under direct Soviet leadership.”

“Misery loves company,” Natasha said, sotto voce.

“Excuse me?”

“I said you certainly make pleasant company,” Natasha said, standing up and reaching up in her cabinet and pouring a drink. “By the way, I keep the good vodka here in this bottle marked “Distilled Water.”

“Why is that?”

“Tends to last longer,” she answered, nodding toward his glass. “So, you never said why you were coming to Boston?”

“Judging from your reports, I feel Dr. Hutch is the key to this whole… problem. So I thought I would take a peek and see what I can see.”

“Good God, you’re downloading her whole hard drive?”

“Only the interesting parts.”

“I could’ve saved you the trouble. They’re planning on going back September first,” she said as she turned and searched in her cupboard.

“September first? That’s 24 days! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“From the MIT lab. I don’t know what time, though.”

“And do what?”

“Change history. They’re going back to 1962 I believe.”

“And how do you know this?” Igor asked carefully.

Natasha shrugged. “Detective work. On site snooping. But I don’t know what time on the first they are planning on going.”

“So that’s our next mission, finding the time,” Igor said, turning back toward Natasha. His laptop started beeping.

“Downloading complete.” He punched a few buttons and unplugged from the MIT line. He connected to Natasha’s regular phone line and hit a few more buttons.

“There we are. In a few hours everything will be decoded and we’ll know a lot more about this plan.”

Natasha went into her bedroom, locked the door behind her, and changed out of her dress. She put on jeans and sneakers. By the time she had come out Igor had poured a glass of the good vodka and was sitting on the sofa. She took the overstuffed chair opposite him.

“Which leaves us more time for the interesting conversations,” he said, patting the sofa beside him. “I must say you’re looking unusually lovely, Natasha.”

Natasha looked at him and grinned, shaking her head.

“Sorry, Igor. It’s time for good girls to get their work done.”

“I can wait,” he said.

“It will be a very long wait.”

“Oh, all right,” he said. He took a deep swig from his glass and stood up. “But you don’t know what you’re missing.”

“It’s mystery that makes life worth living.”

He closed his IM2, disconnected the line, and put the laptop in its case. “Some mysteries are to be explored.”

“Some aren’t,” she said.

He smiled. “I’m at the Copley. Call if there’s anything.”

“Copley? I will.”

He walked to the door, opened it, and turned to Natasha. “But if it might get dangerous, it might be better if we’re together, don’t you think?”

“Good night, Comrade.”

“Right.”

Natasha closed the door and he left. Just maybe, Comrade Rostov, we may be together sooner than you think.

Ginter slid into his usual seat at The Marbury. “Hey Lew,” the bartender said, pulling a draft and sliding it down the bar to Ginter’s stool.”

“Malcolm, my man, what’s the action tonight?”

“Pretty good. How’s academia?”

“Can’t complain.”

“But you still do,” Malcolm said. They chuckled. “Going to the game tonight? You’re a Mets fan, aren’t you?”

“Nah, gave away tonight’s tickets to a Limey. Have to work.”

When Malcolm looked quizzical Lewis added, “Grant applications due.”

Malcolm nodded as if he understood and moved down the bar.

Lewis took a sip of his beer and looked through the front plate glass window at Madison’s, the rival bar populated by the Harvard crowd. Each bar claimed individual identity and ambiance but Lewis realized that when you boiled it down, the two were really the same.

It simply was the way it was now, distinctions without a difference. I wonder, he thought as he sat alone, whether I will make a difference. Maybe Paul was right, maybe the cost of trying to make a difference was too high. Lewis Ginter thought of his own cost, thought of how he was going to have to lie to a number of people, and wondered if all his lies would be worth it in the end.

The bartender sidled back. “You look down, Professor. Must be some huge project.”

Lewis changed the subject.

“So, who’s hot and who’s not?”

Malcolm took a step back and shot Lewis a quizzical look. “I thought you were expecting her.” He nodded at a booth along the wall. “She’s been asking for you. Came in about an hour ago.”

Ginter looked back quickly at the booth, frowned, and checked his watch. “She’s early,” he muttered to himself. “If I had known she’d be early we still might have caught the game.” He nodded to Malcolm. “Thanks, man.” He lifted his beer and walked over to the booth.

She smiled as he approached. Her hair was now auburn.

“I thought you were going to ignore me,” Pamela Rhodes said as he slid in opposite her.

“I thought I said 5:00,” he said without smiling back.

She smiled again—was it shyly or mischievously?—and didn’t respond.

“You’re good,” he said. “You knew it was for 5:00 but figured you’d come here early and scope it out.”

“One can never be too careful,” she said.

“So, careful one, what are you drinking?”

“Sparkling water. I don’t drink alcohol.”

“Strike one,” he mused aloud.

“For me or for you?”

Lewis sucked in a deep breath and ignored the retort. “How’d your meeting go yesterday with the civil admin? Were they real sympathetic?”

“Oh, the usual. I spoke with some flunky who acted nervous and who checked through all kinds of paperwork and then claimed that he had no record of any Arthur Pomeroy being arrested and couldn’t it have been the District police and was he a drug smuggler or could he have been nabbed by a rival gang? That sort of shit. They’ll look into it,” she said and shrugged.

“So, you ready to show me this thing at the school or are you gonna’ drink all night?” she asked, changing the subject.

Lewis hesitated and checked his watch. “Why don’t we head over to my place? We can be there in about 20 minutes.”

She gave him a hard look. “I’m not that naive.”

“I’m serious,” Ginter said. “The schematics are in my apartment and you’ll need to see them first. We’re gonna’ be pretty limited in the amount of time we can spend in the lab and there’s no sense wasting valuable time there pouring over diagrams that I don’t keep there anyway.”

She hesitated. “All right,” she said cautiously. “Your place first and then the lab.”

Ginter stood up and Pamela Rhodes slid out from her seat. He let her go ahead of him. As they passed the bar Malcolm looked up, eyed the couple, and flashed Ginter the thumbs up sign. Lewis smiled, shook his head at Malcolm, and waved him off.

Amanda started driving to Chow Baby, a small Italian restaurant in Boston’s north end. However, as she wended her way under the Route 93 overpass—when would the Big Dig ever be ready?—every nerve in her body told her to go home instead, get a good night’s sleep and get a fresh start tomorrow.

Sighing, she gave in to her better angels, and over her tired body’s strenuous objections, swung her car around and headed back to her apartment.

All right, I’m here to crash out. Can’t a girl at least play a game of chess to relax? Well, one game, her conscience said.

She clicked on her chess program and chose white. The board appeared on her computer screen. “E2-E4,” she typed in. The board instantly responded with “E7-E5” and moved the black pawn.

In some ways she felt so alone. She had thought that being single at age 53 would make this easier, that she wouldn’t have any trepidation. What did she have to lose if her molecules ended up strewn over… what exactly, history? But now, just twenty-four days from departure she suddenly wished she weren’t so damn alone.

“F1-C4,” she typed. Might as well be whimsical, she told herself. Jolly me out of this mood.

“D7-D6,” the computer responded.

The cold hand she had been feeling in her stomach tightened its icy grip. There were so many things that could go wrong.

“D1-F3,” she typed slowly, her eyes fixed on the screen in front of her. She sometimes wished that someone could invent a computer where one could actually point at the screen and affect changes. But that was science fiction. Not unlike her own planned science fiction adventure.

Black responded, “B7-B5.”

It can’t be real, she thought. The whole thing is crazy and just can’t be. Trembling, she slowly typed in, “F3-F7,” and held her breath until the computer flashed, “Congratulations! You have checkmated me in four moves.” Amanda never saw the end of the message. By the time it had flashed she had already wrenched her telephone receiver off the wall and was desperately punching numbers as she mumbled, “Fool’s Checkmate, Good God, no,” under her breath.

“I said NOW, goddamnit,” Amanda Hutch shouted into the phone as she wove through traffic back toward MIT. “The program was tripped, Lewis, for God’s sake. There’s no way I beat a level seven in four fucking moves! It’s set to default to a kindergarten chess level if any unauthorized user downloads any Intervention files, even if they reset every one of the trips. You tell me if that’s a goddamn emergency or not!”

“O.K., O.K., Amanda, don’t blow a gasket. But what do you mean by ‘Intervention files?’ What the hell is anything doing stored on your hard drive? I told you, floppy disks only.”

Amanda heard a female voice ask in an alarming voice, “What’s happening?”

“Oh for… Lewis, get out of bed and get over here immediately. Clothes optional.”

“Hang on a sec, willya’?” Lewis said. He covered the phone for a few seconds and then said, “All right, we’ll be right over.”

“We’ll?’ What the hell do you mean ‘we’ll?” Amanda slammed her phone down when she realized that Lewis had already hung up.

“Shit!” She said as she swerved around a Chevy wagon pulling out in front of her, and leaned on her horn. “Shit, shit, shit!” DeVere should still be in the area, she prayed, and hopefully she could raise him on his cell, security risk or no. What did that matter now? But there was no way Lewis would have time to get to Lynn to get anything else. The communicators would be lost. Amanda wondered just how valuable they would be. She checked her watch. She should be at the lab in seven minutes. Ginter lived close enough. Amanda figured five minutes to get ready, 15 minutes to travel. Not much time, especially if whoever had downloaded the files was acting fast.

When the traffic in front of her cleared, she began punching numbers into her cell again.

At his room at the Copley Igor’s cell phone beeped. He clicked it on. “Yes?”

“Igor,” Natasha said. “Where are you?”

“At the Copley. I told you that. Getting lonely?”

“We’ve got to get to the lab.”

“What? Look, Natasha, if this is your way of playing coy—”

“They’re going back in that time machine tonight.”

“They—don’t be stupid, Comrade.”

“You tripped some sort of alarm when you downloaded Hutch’s files. They’re on to you. They’re dashing to the lab right now. Let me call Petrovchenko from here and get us some help.”

“No!” Igor screamed.

“What? Listen, Igor, they’re about to go and—”

“We can handle this ourselves.”

Natasha paused a moment and considered. “Igor.”

“Yeah?”

“You didn’t have authority to hack directly into the MIT line, did you? An IM2 can’t reset trips, can it?”

When there was no response Natasha continued hurriedly, “It doesn’t matter. It’s my ass too. I let you do it from my apartment. We’ve got to stop them. No matter how.”

She took a deep breath. “Bring the red backpack. You must have brought it. It may be the only way if they’re too far ahead of us in the building.”

Natasha counted the seconds until Igor responded. “Excellent thinking, Comrade Nikitin.”

Natasha breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m on my way.”

She clicked the phone off. Good thing I’m already dressed, she told herself. One useful thing they’d taught her at the Agency was to keep a bag packed at all times.

She grabbed the bag, snatched the Subaru’s keys from the table and headed out the door. She heard footsteps rattling on the stairs above her—two sets of footsteps, a man and woman. The man was talking urgently, the woman protesting.

She raced down the iron stairs and burst into the building’s parking garage. She’d only been living in the building, what, six days? She searched frantically until she saw the gleaming yellow fender against the far wall. As she dashed across the floor she heard the metal door slam behind her and turned to see the two people—Ginter and a woman—rushing to the far corner of the garage. Who was the woman? she wondered as she paused at the Subaru’s door. Natasha watched as Ginter pushed the woman into what appeared to be an antique car of some sort. He seemed to be in a terrible rush to get the woman in and get on his way… to the lab. Of course. They knew. They must all know by now. Hutch would have called them all.

She whirled and ducked into the Subaru. She thrust her key into the ignition. In the six days she had possessed the car she hadn’t had time to reset the retinal scan starter and so she turned the key hoping, as she always did, that the quaint starting mechanism would work. It did and she relaxed a bit upon hearing the throaty roar. She shot a glance at Ginter’s midnight blue antique with the shiny metallic finish. She smirked as she heard Ginter desperately crank the starter.

She threw the Subaru into reverse and backed out and around, pointing toward the exit. She was much closer to it and Ginter still hadn’t gotten his car started. She put her car into drive, and then reached down and fastened her lap and shoulder belt. Easing off the brake she marveled as the computer-controlled accelerator eased her effortlessly toward the exit. The gate was up and she barely slowed as she turned left out of the garage and then spun another quick left at the corner and coasted up to Commonwealth Avenue.

At the light she smiled to herself. She had taken that last corner at 45 km/hour without slowing and the Subaru had barely swayed. It was indeed a nice car.

When the light turned green she turned right on to Comm Ave., as the locals called it, and purposely chirped the tires. With her ID no District cop would dare give her a ticket. She let the smooth acceleration push her back into the seat. The people in Vodkaville don’t know what they’re missing.

As she slid the WRX into the passing lane heading east on Storrow Drive, she first noticed it in her left side mirror. It was about a quarter of a mile back and its large rear airfoil was unmistakable. She checked her speedometer: 85 km. She frowned and pressed down on the accelerator. The WRX jumped to 95 without a murmur. She guided her car back into the right lane. At the Deerneck exchange bend, she cruised by a Saab turbo. As she approached the MIT boathouse she checked again. The Roadrunner had closed the gap to less than 300 yards.

“No way,” she muttered to herself. She eased up on the gas as she overtook a delivery truck, waited for a break in the left lane, and then deftly looped out and back in before taking the Subaru up to over 100. Nearing the BU Bridge turnoff, she again checked the rearview mirror and gasped when she saw the hulking midnight blue Roadrunner barely 100 yards behind.

“Let’s see how you do in town,” she muttered, and dragged her brakes as she decelerated into the BU traffic circle. She slowed momentarily to gain the circle, and then cruised the 270-degree turn at close to 80. Coming out of the turn she was about to accelerate across the bridge but was delayed by a minivan in the right lane and a rusting pick-up in the left. Halfway across the river she darted hard into the breakdown lane and passed the minivan on the right, cutting back in front of the Jersey barriers that protected a parked utility truck.

Natasha glanced down at the sailboats out of the Cambridge boathouse that plied the waters beneath her. So tranquil, she thought. Little do they know.

In the rear view mirror she saw that the Roadrunner had passed the pick-up and was gaining on her still.

Damn! What is this thing? She couldn’t accelerate beyond the 75 she was now doing as the Charles Street turnoff was approaching quickly. For the first time since she left her apartment, she began to feel uncertain. How the hell is an antique American piece of shit keeping up with me?

She kept her speed up as long as she could before slamming on her brakes just before the Charles Street diagonal turnoff and pulling her joystick hard to the right. The computer-controlled brakes tightened harder on the right wheels and the car slid easily into the turn. She came out of the turn in the left lane and again checked her mirror. The Roadrunner was gone. With a momentary panic she checked the passenger side mirror. There was no car in sight. She smiled smugly and let her shoulders relax.

After a few moments she leaned forward to activate the car’s stereo system. As she touched the power button she heard a deep rumbling gurgle. For a split second she thought that something was wrong with the stereo, or even worse, with the Subaru itself. In a panic she scanned her gauges, but the WRX was humming perfectly. Then, out of the corner of her right eye she saw the midnight blue hood with the gigantic scoop slowly pull alongside her.

Natasha swore loudly. No way. The Plymouth had been in her blind spot in the turn and was now pulling even. Even as she slammed her right foot to the floor and felt the Subaru’s computer generated downshift kick in she saw the Plymouth visibly jerk as Ginter manually downshifted from fourth to second gear. Hah! Too low! she thought triumphantly of Ginter’s move, but the Superbird’s rear end crouched low and the muscle car inched ahead of her. Then in one wrenching motion she felt, rather than saw, Ginter shift up to third and pop the clutch. There was a squeal of tires, the Plymouth momentarily swerved left with the torque, and then, in a swirl of blue smoke from the screeching rear tires, the Plymouth surged ahead of the Subaru and swung hard in front of it. Ginter downshifted again forcing Natasha to again brake—no time to swerve to the right—and in a moment Ginter was back in third gear, the mammoth hood scoop was sucking in all the air that Cambridge had to offer, and the antique was roaring away from her.

In a matter of seconds Ginter had slammed on his brakes and skidded into the Astrophysics parking lot by smashing through the wooden gate. Natasha had no choice but to follow him in, clearly in second place. At the granite pillars at the mouth of the main entrance’s walkway the Plymouth jerked to an abrupt stop. Ginter and the woman fled from the car leaving both doors open as they raced across the plaza.

Natasha was blocked. She skidded up alongside the Roadrunner and watched helplessly. The pair ducked inside the building and pulled the main door shut after them.

Natasha slammed her hand on the Subaru’s joystick. She knew that once inside Ginter would immediately change the codes. She’d have to wait.

A yellow cab pulled into the parking lot and slowly circled to where she was parked. When the taxi stopped, Igor Rostov exited from the rear seat and paid the driver, all the while looking over at Natasha curiously.

“I trust you have some explanation, Comrade,” he began in an officious tone as he approached.

Natasha’s eyes moved to the pack slung over his right shoulder. “Ginter and some woman are already inside.”

“Ginter? Some woman? Who is she?” Rostov asked.

Natasha reached over and shut off the engine. She flung open her door and got out.

“I don’t know,” she said disgustedly. “Probably some tart he picked up.” She grabbed her bag off the seat and strode toward the building. Rostov followed along behind.

As she expected her card didn’t work—the door wouldn’t open. She pulled angrily at the latch and swore softly. Behind her she heard, “I can open it!”

Rostov whipped a card out of his pocket. He waved it in front of the scanner. The doors clicked open and they raced into the lobby.

“Where’s the lab?” he demanded.

“Elevators are here, if he hasn’t disabled them… shit,” Natasha said, jabbing her finger at the button with no response. “Stairs are over there.”

“What floor is it on?”

“Twenty-first.”

Rostov groaned, turned, and ran after Natasha.

“This is too heavy to carry,” he said, shifting the pack.

“Wimp, you can’t leave it in the goddamn lobby. We may need it. Bring it.”

Amanda met Paul deVere at the door of the lab. “You made it O.K.?” she asked, smiling wanly.

“I hope this works,” Paul said, hurrying past her. “That’s all I can say. Where’s Lewis?”

“He should be here by now,” Amanda answered. “There, that car… oh no. Who’s that woman?”

Paul looked out the window. “That’s Natasha, the intern. What’s she doing, following him?”

“Not her. That woman!” Amanda said, pointing at the woman Lewis was running with to the door.

Paul looked back out. “I can’t believe he brought her. It must be that woman from the Descendants. Today was their meeting.”

Together they watched as a cab pulled up, a man emerged and began engaging in animated conversation with Natasha.

“Who’s that guy and what’s he got?” Amanda asked.

“They can’t get in if Lewis remembered to scramble the codes when he came in,” Paul said. They watched as Natasha rattled the doors in vain, but recoiled when the man opened them.

“Whoever that guy is, he’s good,” Paul said. “Come on, Lewis.”

“Can we go back tonight?” Amanda asked anxiously. “Before that guy gets upstairs?”

Paul didn’t look at her. “We can try. But our wormhole doesn’t open until September first. Lewis will have to find another one.”

The elevator opened behind them and Ginter and a woman tumbled out.

“What is this all about?” she whined, but stopped when she saw Amanda and Paul. “Oh,” she said brushing back her tousled bangs with one hand. “Hello.”

They ignored her. “Lewis, what the hell is this?” Amanda barked.

Ginter took a moment to compose himself. “This is Pamela. From Portland, Maine.”

“Lewis.”

Ginter ignored her. “What the hell is going on? And why was Nikitin racing me here?”

“They’re on to us,” Amanda panted. “We’ve got to go back tonight.”

Ginter turned to deVere. “What happened?”

Paul deVere appeared not to hear. Instead, he stared nervously down the hallway.

“I changed the front door code and disabled the elevators,” Ginter said, following deVere’s gaze. “They’ll have to walk up 20 flights. Now, what the hell is she talking about?”

“Apparently it’s so. Amanda says that they hacked into her computer and know we’re going back. We’ve got to go back now.”

“Go back now?” Ginter was incredulous. “Are you crazy? What about all the tests you want done?”

DeVere cut him off. “There’s no time. I’ve opened up the search mode at your terminal and turned on the Accelechron. I know we don’t have the original wormhole but we’ve got to find the closest one and just go. If we stay here we’re cooked.”

DeVere pointed to the terminal in the lab.

Ginter walked over to it. “You’re all crazy. It took hours to find the wormhole to 1962. We don’t have hours.”

“You were being careful not to get caught. We don’t have time for caution now. We’ve got to just go. Do it.”

Lewis Ginter sat at his terminal and began entering data. Paul deVere leaned over his shoulder.

“Where to?” Ginter asked no one in particular. Amanda stood with her eyes riveted on the front door of the lab. Pamela Rhodes appeared dazed as she wandered around the room, apparently unable to comprehend what was happening.

“A park,” deVere said. “You said a park was a safe place to arrive in. A nice city park. And let’s get anywhere in the old U.S. in 1962. Try to find someplace one of us will recognize.”

“A park it is,” Ginter answered without looking up as he kept typing.

Natasha let Rostov lead the way up the stairs. She reached into the side compartment of her shoulder bag and brought out a .38 snub nosed revolver. With practiced hands she opened the barrel and checked the cylinder. She reached into the zippered compartment in her purse and pulled out cartridges. She slid them into the open cylinder and snapped the revolver shut.

“Give it to me,” Rostov panted, holding out his hand.

Natasha hesitated only a moment before handing over the revolver. Rostov slipped it into his belt.

At floor ten Rostov started to tire. “Should’ve kept up with the physical fitness recommendations,” he said, pausing to bend over and grab his knees.

“You need energy pills,” Natasha said. She popped a capsule in her mouth, and gave Rostov thirty seconds to rest. “Let’s go.”

Rostov shook his head. “You go first.” She did, he followed, and they continued up.

“My briefcase! I left it in the hallway,” Amanda said.

Lewis slapped his head. “All right, be quick about it.”

Amanda poked her head out of the lab. She spied her briefcase over by the elevators where they’d been talking. She hurried over, grabbed it and whirled her head as she heard a door open. It wasn’t the lab door, she knew, that was already open. From behind her she heard Pamela say, “Oh, this is such a weird night, who are you?”

A Russian-accented man said, “Move.” When Amanda heard feet running in her direction it broke the spell and she dashed for the lab door, colliding with Natasha five feet from the entrance.

Amanda didn’t fall down, but Natasha did. Natasha sprang to her feet and said, “Dr. Hutch. Going somewhere?”

Natasha reached out and grabbed Amanda’s bare arm. Amanda swung her briefcase hard and felt it connect against the wall behind Natasha as she lunged for the lab door.

Amanda made it in and slammed the door shut. “Natasha… and… someone else,” she panted as she ran across the room. Both men stared at her, horrified expressions on their faces. “Come on guys, what are you waiting for?”

Paul just pointed. Amanda turned and looked to see a trail of paper wafting in her wake, then at the open briefcase in her hand. “Oh… my God… it sprung,” she whispered. She tossed the empty briefcase aside and dashed back to the door, bent over, and scooped a fistful of loose papers into her purse.

A boot thudded against the door. She heard Natasha yell, “The pass card, stupid, wave the card!”

She grabbed as much paper as she could and ran back into the lab, clutching Paul’s arm.

“Come on, Lewis,” she urged.

“I’m going as fast as I can,” he said, punching numbers on a keyboard connected to the mainframe at the side of the room. “It’s not that easy to find another one.”

The door beeped. Paul realized it was about to open. “Lewis, get us gone,” he said.

“I’ve got one wormhole going to 1967… 1966…”

“We need early ’62,” Amanda pleaded.

“This isn’t September first, remember? That wormhole isn’t open,” Paul said quietly. “Lewis…”

“I’se be tryin’ massa… 1965… 1964… damn these slow computers.”

The door flew open, and Paul and Amanda turned to see a man holding a snub nosed revolver in his right hand. His left arm was encircled around the throat of Pamela Rhodes.

“Move away from that terminal,” he commanded in a thick Russian accent.

“Who are you?” deVere demanded.

“I order you to get your hands away from that computer right now or I will shoot,” he said, training the revolver on Lewis Ginter.

“Nineteen sixty-three… September… getting warm… almost there,” Ginter said.

“Now, Lewis,” Paul said quietly. “Just hit enter. Open the damn hole.”

“But—”

“Doesn’t matter any more. Gotta’ go now.”

“All I’ve got is a 55 to one ratio,” Ginter protested.

“Do it,” deVere said quietly. He stepped toward the man, drawing his attention.

“Let the girl go,” he said quietly. “She’s not involved in this.”

The Russian shifted his grip to Pamela’s head and angled the gun directly against her temple. Paul stopped in his tracks.

“You must be Dr. deVere and you”—the man gestured at the computer from which Lewis had just pushed back his chair—“must be Lewis Ginter.”

“And who the hell are you?” deVere growled, moving to his right away from Lewis Ginter.

The man trained the revolver on deVere’s chest. “Do not continue, Professor.” He swung the revolver back at Ginter. “On your feet!” he commanded.

From out in the hallway deVere heard a sudden shrieking blare. He cast a stunned look back at Ginter.

“The fire alarm?” he asked dumbly.

Ginter rose to his feet with his hands in the air.

“What is it you want?” he asked the Russian.

The sequentially circuited alarm triggered throughout the building and the lab’s overhead horn sounded a shrill piercing blast.

“You set the building on fire?” deVere asked.

“Don’t be stupid,” the man responded, but deVere detected uncertainty in his voice. The man waved the gun to his left, motioning Ginter to move toward deVere.

Ginter held his ground, his arms still in the air. “If there’s a fire we better get out of here now. The elevators are disabled, as you no doubt noticed. Walking down 20 flights is going to take some time. Fire can spread quickly.”

The Russian took a step back, pulling Pamela Rhodes with him. Her face showed only calm. Good girl, deVere thought.

“Comrade!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Never mind the papers! Is there a fire?” He turned back to the pair. “You will come with me now. Down the stairs. We will get to the bottom of this.”

Ginter moved to his left, arms still upraised. As he came abreast of the Russian deVere stepped forward from the gunman’s left. The Russian started at the unexpected movement. The split second was all that Ginter needed. Pamela twisted and Ginter’s right arm crashed down on the Russian’s gun hand knocking it down and forward. The gun went off as deVere dove to the right and Pamela pushed at the gunman’s arm. A second arm chop by Ginter sent the revolver sliding across the floor. Before it had stopped Pamela had spun and hit the Russian straight on in the face with the flat palm of her hand. The Russian dropped and lay still. In a flash Amanda crossed the room to the entryway and slammed the lab door shut. She jammed a chair underneath the doorknob.

“That should hold her out. I don’t think she had a weapon,” Amanda said breathlessly.

DeVere moved over to the prostrate Russian. “We need something to tie him up with. Is there any rope?”

“There’s no time,” Ginter shouted. He cast a quick look at the figure sprawled across the linoleum floor and stepped back to his computer terminal. “All I could find was a window open for six minutes. It has a 55 to one ratio so it’s very unstable.”

“Is there a fire?” Amanda asked from the rear of the room.

Ginter punched a few more keys. “I have no idea.”

“Did you set off the alarm from your computer?” deVere asked.

Ginter looked up, dumbfounded. “From my computer? No, of course not. I can’t affect the fire alarms from my computer.”

“Then there’s a fire,” Amanda panted. “We’ve got to go.”

“Not quite yet,” deVere argued, looking at the lab door. “Lewis, what do you have?”

“She’s right,” Ginter answered. “We’ll never find another wormhole in time.” He pointed at the barricaded lab door. “There’s going to be firemen and District cops all over this building in a matter of minutes. We’ve got to go.”

“How much time do we have?” deVere pressed.

Ginter checked the computer screen. “Wormhole is open another one minute and 28 seconds. We’ve got to go now.”

DeVere hesitated and then stepped back to the gray metal filing cabinets at the rear of the room. Squatting slightly he wrapped both arms around one and began walking it away from the wall.

“Watch out,” Ginter barked. As deVere stood back Lewis Ginter threw himself at the empty cabinets and toppled them both over, exposing the jagged tear in the wall.

“Let’s go,” he said and stepped through the hole. DeVere stepped back to his desk and grabbed the duffle bag he had brought with him. He took Amanda’s hand and escorted her over the jagged sheet rock. He turned back to Pamela who, after a moment’s hesitation, stepped forward wordlessly and through the hole. DeVere took one last look around the lab, listened for a moment to the still wailing alarm, and followed her in.

The Accelechron was humming. Atop the pedestal a chronometer was counting down the time left in the wormhole opening. It was down to 55 seconds. Lewis Ginter grabbed Pamela’s hand and pulled the dazed woman toward the vortex. “You’ve just got to trust us on this,” he said kindly. “It’s not safe to stay here.”

Paul deVere grabbed Amanda’s hand and was about to follow when the history professor jerked away.

“Wait,” she said, and nimbly stepped back through the hole and into the lab. In a panic Paul looked at the chronometer, which now read 44 seconds. However, in just a few seconds Amanda returned, her pocketbook in hand.

“What the heck do you—?” he began, but her smile cut him off.

”If you can bring your duffle I can bring my purse. I had to,” she confided. She leaned and whispered in his ear.

Speechless, Paul deVere watched as Lewis Ginter and Pamela Rhodes walked into the vortex. Taking a deep breath he muttered, “Women,” took Amanda’s hand, and together they followed them in. Paul deVere felt himself splash in the sky.

Chapter 14

“You bastard!”

For a moment Paul deVere thought that he was paralyzed. His mind was fogged and his body was unresponsive to his brain’s commands. He opened his eyes and mistily saw Amanda lying next to him, her face pushed into dirt. Beyond her, Pamela Rhodes was kicking a prostrate Lewis Ginter. Paul could see long grass in front of his face and could smell its sweetness. He felt the sun’s warmth on his face. He thought he was in some sort of meadow.

“You son of a bitch,” Pamela screamed as she kicked at Ginter again. “You and your fucking pervert friends slipped me some sort of date rape drug, that’s it, huh? Did you all have a good time with me? Asshole!”

Pamela drew her right leg back again but Ginter was quicker. He caught her foot on the back swing and tumbled the woman to the ground.

“Nobody drugged you, damnit!” Ginter growled as he sat up. Next to Paul, Amanda stirred and opened her eyes. Paul’s body felt heavy and his head was pounding. He pushed his hands into the soft earth and tried to push himself up.

“Where are we?” Amanda asked, her eyelids flickering.

Paul gave a final heave and sat up. “More importantly, when are we? Holy shit, Lewis, did it work? Lewis?”

Lewis Ginter let go of Pamela’s leg and stood up. “The computer read August 5, 1963 when I pushed ‘enter.’ I had the wormhole targeted for a park in the northeast United States. Deerfield Park in Manchester, New Hampshire.”

Paul rubbed his forehead and looked around. He was in a grassy clearing. To either side he could see a tree line about 100 feet away. Between the tree lines the clearing sloped downward. He was on a hill and in the distance he could make out the skyline of a small city. He looked behind him. About 30 feet away, two black 19th century cannons stood mounted on cement bases, their mouths pointed toward the city.

Amanda groggily studied the cannons. “Lewis, you put us back to the Civil War.”

Paul shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. “I know this place. I’ve been here. It’s Derryfield Park. Not Deerfield. You’re right. In Manchester, New Hampshire.”

“You know this place?” Amanda asked, turning back from the cannons.

“I grew up one town over, in Bedford. I went to high school here, West High School. And,” he chuckled, “I know that parking lot.” Paul pointed to the bottom of the clearing. Approximately 300 feet away a gravel parking lot stood empty.

“I used to come here with my girlfriend back in high school, in the late eighties. Nineteen eighty-nine I think. Yeah, that’s it.”

Paul jumped to his feet. “It actually worked, Lewis. We moved through space and time.”

Paul squinted at the low sun behind him. “It was evening when we left. We’ve definitely moved through time.” He turned to Lewis. “Do you know what time it is? I mean, in the day?”

Ginter rubbed his eyes. “The computer said the wormhole at this end would be open for just over five hours and thirty minutes starting at 3:38 a.m. Since we left at the end of our opening it should be about 8:30 or maybe 9:00 in the morning.”

Paul nodded. “Judging from the sun I’d agree. What was the date?”

“August 5, 1963. Monday.”

Paul bent down and grabbed a handful of grass. He pulled it up by its roots and pushed it to his face. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

“We’re here. It’s physical,” Paul said. He looked back up at the sky and let out a whoop. “We did it!”

He turned to Lewis. “Is it really 1963?”

Amanda raised herself off the ground and sat up.

“What happened to 1962?” she asked.

“I think the real question,” Lewis answered, icily turning to her, “is why Natasha and her friend were there? You mentioned a trip wire in your computer. What was that all about?”

“Someone hacked my computer,” Amanda answered. “Must have gotten details. You ought to be thanking me for installing the trip wire. It let me know they were on to us.”

Ginter didn’t take his eyes off her. “What was anything doing on your hard drive? Didn’t we tell you not to enter ANY details?”

“Paul said not my MIT office computer. This was my home computer.”

“Goddamnit, your home computer is linked to the office through the university circuit and can be hacked,” Ginter exploded. “Are you THAT stupid?”

“Me?” Amanda was fully awake now. “What about you? We’re supposed to have gone back to 1962. What the hell happened to that? You screwed us up. You put us into 1963. We’re now ten months too late to invade Cuba.”

“Ah, excuse me, are you guys serious or what? This wasn’t one of those date rape drug things? ‘Cause that would sound better right about now.”

The three turned to stare at Pamela who still sat on the grass. Paul had forgotten she was there.

Lewis shook his head. “No, no drugs. Not like I ever had to use them.”

“You three are shitting me, right?” Pamela asked. “You’re not trying to tell me we went back in time? Back to 19 fucking 63? Are you?”

Pamela paused, her eyes desperately moving from Ginter to deVere. “What about the bombs? Are you saying that you were building a fucking time machine all the time and you were lying to me? To us? Is that what you’re saying? Are you serious?”

When no one answered, Pamela jumped to her feet and staggered forward. “You’re crazy. You’re all fucking crazy. You drugged me and you’re all crazy. And who was that wacko with the gun to my head? Another escapee from the lunatic asylum? Part of Lewis’ scam plot?”

Pamela wheeled on Lewis. She was lurching forwards and back. She raised a hand to her forehead and tried to steady herself.

“Nice try, Lewis!” Pamela screamed. “Nice scam, asshole. Hire some bozo with a Russkie accent to scare the shit out of me with a toy gun, then drug me, bring me God knows where to some hill and tell me you have a time machine?”

She laughed hysterically. “It ain’t gonna’ work, Lewis! I’m not that stupid. Eckleburg ain’t that stupid. Lorrie ain’t that stupid. You and your pervert friends aren’t getting another fucking dime for you and deVere and, and you!”—Pamela pointed at Amanda still on the ground—“to stuff in some Swiss bank account!”

Pamela lurched forward and fell to her knees, still holding her head. Without standing up Amanda scrambled over and put her right arm around Pamela’s shoulders.

“It’s O.K.,” Amanda cooed. “I’ve got you.”

“Aw shit! This sucks!” Ginter said.

“It’s O.K.,” Paul said. “Just give her a few minutes. This is a shock to all of us.”

“Not her,” Lewis said. “That!”

Ginter pointed down the hill to the parking lot. A black and white four-door sedan with a red bulb light on the roof had entered the parking lot and was slowly crossing to the far side. Even from this distance Paul could see the word “POLICE” on the right front door. Ginter and deVere instinctively dropped back down.

Lewis scrambled over to the two women and pulled them lower. “Get down!” he commanded.

Paul lay back in the tall grass.

“Quick, the woods,” Ginter hissed. “Crawl! And keep down. Pamela, just shut up and trust us.”

Pamela and Amanda began squirming along the ground to their right toward the tree line. Paul deVere grabbed the duffle bag. He and Ginter crawled along behind. When the two women reached the trees they crawled past into the forest underbrush before turning and rising to their knees. Ginter and deVere scrambled past them and did the same.

All four watched the cruiser that had now stopped. A man in a blue uniform emerged and began searching the edge of the clearing.

“What’s happening?” deVere asked. “Why are we hiding? We haven’t done anything.”

Ginter leaned back against a tree trunk but kept his eyes on the officer.

“Well, let’s see. This is supposedly 1963 and by the look of that cruiser I’d say we hit it pretty close. We’ve got two white women and one white male and a black guy—and we’re rolling around in the grass in a park with no explanation as to why. When that cop asks for some ID, which one of you innocent geniuses is going to show him your Northeast District driver’s license with a birth date of nineteen seventy something? You, Paul? Or maybe you could show him your MIT faculty ID? Heck, he can call down to the school to check you out and well, just who would he ask for down there?”

Paul also slumped back. “Point taken.” He glanced at the cruiser. “But what’s he doing?”

“I don’t know, but he has company,” Amanda offered. A second cruiser was pulling into the parking lot. The first officer walked over and stood at the driver’s door speaking with the second officer. After about thirty seconds the second uniformed police officer exited his cruiser and the two walked along the edge of the parking lot peering at the ground.

“What are they doing?” Pamela whispered.

“Searching,” Ginter answered.

“For what?”

“For us,” Ginter replied.

“How can that be?” Amanda asked anxiously.

“That’s impossible,” deVere protested.

“Yeah, well, impossible or not they’re going to head up this way pretty soon.” Ginter turned to deVere. “You said you’ve been here. How do we get out of here?”

“That was thirty-seven years ago.” DeVere frowned. He pointed across the clearing.

“Over there behind those woods is the access road those cops just drove up. It winds down to the open area of the park. The park’s pretty big but once we get to the bottom of this hill it’s all open. Anyone could see us crossing it.

“Behind us the other way is The Ledge, an old granite quarry that filled in with water around the turn of the last century—or this century. Now it’s a swimming hole for kids. Has a big ledge you can dive off. Beyond that is a residential neighborhood.”

“We can’t cross any clearing,” Ginter said. “The cops will see us.” He pointed to the opposite tree line. “Is that the only road?”

“The only road up and down this hill,” deVere answered. “There are two reservoirs along that road. Water is pumped up from a local lake and gravity feeds the city.”

Ginter did not appear to be listening. He squatted, studying the two officers 100 yards away. They had stopped searching and were again conferring at the edge of the parking lot.

“What the hell is that?” Pamela asked.

Her three companions turned to look behind them up the hill. About 150 feet above them stood a solitary granite tower. At its base hung a rusted iron door. Graffiti was sprayed around the base. At the top was an open roofed observation platform covered with green boards. Over the door “Weston” was etched in the granite.

“An old observation tower,” deVere answered.

“We have to get rid of our IDs,” Ginter said.

“What?” deVere asked.

“If we get caught we can’t say who we are,” Ginter continued. “It will do us no good. They’ll lock us up.”

Amanda nodded. “They had what they called insane asylums back then. State Hospitals where they put just about anyone who was ‘crazy.’ Diagnosis didn’t matter. They’ll put us there.”

“I think they’re leaving,” Pamela said. The two officers had gotten back into their cruisers and turned their cars around. They proceeded slowly out of the parking lot.

“Could be a trap,” Ginter theorized. “They might be waiting for us down the road.”

“Why were they here?” Amanda asked. “Why would they be looking for us? How could they know? And if so why didn’t they come up the hill to look for us? If they knew we were here they’d know where.”

“You mean you guys weren’t shitting me?” Pamela asked. Her face betrayed terror. She gestured around her. “This is all fucking real, isn’t it? You have some sort of time machine, don’t you? This is really nineteen whatever?”

“Actually,” deVere began, slumping back down on the ground, “I can’t confirm the date. It’s supposed to be 1963 but who knows.”

“Why are we here?” Pamela asked. “Do you guys have some sort of plan or do you just travel through time to avoid CA agents?”

Ginter studied Pamela. “Actually, babe, our plan had been to bring back all kinds of stuff and convince President Kennedy to invade Cuba during the missile crisis by showing a bunch of newspaper editors the foolishness of not invading. But someone screwed up and we left early and weren’t able to get to 1962 and so it’s too late and now we don’t have anything to prove who we are.”

“O.K., stop the bickering,” Paul commanded. “We’re here, and that’s it. The damn thing worked, apparently. You didn’t happen to notice when the return wormhole is, did you?”

“Of course,” Lewis said. “I didn’t screw up. December 8, 1963, 3:15 p.m. Train’s leaving from right here in Derryfield Park. The park with the ‘y’ in the middle,” he added, looking at deVere. “From right over there.” Ginter pointed out at the clearing from whence they had just crawled. “If anyone would want to go back.”

“What do you mean ‘want to go back?” Pamela asked. “Why the hell wouldn’t someone want to go back from 19 fucking whatever you said it was?”

“In case you all forgot,” Lewis answered, “when we were last in 2026 we were standing in a room with a very angry Russian with obviously no sense of humor who had recently had possession of what I saw to be an Iver-Johnson .38 pointed at us. If we go back through the wormhole we’ll arrive at the same time we left—just in time to catch four bullets I’d say.”

“But I knocked him down,” Pamela said. “He was on the floor. He may have been knocked out. He was at least groggy.”

“Groggy?” Ginter asked. He nodded. “Yeah, he was groggy. Do any of you have any idea how long we lay collapsed out in that clearing before we revived?”

When the other three looked at him blankly he continued. “Neither do I. But in the experiment we ran with a rat it was passed out for several minutes before it revived. Much as I suspect we were. If we go back the Russkie will probably come to before we do. And in case you also forgot our intern, Miss Nikitin, apparently pulled the fire alarm so not only is she lurking about, but the fire department, and also the District cops, are on their way. And who knows, there may actually be a fire so we may revive in time to burn to death.”

Amanda cleared her throat. “Couldn’t we, I mean couldn’t you, get a gun, then when we go back couldn’t we, you know, shoot first?”

Lewis shook his head. “There are two problems with that. One, while we’re still on the floor out cold I bet the Russkie revives and uses our bodies for target practice. The second problem is that without another Accelechron here we can only go back through the return wormhole and all that can go through the contrapositive”—he looked at Pamela—“that means ‘return’ wormhole, is whatever DNA and other material came through the first time. And unless one of you thoughtfully brought a gun…”

When no one responded he continued, “I didn’t think so. So, until we come up with a better idea I think that we’re here for awhile.”

“What’s to prevent that goon from jumping into the machine and appearing here?” Amanda finally asked.

“Can’t,” Lewis answered. “The vortex was closing when we jumped through. Even if he had jumped in a millisecond after us he would have appeared by now. Obviously, he hasn’t.”

“What do we all have?” Paul asked. He opened the duffle bag at his feet and rifled through it. “Money, money belts, the fake IDs, New York State paper driver’s licenses for us three, that’s it,” he said.

Ginter swore. “No computers, no laptops, no printers, no newspaper printouts, no radios, no nothing.”

DeVere turned to Amanda. “Anything from your end?”

She shook her head. “The laptops were in my office on the other side of campus. I didn’t have time to get them.”

She opened her purse. She reached in and carefully pulled out the sheaf of loose papers she had shoved in at the lab.

”I had printed out Kennedy’s daily itinerary and was studying it at home. I brought it with me to the lab.” She rifled through them quickly.

“I lost all of 1961 and much of 1962 but I seem to have all of 1963 with me.”

“Well,” Pamela said shakily, “at least we’re all alive. Right?”

Amanda got to her feet, still groggy. She looked around. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed.

“Don’t worry about it,” Paul said soothingly. “We all made it.”

DeVere scrambled to his feet and stood next to Ginter. Lewis put his arms on his hips and looked around.

“Is it really… 1963?” Amanda asked.

“Looks like it to me,” Ginter said. “Those cruisers sure looked right.

“Look,” he continued, “we still don’t know where those cops went, or why they were here. We have to get inside. Get out of sight. We need to come up with a new plan. Or at least a survival plan. If we stay outside wandering around with a hundred fifty thousand dollars in a duffle bag and these IDs we’re not going to last long.”

“A hundred fifty thousand?” Pamela asked. “Noams?”

“American dollars. Money seems to be one of the few things that made it,” Paul said. He turned to Lewis. “What do we do now?”

Ginter took a deep breath, reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his wallet. He flipped through it.

“First, I’d say we stash our identifications,” Ginter said. “Anything at all. Driver’s licenses, birth certificates, social identity cards, credit cards, employee identification, all of it.

“Next, we divide up the cash in case one or more of us get busted.” Ginter gestured at the others. “A hundred fifty grand in twenties in this duffle bag is more than we can carry in our summer clothing. Good thing we have money belts. We’ll take what we can and bury the rest here. Then we have to get out of this park. We should try to check in to a hotel.”

“Where?” Amanda asked.

Lewis gestured to Paul. “You’re the native.”

“I left here when I was 18 and never returned,” deVere said. “I won’t be born in this area for another nine years.”

“When you were here, what do you remember?” Pamela asked. “Any good hotels?”

“We’re not talking about the ones you used on prom night,” Ginter said.

DeVere grimaced. “There was an old hotel downtown. Was supposedly elegant at one time. My parents talked about it. The Carpenter. It was still there in the 1980s.”

“Where is it?” Ginter asked.

DeVere pointed to the skyline. “Downtown Manchester.”

Ginter nodded. “O.K., here’s what we’ll do. We’ll work our way out of the park and take side streets. Get to this old hotel and check in using cash and our real names. Then we’ll meet in a room.”

As the others began emptying their wallets Paul reached into his back pocket. It was empty. “I don’t have my wallet,” he stammered. “It’s in my jacket back at the lab.”

“All right,” Ginter said. “Just the rest of us then.”

Pamela tossed her wallet to Ginter. Amanda opened her pocketbook, removed her wallet, and handed it to him. Lewis grabbed a fallen tree branch and broke off the side branches with his foot. He jabbed an end in the ground and dug a small hole in the topsoil. He tossed three wallets into the hole and covered them over.

When he was finished he opened the duffle bag and distributed wads of cash among the four of them without counting it out. Amanda shoved several packs into her shoulder bag. Paul and Lewis slipped wads into the money belts they took from the duffle bag. Ginter distributed the driver’s licenses.

“Sorry,” he said to Pamela, “we don’t have any ID for you.”

She shrugged. “I guess I’ll be a non-person.”

“We should split up,” Lewis said. “Paul, you and Amanda head out first and get yourselves to this Carpenter Hotel. Pamela and I will follow about half an hour later. Two separate couples might be less suspicious. We’ll meet in your room and develop a strategy.”

DeVere nodded slowly. “O.K. If I remember it right just follow this path past the quarry and then down to the street and then head down a couple of blocks to the bottom of the hill. Turn left and walk to Bridge Street. That’s a main thoroughfare. Turn right on Bridge and walk all the way to the downtown area and then turn left on Elm Street, which will lead to Merrimack Street. Right onto Merrimack Street one block to the main entrance.”

Ginter repeated the directions.

“See you later,” deVere said as he and Amanda headed down the path.

Ginter waited exactly 30 minutes before standing and slinging the duffle bag over his shoulder.

“Time to go,” he announced.

Pamela stood up and brushed off her clothes. “You really think it’s safer to travel separately?”

Lewis peered out between the tree limbs. “Absolutely.”

He stepped out of the woods and walked along the tree line down to the parking lot with Pamela at his side. They turned right at the lot’s edge and followed a path that led back into the woods. The path twisted left and headed down an incline. When it narrowed Pamela let Ginter get ahead of her. To their right lay a stone quarry filled with water. Two young boys were jumping off some rocks into the clear water.

At the bottom of the trail Lewis looked back up at a high cliff face. “I can see why they call it ‘The Ledge,” he mused.

“Tell me something,” he asked as he ducked under a tree limb, “do you remember that meeting at Lorrie Maddox’ house in Newton?”

“You mean in the rain storm?” Pamela asked.

“That’s the one. Duck your head.” With a final shove Lewis stepped out onto pavement and Pamela stumbled up against him. Lewis looked around and pointed.

“That way,” he said, and started off across the pavement, again heading down a steep hill.

“What about it?” Pamela asked, hurrying to keep up. She trotted a few steps and came abreast of him.

Lewis did not look at her. “Why was Eckleburg so suspicious?” he asked. “He seemed to think that we were crooked and that maybe Paul was funneling off money. Do you know why?”

Pamela shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t know that Dr. Eckleburg was suspicious of anyone. I thought that he just wanted to make sure that your weapon would work.” She glanced around. “Wouldn’t he love to know.”

“What about before?” Ginter asked. “What did he say before the meeting about his suspicions?”

“Dr. Eckleburg? I have no idea. I had only seen him twice before.”

Lewis started to turn to his companion but then abruptly turned back and continued walking downhill.

“Only twice before?” he asked cautiously. “How well do you know the doctor?”

“I hardly know him at all.”

Lewis walked on. Around him were an array of single-family homes with bikes and toys scattered across well manicured lawns. Most of the front doors stood open behind their screens.

“Was it Arthur then who knew Eckleburg?” Ginter asked. “Was he his main contact?”

“I guess so.”

“What was Arthur’s plan for that op in Portland?” Ginter asked. “What was that all about?”

“Op?” Pamela asked.

“The barge. Wasn’t he going to blow a barge coming into Portland Harbor, or something like that?”

“Oh, that. Actually it was a Soviet container ship. One docks every month from Murmansk filled with personal computers manufactured in Minsk. Lousy things but dirt cheap. Anyone who wanted a computer for their kid’s school work usually bought a Ludka 311.”

“Yeah,” Ginter added disgustedly. “With imbedded programming that forwarded any radical thinking straight to Vodkaville.”

The pair had reached the bottom of the incline and Lewis studied the street sign. “Belmont Street,” he said aloud. “I guess this is where we turn left.”

They turned and walked along the right side of the street. Ginter shook his head. “Look at these cars. If we could take them all back it would be amazing. There’s a ’57 Chevy that has to be all original.”

The pair walked on in silence. Ginter turned to the younger woman. “So what was Arthur going to do with the container ship?”

“Blow it up and sink it in the harbor.”

“Why not just dress up as Indians and throw the computers overboard?”

“Huh?” Pamela asked.

“Nothing. Just a joke. How was he going to blow it? Use a mine?”

“He’s got a friend who’s a fire-eater in the Harbor Guard. His job is to board all in-bound ships and scan for weapons, contraband, booby traps, that sort of stuff. He had this device to scan for explosives except Arthur was going to load the scanner itself with C-4 and a detonator and this guy was going to get Arthur on board as his assistant. They’d be down in the hold and set a timer and then just say that there had been an explosion. The wreck would block the harbor for six months. Arthur figures that they wouldn’t get it up till next spring. Meanwhile the whole harbor is shut down and there is more resentment against the provisional authority.”

“Just C-4?” Ginter asked. “I’ve seen those scanners, they’re about the size of a briefcase. They hold maybe four pounds.”

Pamela shrugged. “I guess so.”

“I know a bit about explosives,” Ginter continued. “There’s no way that would be enough to blow a hole in a Russian container ship. Those babies are double hulled. The force would dissipate. Even if you punched through the hull the ship would never sink in time. The pumps could easily keep up till it made dock.”

Lewis Ginter walked on, head down. He turned again to Pamela. “How well do you know Arthur? Is he likely to have miscalculated the amount of C-4 needed to sink a container ship?”

Pamela shrugged. “He’s done other bombings. Blew up the car owned by the civil administrator in Portland. Except the freakin’ guy wasn’t in it at the time. Did the CA recruiting offices in Bangor. Supposedly he’s done others but I really don’t know the guy.”

Lewis came to a full stop in the street and turned and looked at Pamela. He started to say something, but then changed his mind and resumed walking.

“Don’t know the guy?” Ginter asked. “I thought you and he were—you know—a couple?”

Pamela laughed. “Me and Arthur Pomeroy? We’re not a couple. We never have been. I know Arthur from Portland. Seen him in some meetings and stuff but we’re not together.”

“Oh, I thought, I guess I just assumed that. You’re just the percussionist.”

“Percussionist?” Pamela asked, perplexed.

“Bomb maker. Bomb designer. You know, the explosives expert,” he said, seeing Pamela’s blank expression.

“An old military term.” Ginter waved his hand. “Forget it. Doesn’t matter.”

Pamela took a few more steps before speaking. When she did there was uncertainty in her voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “I don’t know anything about bombs.”

Lewis Ginter slowly came to a stop and turned again toward Pamela. Her face betrayed nothing but apparent confusion. He reached out and grabbed her arm. When he spoke, he did so slowly, deliberately spacing each word.

“What do you mean you don’t know anything about bombs?” he asked. “Weren’t you Arthur’s bomb maker?”

Pamela shook her head in bewilderment. “Me? No way. All I ever did was put pamphlets into those circulars at restaurants and such. You know the circulars advertising used cars and real estate you see all around? I’d swipe a whole bunch and then insert information packets about the Sovs and then put the whole bunch back the next day. I never did anything violent.”

Pamela looked down at her arm and winched with pain. Over her shoulder Ginter could see a housewife in a white cape style house peering at him through a front picture window. Ginter swore to himself and let go of her arm. He turned and started walking again.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize my grip was so tight.”

She rubbed her left arm. “Why are you so upset?” she asked.

“I was told you were an explosives expert and that’s why Eckleburg sent you to check out our weapon.”

“Who told you that?” Pamela asked.

“Eckleburg told me that night in New…” Ginter stopped in mid-sentence.

“Shit. Shit. SHIT!” he said. “Eckleburg never told me that. It was Lorrie Maddox who told me that.”

He replayed the scene of himself standing at the doorway in Newton peering out at the falling torrent as Lorrie explained that Pamela was the bomb expert who Eckleburg had chosen to check out the Intervention Project.

“If you’re not a bomb maker, then why did Eckleburg think you were?” he asked.

“Search me. I never told him I was.”

“You only met Eckleburg twice, and were not Pomeroy’s girlfriend. Then what were you doing in Newton?”

“I came down to see Eckleburg to get money for a computer system to hack into print shops and change the text before production. We would have been able to print all sorts of messages on mass mailings.”

“We?” Ginter asked.

“Me and some friends in Portland.”

“When did you come down to ask him?”

“July, beginning of the month. I came down the weekend of the Fourth for the fireworks. I stayed at Lorrie’s.”

“Before Pomeroy was picked up?”

Pamela nodded. “I saw Eckleburg that Friday and ran the request by him. He said he’d think about it and get back to me. Arthur got picked up after I was back in Maine. I heard that Eckleburg wanted to meet me again and so I came back down and he asked me to do this job for him. But I never said I was any bomb expert.”

“That was the only other time you saw him?”

Pamela pondered a moment. “Yeah, except at that meeting at Lorrie’s house the night I met you. It was during the week and I had to leave work early.”

“I saw you at a meeting in Somerville last April,” Ginter argued.

Pamela nodded again. “Yeah. A friend up in Portland told me Arthur was down here and had a good money connection and I should go down and meet this guy. She set it up and I came down and hooked up with Arthur who took me to that meeting. It was a Saturday night; I remember that. The doctor was supposed to be there and I was going to meet him but he never showed up. Arthur got drunk and was running off at the mouth and I got spooked. I had to work Monday so the next day I drove back to Portland.”

“How long had Arthur been down here?”

Pamela considered. “I’m not sure exactly. I think he said he came down the end of January.”

“End of January?” Ginter was incredulous. “He came down in January to ask for money and was still here in July? What the hell was he doing all that time?”

Pamela shrugged. “He got a job delivering the Boston Herald in the morning. You know, a paper route. Dropped them off at stores and stuff. He said it was good money and things had been a bit warm for him in Portland since he tried to blow up that guy last fall.”

Ginter considered. “Did Gonzalez get him the job at the Herald?”

Pamela pursed her lips. “Gonzalez? Yeah, I think Arthur said that he did. The guy at Lorrie’s house, right? Carlos?”

Ginter walked on, head bowed. A hundred possibilities floated in and out of his mind.

“Who told you that Eckleburg wanted to see you that second time?” Ginter asked. “After Arthur disappeared?”

“Lorrie did. She called me at home and asked me to meet her at the doctor’s office that Friday. So I did.”

“Was Lorrie present for the meeting?”

“No, she stayed in the waiting room while I went in supposedly to have an eye exam.”

Ginter nodded slowly. “Then either Eckleburg was lied to by Maddox about you or else Eckleburg was lying to Maddox. But why?” he asked rhetorically.

Pamela shrugged. “Maybe they were just all confused and just assumed that since I knew Arthur that I was his girlfriend or else that I was some sort of explosives expert. Maybe they were just mistaken. What’s the big deal?”

They had reached an incline in the road. Ahead cars sped along the cross street that appeared to be the main thoroughfare deVere had mentioned.

“That must be Bridge Street,” Ginter said. Across the thoroughfare on the left side was a corner grocery store. “Let’s stop and get a drink. We have to interact with others eventually. This is as good a place as any to start.”

The sign over the front door announced, “Pete’s Variety.” Inside, a lone cashier stood behind a counter in the middle of the small room. Novelties and simple grocery staples were arrayed around the store. Ginter nodded to the clerk and crossed to a freezer in the rear. Lifting the lid he extracted two cans of ginger ale. He handed one to Pamela. She held it up and slowly turned it over in her hands.

“You need an opener,” Ginter said and looked around. A can opener hung from the freezer by a length of twine. Lewis pried open a diamond shape wedge in the top of one can and handed it back to Pamela. She took one sip before quickly lowering the can. Ginger ale drooled down her face.

“Air escape,” Ginter muttered and took the can from her. He pried another hole at the opposite end and handed the can back to her. “Apparently, pried holes aren’t big enough,” he muttered as he pried two holes in his own soda.

Lewis strode to the counter and studied the shelf in front of it. He picked up a newspaper and scanned the triple headlines. “TAX RATE JUMPS 90 CENTS,” “U.S. KOREA PATROL CLASHES WITH REDS,” “TREATY SIGNED AT KREMLIN.” Yet it was not the headlines that riveted Lewis’ attention but the masthead. Across the top it read, “Manchester Union Leader, Monday, August 5, 1963.”

Ginter handed the newspaper to Pamela. He handed the clerk a one-dollar bill.

“I’ll take the paper too,” he said. The clerk returned sixty cents. He and Pamela stepped back outside. Pamela still clutched the newspaper, staring at the front page. She slowly lowered it.

“We’re in deep trouble if we need a physicist to tell us how to open a can of soda,” she remarked absently.

They began walking down Bridge Street together.

“The big deal,” Ginter said, taking another sip of his ginger ale, “is that Eckleburg either lied to Maddox or Maddox lied to me. Either way someone sent you to scope out a weapons system you weren’t qualified to scope. Someone arranged for it to be you knowing that you would fail—that you wouldn’t be able to tell what it was. Which means someone else wanted us to succeed.”

“Couldn’t this just be all one big mix-up?” she asked.

Ginter shook his head. “There is no way that Dr. T.J. Eckleburg would ever get ‘mixed up’ on something like this. He may be an ass in some ways but Eckleburg sees everything that goes on. Nothing escapes his gaze. He wouldn’t have screwed up on this. Someone sent you knowing that we would fool you. Except that no one else knew what we were up to.”

“O.K., let’s say you’re correct,” Pamela said. “So what? I mean, what difference does it make now?”

Ginter wheeled on her. “It makes a huge difference. It means that someone back there knew what we were up to. In case you’ve forgotten when we arrived here in 1963 there were two cops looking for us. Someone knew we were coming. Somebody had arranged for them to look for us. Yet they had the wrong spot. Why was that? Someone had to be here to send those cops yet that same someone didn’t know where we were.”

Ginter studied the blank look on Pamela’s face.

“You don’t get it, do you? Whoever sent those cops must have come back to tell the cops where we were. Don’t you see? Someone else has come back and is trying to stop us. And if somebody has come back they may have already changed history. And we don’t know what they’ve changed it to.”

Pamela’s eyes widened. “Who… who?” she asked.

“What was it that the civil administrator’s assistant told you? That he had no idea where Arthur was held or any record of him being picked up? You said he looked stunned and nervous? You thought he was bullshitting you. What if he wasn’t? When does a civil administrator, or his flunky, ever act nervous? Suppose they really were confused. I think I know where Arthur Pomeroy and Ralph Collinson are. They’re here, back in 1963 with us. I don’t know how they got here or what the hell they’re doing or why they sent the cops at the right time but to the wrong spot but they’re here. And I don’t know what they’ve done.”

Lewis Ginter stood back and ran his hand through his hair.

“Pamela,” he said. “I need to know everything you know about Arthur Pomeroy and about all of your dealings with Dr. Thomas Eckleburg.”

Chapter 15

“I don’t believe it.”

Paul deVere stood at a window in his hotel room at the southwest corner on the eleventh floor of the Carpenter Hotel surveying the city below him. The window faced west and deVere found himself looking out over a brick mill yard. Beyond it ran the Merrimack River. On the far side of that was a residential area of three-decker apartment houses surrounding a tall thin church spire that dominated the landscape. A working class town, he thought.

Somewhere to his left was Bedford, where he would grow up after his birth in nine years. He tried to discern the border, but the city scape grew vague before him. “All that is real grows vague, and all that is vague lacks boundaries.” He tried to place the quote.

Around the room sat Lewis Ginter, Pamela Rhodes, and Amanda Hutch.

“It makes no sense,” deVere added. He turned and faced the others.

He and Amanda had checked into the hotel 45 minutes before Lewis and Pamela knocked on his door. Their walk downtown had been uneventful, and despite his nervousness the checkin had gone smoothly. He had used the cash and the desk clerk hadn’t asked for identification. Paul had acted nonchalantly, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off the cigar store Indian or the hand-cranked Nickelodeon that stood in the corner of the tiled lobby.

“They’re anachronisms,” Amanda had whispered. “Even by today’s standards.”

Paul had resisted the temptation to play with the Nickelodeon.

“No one else knew we came back,” he said. “No one else knew we were working on time travel. There is no other Accelechron and no more fuel.”

He pointed at Pamela. “Even the Descendants had no idea what we were doing. How could Ralph and some guy I never met have any idea? I never talked to Ralph about my work, and he wasn’t any physicist.”

Lewis Ginter shifted in his chair. “I’m not saying that it makes sense. I don’t have an explanation. But someone lied about Pamela’s background and set it up so that we could fool her. They figured she would tell the Descendants that the weapon was legit. The Intervention Project would continue with funding from Eckleburg.”

Amanda turned to Pamela. “Was it Dr. Eckleburg who was suspicious and wanted answers? Or was he reacting to someone else’s concerns?”

Pamela shrugged. “All I know is that he said that there were concerns about this project and would I do them all a favor and check it out.”

“Did he say why he chose you?” Lewis asked.

Pamela shook her head. “No. The meeting was real short. He kept looking at the door as if he were expecting his nurse to tell him he had a patient waiting. It was a Friday afternoon and I figured he wanted to get out of there for the weekend.”

Paul shook his head. “But even if you’re right, that still doesn’t put Collinson and Pomeroy back here. I don’t think that Eckleburg or Maddox or Gonzalez could possibly know what we were doing. And even if they did how could they build something to send someone back? Pomeroy disappeared in, what…?”

“July,” Ginter answered. “Right after the fourth.” He looked at Pamela who nodded in agreement.

“And Ralph?” deVere asked.

Ginter shrugged. “I don’t know. I only heard about it at Lorrie’s house. When was the last time you saw him at the coffee shop?”

DeVere squinted his eyes, and then moved away from the window. He leaned back against the writing desk.

“It was the evening I found the canister,” he said quietly. “That was on June 22. I stopped off on the way to the bridge to kill some time. There was a guy who said that Ralph had Sox tickets. I haven’t seen him since.”

“Were you good friends?” Amanda asked softly.

Paul shook his head. “I’d stop in sometimes and have a coffee. We’d chitchat, you know, politics, whatever. I certainly never told him I was working on something. I didn’t know he was even picked up until after Lewis’ meeting in Newton.”

“Did you know he was active?” Ginter asked.

“I knew how he thought but that’s not something you ask about,” Paul answered.

“So why would they disappear?” Amanda asked. “Where would they go?”

“Not back here,” Paul answered. “Heck, we didn’t even know where and when we were coming to until the last minute.” Paul deVere threw up his hands. “The whole thing is nuts. If anyone had come back and changed history we’d know it. It would have become our history.”

“Could they have done it while we were in the wormhole itself?”

Startled, Paul deVere turned to look at the speaker. Pamela Rhodes gazed stoically back at him.

“Pardon?” deVere asked.

“The wormhole,” she repeated. “You said that if they had changed history we would have already lived a different history and we’d know that history. But what if they changed history while we were in the wormhole? Then we wouldn’t know it. How long were we in the wormhole?”

Ginter and deVere exchanged glances.

“Pamela? Is that your name?” deVere asked.

The woman nodded.

“What do you do for work? I mean in Portland, your day job?”

“Insurance,” she answered simply. “I’m an adjustor for State Farm.”

DeVere nodded. “Well, there’s no answer to your question. One could argue that we were in the wormhole a negative sixty-three years but that really makes no sense since time has no meaning in a wormhole, which just connects two times and places. Lewis?”

Ginter nodded. “I think that is the only accurate answer to the question.”

Amanda jumped in. “But what if after we left in 2026 someone else left and went to an earlier time, say 1960? Then history could have been changed before we arrived back here.”

Ginter scoffed and shook his head forcefully. “If someone changed history then it changed for everyone, including us, so we would have known the revised history before we left.”

“Huh?” Pamela asked.

“But what if we failed?” Amanda persisted, ignoring Pamela. “Could someone have left after us and arrived before us to try to make sure we succeeded?”

“Maybe that’s what Eckleburg was doing,” Pamela said.

“And is that why these helpers sent the cops after us?” Ginter asked sarcastically.

“Look,” Pamela continued. “This conversation is going nowhere. We can’t figure out from here what anyone else was up to in 2026. And we can’t go back until December. So, what difference does it make? We’re going to have to figure out what we can do now.”

“She’s right,” Ginter added. “All we can do is what we can do. Nothing more.”

He turned to Paul. “Eckleburg said he was suspicious that you might be a squisher. But if he was just scamming the others maybe he knew you really could be trusted.”

“Lewis,” Paul began, “I never met Eckleburg. I don’t know why he’d suspect me.”

“Maybe not personally,” Ginter continued. “Maybe it was not you Eckleburg was suspicious of but someone around you.” He kept his eyes on Paul.

“Like you?” Pamela asked, turning toward Ginter. “You think Eckleburg suspected you?”

Ginter shook his head forcefully. “Why would he ask me to a meeting to tell me he was suspicious if I were the suspect?”

“Why does it matter?” Amanda asked. “We’re here, he’s not, and like Pamela said, what we’ve got to do is just try something.”

“Such as?” Ginter asked. “How can we convince Kennedy to invade Cuba now?”

“What?” Amanda asked. “Lewis, there’s no way. The time to have invaded Cuba was last year when the United States was threatened with weapons of mass destruction 90 miles away. I know you think it’s my fault we’re a year too late but I’m sorry. We’ve lost that chance. Kennedy will never invade Cuba now. He stared down Khrushchev and Khrushchev blinked—all without a war. The missiles are gone. Kennedy won—there’s no need for a war now.”

“He has to,” Ginter said coldly. “Don’t tell me it’s too late. Cuba will start exporting revolution before the end of this decade. Ché Guevara will march through Bolivia and up through Central America and they’ll have this country by the throat. Those chemical weapons and that dirty bomb will come from right over the border.”

Amanda shook her head. “I understand all that, but Kennedy will never invade now. John Kennedy was a hero in World War II. He’s seen its horrors. He’s not going to start a war when he’s already won a stand-off.”

Amanda shifted to face Ginter squarely. “But we still may be able to convince him to stay in Vietnam. That may be our best chance now.”

“When is that decision going to be made?” Ginter asked.

Amanda pulled out her itinerary papers and flipped through them. “Ah, here we are. Kennedy will meet with his advisors in a special Sunday meeting at the end of November, 1963.” She grabbed the calendar from the desk.

“November 24,” she said. “Within our window since we are here until what, December 8th?”

“Where’s the meeting?” Ginter asked.

“In D.C.,” Amanda answered. “There has to be some way of postponing or canceling that meeting. There has to be somewhere in here we can impress upon him the danger of a pullout.”

Ginter took the sheaf from her. “Right, why don’t we just call the White House and arrange lunch?” he asked sarcastically. “How do you think we’re going to convince the President?”

Lewis threw the sheaf of papers onto the table. “Invading Cuba means we stop Guevara. But there’s more than one way to do that. Today is August 5th, 1963. I’m not going to spend the next month waiting for the editor of The Times to return calls to do lunch.”

“Hey,” deVere said, breaking the tension. “Speaking of lunch. I haven’t eaten in a negative 63 years and I’m hungry.”

Paul checked his watch. “I set it by the clock in the lobby. It’s 11:06. Perfect time for an early lunch. There’s a restaurant on the ground floor. And I want to try that crank machine. Let’s eat and try to come up with a new plan.”

“I guess we could tackle this better on a full stomach,” Amanda said.

“Wonder if they’ve invented the salad yet,” Paul said, grabbing his key from the writing desk.

“Man, have you noticed how much everyone stares at us?” Lewis asked over his open menu. “I guess our clothes are kind of weird.”

“That and you’re kind of black,” Paul said. “I don’t see a lot of other black people around here.”

“And I’m better looking than you three,” Lewis said as Paul and Amanda rolled their eyes. “The ladies are the ones staring, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Oh, rats. Forgot my money,” Amanda said, pushing her chair out. “I’ll pop back up, be down in a sec.”

“No sweat, I can handle it,” Lewis said.

“Oh no, my treat, I insist,” Amanda said. She hurried away while Paul and Lewis stared after her.

“What’s that all about?” Lewis asked Paul.

Paul shrugged. “Women. You know. She isn’t really going to treat. Just an excuse. Bad time of the month,” he muttered.

Ginter raised an eyebrow. “And how do you know that, Mr. Loyally Married Man? Is there something in your personal life you’re not telling us?”

DeVere cleared his throat. “No, she told me back at the lab just before we went through the wormhole. She had to run to grab her purse.”

DeVere turned to Pamela. “Speaking of marriage, what about you? Am I the only married one in this group?”

Pamela blushed. “I guess so.”

“Never been married?” Ginter prodded.

She shook her head.

“I know I was wrong about Pomeroy but is there another boyfriend up there in Portland?” Ginter asked.

“There was,” Pamela answered slowly. “But not in Portland.”

She blushed again, and hesitated. She started to speak but stopped when the waiter arrived to refill the water glasses.

When he moved away Pamela said, “I was engaged to a resister from Phoenix I met in Portland. Some friends of mine downtown introduced us. But he was killed in a raid on the Chase Manhattan Bank in New York three years ago. Something went wrong and the local cops showed up too soon and he got shot in the ankle and couldn’t make the car. The others left him and he got killed in a shootout.”

The table grew quiet. DeVere could hear the water glasses clinking from the other side of the room.

“I’m sorry,” deVere croaked. “This can be so tough for all of us. We’ve all made sacrifices.”

His thoughts turned to Grace and he wondered if he were successful in accomplishing his goals what would happen to her. Would she ever be born? Would he still adopt her?

Pamela shrugged. “He was a lawyer who practiced environmental law. He settled a case for a huge amount in Phoenix. One of the biggest ever. He played football and was pretty rugged. Played professionally for a bit. When he was killed, my mother took it really hard.”

Maybe, just maybe, David’s theory of life forces would prove out, deVere thought. Maybe Grace was destined to be born regardless of what happened back here.

“I remember the Chase raid,” Ginter said. “It would have netted a ton of dough. I didn’t realize that you had a connection to one of the participants. How old was he?”

Pamela inserted another roll in her mouth.

“Your age?” Ginter asked helpfully.

She nodded through a full mouth.

“Are you ready to order?” the waiter asked, reappearing at deVere’s shoulder.

“We’re still waiting for one.”

“I’m here,” Amanda said, breathlessly slipping back into her seat. She replaced her pocketbook on the floor. “Sorry about that.”

Ginter closed his menu. “I’ll start. Cheeseburger, no onions, ketchup.”

“Cheese steak. Also no onions,” Amanda said.

“No one likes onions?” Paul teased. “Well, they do have a salad, and I’ll have one. Russian dressing.” He tossed his menu down.

“You O.K.?” Paul asked Pamela kindly.

She nodded solemnly, brushing at her eye. “I guess I’ll have a salad too.”

“Born in 1908?”

Paul deVere stared at the New York State paper driver’s license that bore his name—and a birth date of October 2, 1908. He leaned back in his chair in Room 237 of the Carpenter Hotel—Lewis’ room.

“Why’d you ever make me born in 1908?”

Lewis Ginter didn’t look up from the Manchester Union Leader he had bought at Pete’s Variety Store and which now lay spread across the room’s only bed.

“Do the math,” he said simply. “We were supposed to come back in 1962, remember? You’re 53 years old. For that to work you would have had to have been born in 1908.”

DeVere leaned back and closed his eyes. “But Lewis,” he began, “we’re in much better shape than these people. Look at them. Fifty-three isn’t that old in 2026 but back here…” His voice trailed off. “Couldn’t you have made me 43?”

Ginter checked his watch. “How long have they been gone?”

“Hey, shopping, you know how it is. It must be a culture shock. You sure it was O.K. to let them go by themselves?”

“Less risky,” Ginter answered. He pointed at the open page before him.

“They have it right here on pages four and five. The place is called Leavitt’s. Women’s clothes, and just a couple of blocks away. When they get back we’ll go to that Easler’s place.”

DeVere sighed and sat up. “What do you find so interesting in that damn paper?”

Ginter flipped to another page. “Just trying to get the lay of the land.”

He reached under the paper and pulled out the sheaf of papers Amanda had brought with her. He tossed them on the nightstand.

“Other than one copy of Kennedy’s itinerary none of our records made it back,” Ginter said. “And we can’t rely on Amanda’s recollection for the day to day stuff. We’re going to live this in real time.”

“And what is the lay of the land?” deVere asked, indicating the newspaper.

“Well,” Ginter said, turning another page. “Sox lost again. Seven to five to the Washington Senators. Wilbur Wood got beat.”

“That’s it? Sox news?”

“No, that’s not it. Plenty of good movies playing. Mutiny on the Bounty, The Great Escape, and ‘Bye Bye Birdie. Hey, and speaking of Kennedy as a war hero, P.T. 109 opens Wednesday at The State Theater.”

“Great Escape?” deVere mused. “Does that have Jim Brown in it?”

Lewis Ginter shook his head. “You’re thinking of The Dirty Dozen. This one had Steve McQueen and no brothers. I’ve seen them both zillions of times.”

DeVere nodded. “Anything else?”

Ginter frowned. “Three headlines on the front page. Two on the struggle against Communism: the nuclear treaty with the Soviets and Britain and a skirmish at the DMZ in Korea. Conservatives are up in arms. Opinion pieces galore.”

DeVere waved his hand. “That paper was a right wing rag. You forget I grew up here.”

“I didn’t forget,” Gunter said quietly. “But there are wire stories about groups forming to oppose JFK. The Republicans have formed several groups to attack him. One is called the Critical Issues Council. Another is the Business Industry Policy Action Committee. Ike’s brother is heading up one of them.” He pointed down. “All in today’s paper.”

“Ike’s brother?”

“Former President Eisenhower’s brother, Milton. Two headlines out of three. Opposition groups forming. An article on the back page details the courage of some local who stood up to the Reds. Cartoons about the folly of trusting the Commies.”

“Sounds like good advice.”

Ginter folded the newspaper. “This is a divided nation. Very much so.”

The room grew quiet. DeVere turned to Ginter.

“Do you really believe someone else came back?” he asked.

“I think so. I wish I had paid more attention to Eckleburg in Newton. I was followed from that meeting but assumed it was just a standard tail. I can’t figure out Eckleburg’s concern, but whatever it was, I guess it wasn’t really about money. Damn!”

“So, what was it about?” deVere asked.

Ginter shook his head. “No scenario makes any sense. Is someone trying to help us or hurt us? I just don’t know.”

DeVere smiled. “And now we’ve missed our target by a year. Did that cause us to already fail?”

“Do you trust her?” Ginter asked suddenly.

“Huh? Geez, Lewis, we’ve been over this already.”

“Paul, I didn’t trust her before. Maybe this screw-up was not so accidental.”

“We’ve had this talk,” Paul protested.

“There’s something else,” Lewis said. “Something I didn’t know last week. The reason she came to Cambridge. I thought her showing up was a bit too coincidental.”

“Lewis, she has a kid. Her ex has custody. She wanted to be closer to spend more time with him.”

“I have friends,” Lewis said. “All over the country. After our talk last Saturday I called down to North Carolina.”

“Yeah, so?” deVere asked warily.

“Amanda got divorced when she was teaching down there. I had my source pull her divorce file. Public record, you know. He overnighted me a copy. It came this morning.”

“Lewis, how is this any of our business?” Paul asked, agitated.

“She lied, Paul. There’s no kid in Braintree. The divorce decree says that they were married just over four years. No children.”

“Maybe it’s a mistake,” Paul argued. “How do you know the paperwork’s not wrong?”

“She was married to a guy named Gunther, William Gunther. My source checked him out. He was in real estate in Chapel Hill. Still is. There’s no William or Bill Gunther in Braintree. And after her divorce she went back to Leipzig again. Voluntarily.”

“Oh for Christ sakes, Lewis, you think all women lie. You don’t believe stories about freaking tires. There are a hundred possibilities. Maybe your friend is wrong. Maybe the records are wrong. Maybe the squishers are screwing with us. Did you ever think of that? How do you know they didn’t doctor up her file to make us suspect her? Why would she make up a story about a kid in Braintree? Vodkaville would have come up with a better one than that, and then planted documentation.”

Paul stood and began pacing. “Look, if Amanda wanted to screw us up, if she were Agency, heck if she and our Natasha friend and that Russkie dude were all best buddies, all she had to do was have a hit man take us out!”

Paul made a gun with his hand and thumb and pointed it at Ginter. “Pow. Pow. Pow. All over. Why screw around with putting us one year too late? That’s not Vodkaville’s style. You know that as well as anyone.”

Ginter tossed the folded paper aside and threw himself back on the bed.

“Maybe you’re right. But Eckleburg sending that Rhodes girl makes no sense. She knows nada about bomb making. Eckleburg should have known better.”

“Or Maddox?”

Ginter shrugged. “Either way, Eckleburg should have seen through it. Even if Maddox is dirty.”

“So, you got any ideas?” deVere asked.

Ginter sat back up, reopened the paper, and smiled.

“I’ve got one.” He pointed to an advertisement. “Moreau’s hardware, they should have automobile tools.”

“Huh?”

Ginter flipped to another page.

“I wonder how far it is to 1569 Elm Street? Resnik Motors.”

“Motors?” Paul asked. “What are you talking about?”

Ginter pointed to another ad. “A used 1961 Corvette for $2,995.00. And I’ve got the cash and a New York State’s driver’s license.”

DeVere snatched the paper from his friend and stared at it.

“What are you going to do with a used Corvette?”

Ginter smirked. “First off, find a place to get these copied so we can all have a set,” he said, indicating the itinerary.

“And second,” he added, “buy a gun.”

Chapter 16

Lewis Ginter turned on to the Amoskeag Bridge and guided the 1961 Corvette east across the iron cage structure that spanned the Merrimack River at Manchester’s northern edge. To his right stretched the city. Even though it was now mid-afternoon the temperature had only reached the upper seventies. The convertible’s top was down and beside him Pamela Rhodes reclined in the passenger seat, eyes closed, soaking in the sun.

Lewis felt a bit absurd in the white shirt, chinos, and dress shoes he had just purchased. His jeans, underwear, sport shirt, socks, and Reeboks—all he had come through the wormhole with—were safely stored in the Floyd’s bag stuffed inside a locker at the bus station located off the Carpenter’s lobby. Only what had come through the wormhole could return, and Lewis had no intention of appearing naked back at the lab.

He incessantly replayed the events of the last six hours. He was amazed at how normal everything seemed. He pressed his fingers tight on the steering wheel and concentrated on the sensation. Back in Cambridge he had often wondered what it would be like, what he would feel.

Ginter shifted into third gear. When he removed his left leg from the clutch he stretched it to the side until he felt the muscle in his lower back begin to pull.

“Damn Soviet artillery,” he muttered. “I’ve got an injury from a war that hasn’t been fought yet. If I can go back in time why doesn’t my back regenerate, too?” Then he realized that if his body regenerated, he would have come through the wormhole as a single cell, or even less, in 1963.

He was left with a sense of awe. When he had contemplated the possibilities in Cambridge he had thought that the experience might possess a movie-set-like quality. DeVere had mused that if the Accelechron propelled one through the wormhole, it was impossible to know what the experience would be.

At the eastern end of the bridge Lewis slowed and turned right under a blinking traffic light. He headed down Canal Street toward the Carpenter Hotel. The array of oncoming fifties, and early sixties models on the narrow road confirmed the reality. Along his right ran a double set of railroad tracks. Beyond, a canal formed a mile long border to the labyrinth of canals, train tracks, and mill buildings that stretched down to the river.

“A mill town,” Paul had recalled in his eleventh floor room at The Carpenter just hours earlier. According to Amanda, he remembered rightly. In its heyday, the Amoskeag Corporation had been the largest textile company in the world employing, at one point, over 17,000 workers. The corporation had run the town and to Lewis’ left stood the remnants of the company housing where the Amoskeag had been able to recover in rents much of the measly wages it paid its immigrant workers.

It had always been the story of the South, with its plantations and slavery, that revulsed Lewis, but the North too had its story.

The Corvette was humming perfectly, and Lewis slammed it into second to slow, waited for a 1958 Dodge to pass, and then swung left and accelerated up Middle Street toward the Carpenter. After his quick trip with Paul to Easler’s and Floyd’s clothing stores, he had talked Pamela into accompanying him on a walk to Resnik Motors. He had carefully examined the Corvette in front of a suspicious sales clerk before paying the $2,995.00 in cash. He was surprised that no title was involved. From there they drove to a place called Riley’s Gun Shop in Hooksett, and then made the short drive to Concord to register the car.

As he approached the stop sign opposite the porticoed entrance to the Carpenter he slammed on his brakes and jerked the ‘Vette hard into a parking space. Pamela roused and sat up.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, brushing back her bangs.

“Cops,” Lewis said.

Across the street three Manchester police officers stood outside the main entrance, talking to the desk clerk. Two cruisers sat parked across the street. A fifth man, heavyset, turned and ducked into the building with one of the officers.

Without taking his eyes off the group Ginter asked, “What does Collinson look like?”

“Huh? You mean Ralph?” Pamela pursed her lips. “Older guy. Mid-fifties. White hair, balding. Very pale. Looks like everyone’s favorite uncle.”

“Heavy?” Ginter asked. Across the street the desk clerk remained huddled with the two officers.

“No, pretty thin. Why?”

“A guy just went into the building with one of the cops,“ Ginter said. “It wasn’t Pomeroy. I thought it might be Collinson. But he was heavy, and much younger.”

Lewis squinted at the group. “Look at the cop on the right,” he instructed. “Does he look familiar?”

Pamela raised her right hand and shielded her eyes. She studied the group and shrugged. “It’s not like I’d know anyone back here,” she answered.

“This morning, in the park, the two cops, wasn’t that one of them?” Ginter asked.

Pamela turned back to the group. The officer glanced up and looked directly at Ginter. He turned and said something to the other two men before crossing the street to one of the cruisers.

“It’s him,” Ginter muttered, and slammed the Corvette into first. He pulled out of the parking space and rolled up to the intersection. He turned right and threaded the sports car between the group and the cruisers without looking to either side. The desk clerk looked up and said something to the officer. At the corner Ginter turned left toward the city’s main thoroughfare, checking his mirror as he did so. A black Studebaker station wagon came up behind him. Behind it, the cruiser pulled out and turned up after him.

“Shit!” Ginter muttered.

Pamela turned and looked back.

“What are were going to do?” she asked, turning front again.

Ginter pondered. “We’ll circle around and try to get back into the hotel to check it out.”

The traffic light turned red and Ginter stopped the Corvette at Elm Street. He nonchalantly glanced back in his mirror again but the Studebaker blocked his view.

“See any ‘No Turn On Red’ sign?” Ginter asked.

Pamela shook her head.

“It’s O.K.,” she said.

Ginter looked to his left. Nothing was coming and Ginter turned right.

“We’ll circle back and park and approach the hotel on foot. We’ll go in the side entrance and up the stairs to their rooms,” he said.

Behind him the police cruiser whipped out around the Studebaker, turned right on Elm Street, and activated its red bubble light.

“He’s after us!” Pamela exclaimed. She turned to Lewis, her face pale. “I don’t have any identification on me.”

Lewis grimaced and checked the mirror again. The cruiser had closed to 100 feet.

“Buckle up,” he commanded.

Pamela reached back with both hands.

“There are none,” she said.

“Then hang on.”

Pamela grabbed the dashboard with her right hand and the edge of her seat with her left as Lewis turned the Corvette sharply to the right down Pleasant Street.

He accelerated down the steep hill only braking when he saw the road ending at Canal Street. Across the way were the railroad tracks and beyond, the array of mill buildings. Ginter shoved the ‘Vette into second and released the clutch. The car slowed and he turned left. Pamela twisted in her seat and stared back at the cruiser whose piercing siren could now be heard.

“The highway,” she called out to Ginter. “Get to the highway. You can outrun him there, like you did in Cambridge. You gotta’ go the other way.”

Ginter cranked the wheel hard right at the next intersection and the car jounced over triple railroad tracks and into the mill yard.

The cruiser slowed to take the same turn. Ginter turned the ‘Vette again, this time hard left, and accelerated along a cobblestone road between the train tracks and more brick housing.

“No highway,” he answered. “He’ll radio the State Police and they’ll put up a road block. We’ve gotta’ lose him in town. He can’t follow us in tight turns.”

Ginter twisted the wheel hard right and the car bumped down another cobblestone road between more brick housing. Laundry hung from porches. Ginter glanced back as the cruiser picked its way across the tracks before disappearing from view.

At the bottom of the hill the lower canal stretched before them and Ginter swung left. Directly ahead lay a main thoroughfare with heavy traffic. Beyond that to the left was a small railroad station.

“Shit!” Ginter said as he braked just before a sign that read, “Granite Street.” He nosed out into traffic and turned right as an approaching delivery driver slammed on his brakes and leaned on his horn. Ginter crossed over a small bridge above the lower canal before again swinging right onto Commercial Street and back into the mill yard.

“Watch for the cop,” he ordered and shoved the car up into third gear as he accelerated between two mill buildings. To his right was a low red brick building that blocked the view of the Corvette from the other side of the lower canal.

After several seconds Pamela said, “He turned with us.” The return of the siren’s wail confirmed her observation.

“Fuck!” Ginter exclaimed. “I thought he’d keep going across the river.”

“You weren’t far enough ahead. When he didn’t see you…” Pamela’s voice trailed off.

“I can fix that,” Ginter snarled as he popped the ‘Vette into fourth and raced up to sixty. The chassis vibrated violently over the cobblestones. Pamela turned forward and grabbed the dashboard with both hands.

Commercial Street was narrow with mill buildings close on both sides and Ginter wove the Corvette between parked vehicles and along a railroad spur that ran up the middle of the road. Startled workers quickly moved aside.

“Three more turns,” he chattered as the ‘Vette bounced over the cobblestones, “and that guy will be toast.” Behind them the siren began to fade.

They raced past a large horseshoe shaped building on the left with a “Habitant Soup” sign at the near end and a “Waumbec Mills” sign at the other. When the low building on their right ended Ginter jerked the ‘Vette hard right. The rear of the sports car slid out but Ginter cut the wheel back and the car skimmed past the building’s wall. He accelerated under an overhead walkway and across a steel bridge over the lower canal. Straight ahead loomed another main roadway. To their left lay the Amoskeag Bridge and the highway entrance. Behind them the siren grew fainter.

“Go for the highway!” Pamela yelled. “Left, left!”

At the far edge of the canal Ginter passed one more set of mill buildings and then swung hard right down Bedford Street.

This road was narrower and filled with trucks backed into a line of loading docks. Ginter braked to a crawl and picked his way around the vehicles. Curious faces stared down at the pair.

To their right was a five-story building while another lower building lay on their left. As Ginter cut around a 12-foot box truck he slammed on his brakes. Straight ahead the road ended at a wasteway that connected the two canals. A narrow train trestle spanned the wasteway, but sitting on the trestle was a locomotive which had backed three freight cars into the yard. Workers from Mill 3 on Ginter’s right were loading boxes into the second car.

“Shit!” Ginter exclaimed.

They both swiveled at the same time. The cruiser was not yet in view.

“Did the cop turn?” Pamela asked.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Ginter said. He shut off the ‘Vette and yanked the key from the ignition. He and Pamela flung open their doors. At the rear of the car he grabbed her hand.

“Let’s go!” he commanded, and together they ran back along the cobblestoned road. The siren grew louder. Several workers paused and stared in the direction of the approaching wail.

“The door!” Ginter shouted and pulled a stumbling Pamela toward a section of the low building that protruded into the roadway. They raced up five steps and Ginter tugged open an iron door as the cruiser hove into view. He pulled Pamela inside and yanked the door shut behind them. He looked desperately for a latch or lock. There was nothing.

They were in a stairway. One door led into the building while a set of iron stairs rose to a landing. On each of the metal risers the name “Amoskeag” was stamped. Ginter grabbed Pamela’s hand again and led her toward the stairway.

“Where’re we going?” she protested.

“Up!” was all he said.

Ginter passed the second floor without pausing. On the third he stopped and let go of Pamela’s hand. She was panting heavily. He could no longer hear the siren.

“Did he leave?” Pamela rasped.

Ginter shook his head. “He shut it off. Come on,” he said, and pulled open a tall wooden door. Together they walked on to an open floor piled high with crates and boxes arranged in neat rows.

“Storage,” he announced.

It was stifling. The high windows were all closed. The temperature was close to 100.

Ginter slid a wooden crate across the aisle and shoved it up against the outside wall. He climbed up and peered out the window. Two stories below the cruiser was turned sideways, blocking any escape by the Corvette back up Bedford Street. Its bubble light was flashing but the siren was off. The officer stood outside his cruiser holding a microphone connected by a curled cord to the dashboard.

“What’s going on?” Pamela panted.

“He didn’t follow us into the building. He’s with the car, maybe 150 feet back from the Corvette.” To Ginter’s left, workers had finished loading the freight car and one of them loudly rolled the side door shut before moving back to the loading dock to watch the excitement.

“He’s trying to use his radio,” Ginter added.

“There’ll be more cops here,” Pamela wheezed. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

Ginter shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’m not sure that radio will work between these buildings. They’re high enough to block the signal.”

Pamela turned and slumped against the inside of the brick wall and slid to the wooden floor. “So, now what’s the plan?” she asked without looking up.

Two workers had approached the officer and were pointing at the building. No one had yet entered the mill.

“We can go down the stairs at the end of the building near the trestle, cross in front of the train and get out of here on foot,” Ginter said. “Then we can hoof it back to the hotel.”

“You’re crazy,” Pamela said. “You know how many cops will be there? Paul and Amanda are probably arrested by now.”

Ginter grimaced.

A second black and white cruiser rolled into the yard and stopped. A single officer got out and began conversing with the first. Together, they looked up at the building. Ginter crouched.

“What is it?” Pamela asked.

“A second cop,” Ginter answered.

“Jesus, Lewis! You said that radio wouldn’t work.” Pamela stood up.

“He must have got a call through earlier,” Ginter argued.

“Now what are they doing?”

“Coming in,” Ginter said.

The two officers walked to the exterior stairway and the second one tugged open the door.

“Both of them?” Pamela asked.

“This is our chance to get out of here,” Ginter said. “Come on.”

Ginter jumped off the crate and strode toward the far end of the long room. Pamela cast one look back at the doorway that led to the stairs, and followed. At the end of the room Ginter stepped around a high set of steel shelves jammed with boxes that formed a wall. Behind them was a brick wall—the end of the building. Grey metal filing cabinets were pushed up against the bricks. In front was an ancient oak desk. The space served as a makeshift office. Ginter desperately searched along the back wall. There were no windows, and no door. He moved to the side window overlooking Bedford Street. Below, the two cruisers stood empty, their roof bulbs still flashing.

“They’re in the building,” Ginter said.

“There’re no stairs here,” Pamela said. “We’re trapped. We’ve got to go back.”

From the floor area Ginter heard the creak of the stairway door. He raised a finger to his lips.

He moved to the window at the other side of the building. Thirty feet below lay the upper canal, its murky surface camouflaging its depth. To his right was a small waterfall, which spilled into the wasteway and flowed to the lower canal. The building abutted the canal’s very edge. He quietly gestured for Pamela to join him.

“No way,” she whispered, when she looked down.

“No other way,” he hissed, and gently lifted the sash. When it was halfway up a shrill whistle startled him and a low rumble shook the building.

“The train’s moving, c’mon,” he urged, and climbed up on the window ledge.

“We don’t know how deep it is,” Pamela protested. She looked back at the wall of boxes and then quickly scrambled out onto the ledge.

A sheet metal vent protruded from the second story window directly below them. For the third time that day he grabbed her hand. “We have to clear that. Bend your knees,” he commanded and then, without another word, he leaped off the window ledge pulling Pamela with him. He closed his eyes just before he hit the murk, and was thankful that the water slowed the momentum of his fall before his feet scraped the canal’s bottom. He pushed off and shot back up, still clutching Pamela’s hand. They broke the surface five feet from the building’s edge and Ginter spit water from his mouth. He grabbed one of the granite blocks that lined the canal. The rough stones provided easy hand and footholds and together they pulled themselves up behind a shed connected to the side of the building. To their left the train had cleared the trestle spanning the wasteway and was moving away.

Ginter trotted to the shed’s corner and peered around. He stepped out and waved Pamela forward. They sprinted to the Corvette and Ginter jumped over the driver’s side and shoved the key into the ignition as Pamela circled around and got in the passenger side. The Corvette roared to throaty life and Ginter popped it into gear and was moving toward the trestle before Pamela had closed her door.

“Anyone?” Ginter asked as Pamela looked back. The car bounced wildly on the trestle as the Corvette crossed over the wasteway. Directly ahead the locomotive chugged the three freight cars back to the freight yard.

“Not yet,” Pamela said, keeping her attention riveted behind her.

Ginter turned left up West Central Street and out of the mill yard along the same road he had come in. Once across the triple train tracks he swung left onto Canal Street. In a moment of exhilaration, he took the ‘Vette up to 100 for about half a mile until he braked to turn left onto the iron bridge spanning the river. Only when they were heading south on the Everett turnpike at a comfortable 60 miles per hour did Pamela turn back to the front.

“No cops,” she said simply.

Ginter nodded.

“We were lucky,” she added.

Ginter shrugged. “Maybe that’s a good omen.”

“What about Paul and Amanda?” she asked.

“We can’t go back,” Ginter said. “The cops have the plate number. Hopefully, they made it out. We have to get out of state.”

Pamela took a deep breath. “And then what?” she asked.

Ginter tightened his hand on the steering wheel. “I’ve been thinking about this,” he said simply. “Today is Monday. We have four days.”

“Four days?” she asked. “To do what?”

“To get to New Orleans. We’ll contact Paul and Amanda later.”

Pamela leaned back and closed her eyes. Her clothes were soaked and she could still feel the canal’s oily dampness on her skin. The adrenaline rush was subsiding. She didn’t feel like asking how Lewis proposed to do that.

From his eleventh floor corner room Paul watched the three police officers conversing in front of the Franklin Street entrance. They had been with the manager for several minutes and he could not figure what they were up to. From behind his shoulder Amanda peered at the scene.

“Is that Lewis?” she asked when the Corvette veered sharply to the right into the parking space opposite the entrance. “And Pamela with him?”

Paul laughed. “He actually bought it! He always wanted a bug eyed ‘Vette. He never liked the Sting Ray model.”

“What’s he doing?” Amanda asked when Lewis drove the car past the officers and turned up Merrimack Street. Paul switched his attention to the room’s other window but gasped when the cruiser pulled out after the Corvette and Lewis accelerated down Elm Street, with Pamela craned backwards.

Paul turned open-mouthed to Amanda. “They’re, they’re after him,” he flustered.

“Why?” she asked.

Paul shook his head. “My God, he was right. I thought he was paranoid.”

He took a deep breath and sat on the edge of the bed. “He must have been right about those cops in the park.” He looked up at Amanda, a stunned expression on his face. “And now they’re after him.”

Amanda hesitated. “They’re after us, Paul. Not just him, us. We’ve got to get out of here.”

She grabbed her bag off the bed.

“Out of here? What, what do you mean?” Paul stammered.

“If Lewis is right then those cops are after us too. There’s no time. Grab your money and your ID. Leave the rest. We’ll head down the stairs. Forget the elevator.”

Amanda moved to the window and peered down.

“One policeman is still there,” she announced. “The other may be heading up here.”

Paul remained motionless on the bed. “We can’t go,” he spluttered. “We can’t separate from Lewis. How will he contact us?”

She wheeled on him. “How will he contact us if we’re in jail? Or in a psychiatric hospital?”

Paul stood up. “O.K., O.K.,” he said. “I’ve got my money. It’s in my belt. I’ve got the ID.”

Amanda grabbed him with one hand and flung open the hotel room door with the other. She pushed Paul into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind her. Without locking it she hurried toward the red “Exit” sign. She pushed through the stairway door and began racing down the stairs.

“The police will take the elevator,” she said. “There’s still one cop in front of the building. We’ll go out the side entrance to avoid him.”

“Then where?” Paul asked, huffing along behind her as they twisted down the stairwell.

“There’s a train station by the mill yard. We’ll take the first one that comes along.” Amanda began taking the stairs two at a time. Reaching the bottom she paused at the door before tentatively pushing it open. She peered around the edge.

“Clear,” she said and swung it wide. That end of the lobby was empty and Amanda strode across the tile floor past a barbershop through the revolving door to Merrimack Street. She turned and strode toward Elm Street. Paul trotted to keep up. They furtively circled around and down Depot Street, watching for police, until they stood across the street from the back of a small ticket building along the railroad tracks.

“Not much of a train station.” Amanda frowned.

“The bigger one was torn down,” Paul said absently, looking up and down Canal Street. “My parents complained about it.”

“No police,” Amanda said. She led Paul across the road, through the mostly empty parking lot, and around to the front of the one-story building. On the side of the building was a white schedule sign with metallic letters. The next train was to Boston in 17 minutes.

Amanda bought two tickets and the pair moved to the far end of the platform and sat on a bench facing the tracks. Amanda cast an occasional glance at the traffic behind them.

“You sure they were after us?” Paul asked. “It still makes no sense.”

“No, I’m not sure,” Amanda answered. “I’m not sure of anything.”

Paul sighed. “How will we find Lewis? We have no communicators, computers or cell phones. What are we going to do?” He turned to her. “Maybe we should go back.”

She turned to look at him. “And do what?” she demanded. “Even if they don’t kill us or lock us up, Lewis is not coming back to the hotel. Regardless of whether the cops are after us, they were after him. If they caught him, he’s going to jail. If he got away, he’s not coming back. All we can do is try and get away to someplace safe.”

Paul gazed at her, and his expression turned soft. For a brief moment, with the sun behind her, it seemed as if 28 years had melted away. They were sitting in the middle of the Arts Quad on the Cornell campus, Amanda eating a slice of pizza from Corny’s Pizza Truck, one hand wrapped around a can of Mountain Dew.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, seeing his expression.

“Hey you,” Paul said.

Amanda looked at him blankly, and then raised both eyebrows as if she understood. She flung her pocketbook over her right shoulder and shifted her feet nervously on the pavement.

“Still using the same pocketbook, I see,” Paul said. “Didn’t Leavitt’s have any new ones?”

“They were all too small,” she said, staring quietly across the tracks at the canal and beyond, another mill building.

“Where shall I go, what shall I do?” she mused.

“Gone With The Wind?” Paul guessed.

Amanda nodded. “I think so.”

“How about The Waldorf in New York?” Paul suggested. “Lewis mentioned it back when we planned to go to New York in ’62. Maybe he’ll think of it.”

“Maybe,” she said. “In Boston we’ll have to switch from North Station to South Station to get to New York.”

Paul grimaced. “Why not fly? Manchester has an airport.”

Amanda nodded. “Along with Kennedy’s itinerary I also had a complete printout of all air crashes for the whole period in 1962 that we’d be here. However, I didn’t do it for 1963.”

Paul nodded sagely. “Train it is then. If we get separated let’s have a plan. The New York Times should be available everywhere. I’ll place a help wanted ad for a… eh… tutor. PHYSICS TUTOR WANTED. It will have a phone number or P.O. Box. In either case I will switch the first two digits of the real number so only you will reach me.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she said.

As if on cue they heard a train whistle. The other passengers lounging about the platform perked up. A Boston & Maine Budliner with three passenger cars circled into view and glided to a stop in front of them. Paul and Amanda stood up. Amanda cast one last look back up Depot Street. Seeing nothing, she climbed aboard after Paul.

Chapter 17

Just south of Washington, D.C., Lewis Ginter swung the Corvette off the roadway and across a gravel parking lot. He let the sports car roll up to the two-story white wood frame motel before dousing the headlights. He left the engine running.

It was well after midnight and he and Pamela had been driving since escaping Manchester that afternoon. They had stopped in Connecticut for food, and Ginter purchased a series of Esso road maps which covered the country. On impulse, Pamela had bought a red and yellow scarf to keep her hair from flying, only to discover Ginter putting the convertible top back up after fishing around in the trunk. When he got back behind the steering wheel, he was wearing the oversized sportcoat he had purchased that morning.

The pair sat in the dark, staring at the side of the building.

“We don’t have to stop yet, I can drive,” Pamela said. She loosened the kerchief.

“I’m not tired,” Ginter said.

He smiled. “But it’s been a long day and it’s better to be safe. We’ll get plenty of sleep tonight and then drive straight through.”

Ginter folded the road maps next to his bucket seat. “Pre-GPS navigation aids,” he said.

“Are we going to get there in time?” she asked.

“Easily,” Ginter answered. “We could be in New Orleans by late Wednesday, even stopping to sleep. We don’t have to drive through if you don’t want to.”

“And then what?” Pamela asked. “What are you going to do in New Orleans?” It was the question she had wanted to ask since learning of their destination.

“Stop General Lee from defecting,” Ginter answered, reaching across her and shoving the maps into the glove box.

“Huh?”

“O.H. Lee. The future ‘Hero of Acapulco.’ The American who saved, or will save, Ché Guevara in Bolivia in 1968. According to his autobiography he is currently in New Orleans. He defected to the Soviet Union a few years ago, but returned. He’ll defect to Cuba later this year. He’ll head up a guerilla expeditionary wing that will save Ché from the Bolivian army. If I can stop the defection, he won’t be in Bolivia. If Ché is killed or captured there’s an excellent chance the insurgency falls apart in South America. And without that toehold America may not have to capitulate.”

Pamela sat silently, staring at the side of the building.

“So, that’s your plan, stop this Lee guy from defecting to Cuba?”

“That’s it,” Ginter said.

“When did he defect?”

“September, 1963.”

“What’s the significance of this Friday, in New Orleans?”

“In his autobiography he talks about August 9, 1963 as a pretty big day. He’s going to get into a fight with a bunch of anti-Castro zealots on a street corner while he’s distributing pamphlets. I know exactly where he’ll be, or at least, I know where he said he was. If I miss him there, he’ll be at the Cuban Embassy in Mexico City in late September to defect. Once he’s in Cuba I can’t get him.”

“And how are you going to stop him in New Orleans?” Pamela asked, pursing her lips.

Ginter stared straight through the windshield. Pamela’s gaze dropped to his left armpit.

“Jesus, Lewis. That’s it? That’s what you’ve got? You’re gonna’ shoot the fucker in broad daylight?” Pamela asked incredulously. She became frantic. “How are you ever going to get away?”

Pamela threw herself back against her door and turned sideways to face Ginter.

“This is stupid. I’ve driven down here with you for 10 hours on your way to just waste a guy? Even more important, how do I get away?”

Ginter turned to face his passenger. When she had calmed down he spoke softly.

“Wasting him is your phrase, not mine. He has to be stopped, and I know where he is on August 9th. I don’t know where he is after that. If I’m going to stop him in the United States, it has to be Friday.”

“Doesn’t his autobiography say what he does between August 9th and September whatever, when he defects?” she asked.

Ginter waved his hand. “He makes some reference to being in Clinton, Louisiana for a CORE voter registration drive in September. But I don’t have a date.”

“What was he doing there?”

Ginter shrugged. “Search me. He’s pretty vague about it himself. Probably just to promote the image of himself as a champion of the oppressed, which was a load of shit,” he added contemptuously.

Pamela snorted. “Doesn’t sound like you have a lot of intelligence on this guy. For being former Special Ops and all. Tell me again why I agreed to come with you.”

“Basically, you had no choice. And given our situation we don’t have a better plan.”

Pamela turned back to the front.

“I’m scared,” she said slowly. “This is so crazy I can’t believe it. Plus, I don’t even have any ID. How much trouble can I get in?”

Ginter shrugged. “I thought about going into New York to score a fake ID but was afraid we’d get caught. I’d say at this point we’re stuck with no identification, but I don’t think you’ll have a problem.”

“Well, we could have at least stayed in New York. That’s always been a fun town for me. We could have painted it red,” she said, her mood changing.

Ginter looked at her quizzically. “Sounds like you’re trying to shill for the Big Apple,” he said carefully.

Pamela laughed out loud. “Just nervous. Trying to figure out a way to blow off some steam, I guess.”

Ginter nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right,” he said. “This is crazy. And it seems to be getting crazier all the time.”

“I just can’t believe this is all happening,” Pamela said. “Two days ago I was in Portland, Maine, trying to figure out how to screw people injured in car accidents, and now here I am 63 years ago.” She shook her head.

“Yeah, well, it’s that way for all of us,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Speaking of Maine,” he said, “I have a question. You said that Pomeroy wasn’t your boyfriend. How’d you meet him?”

“Arthur?” Pamela pondered the question. “I met him in New Hampshire. My brother has a one-week time-share up there. Same week in December every year. He and his wife use it as a sort of retreat. They sit around and play board games. Kind of weird, I know. I usually go up and join them for a few days. One Friday I drove over for the weekend. The three of us went out to dinner and Arthur was at the bar. My sister-in-law knew him from Portland and called him over to our table.”

Ginter nodded. “My niece used to have a time-share up at Loon Mountain. She always said it was a lousy investment. Was Arthur by himself?”

“That weekend?” She shrugged. “As far as I know. I think he was up there skiing.

“Do you think he’s really back here?” Pamela asked.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m really back here.”

Lewis Ginter switched off the engine and extracted the key. The two got out and removed their newly purchased suitcases from the undersized trunk. Pamela began lugging hers toward the front door. There were about 15 cars in the parking lot. Just outside the entrance Ginter paused to listen to the crickets chirping in the adjacent woods. Such a beautiful night, he thought. But people sure do seem to go to bed early in 1963, he mused as he swung in through the doors.

Inside the door he stopped at a newspaper stand and studied the headlines, momentarily contemplating a Washington Post. He decided to get the morning paper instead. Better to get a good night’s sleep.

At the front desk Pamela Rhodes was already signing the guest book and Ginter put down his suitcase and waited. When she handed her cash to the manager and stepped aside Ginter shoved his suitcase up to the desk with his foot and smiled. The clerk did not smile back.

“What do you want?” the clerk asked. Ginter was tempted to make a smart remark but instead just answered, “A room,” while glancing at Pamela who stood fumbling her change back into her purse.

“This ain’t a colored motel,” the clerk said. “There’s a colored motel down the road.”

Ginter turned back to the clerk. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise. To his left Pamela stopped, her purse only half shoved back into her pocketbook. When he felt his left elbow beginning to press against his armpit he came to his senses and dropped his arm.

“Didn’t you hear me, boy?” the clerk asked. “You can’t stay here. You’ll have to get out before I call the police.”

The clerk looked at him expressionlessly, but Ginter could sense the hatred behind the veneer. Time stood still.

“I, I have money,” Ginter stammered, knowing even as he spoke the pointlessness of the words. He started to reach for his wallet.

The clerk leaned forward and raised his voice. “Nigger boy, are you deaf and stupid? I said no colored here. This is not a colored motel. You gotta’ go down the road. You best get along before you be seen here. Now get out of here.”

Without thinking Ginter blurted out, “I’m with her.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth he realized his mistake. The clerk’s eyes moved from Ginter to Pamela before narrowing with fury.

“What he means is, he’s my driver,” Pamela said quickly. She looked at the clerk and cocked her head toward Ginter.

“Or actually, my husband’s driver,” she continued. “You know how it is. My husband didn’t want me to come all the way down to visit my cousin in South Carolina by myself. And I wanted to take my car so he said he’d get by with no driver and Lewis here could drive me.”

She leaned up against the counter and whispered to the clerk. “It’s not that I don’t trust him with my car or anything but I want to get going early in the morning and”—she tilted her head sideways toward Ginter—“you know how they can be by themselves in some hotel.” She winked at the clerk.

The clerk appeared uncertain. “I don’t care. He still can’t stay here. You can stay here, ma’am, but he’s gotta’ go to the colored motel. He’ll have to pick you up in the morning.”

“Well, O.K.” Pamela pouted. “But would you happen to know how much the colored motel costs because I don’t want to give him too much money. You know,” she added conspiratorially.

“I have no idea,” the clerk said icily.

Pamela pulled her purse back out and handed Lewis a ten dollar bill.

“Now take this, Lewis, and pick me up at 10:00 tomorrow morning sharp. And don’t be late! And Lewis,” she added as she turned to go with her suitcase, “I want to see a receipt and some change.”

Pamela exited the motel at exactly 10:00 and walked to the waiting Corvette. The engine was running and the car was facing the exit. She had barely closed the door when Ginter slammed the car into first gear and popped the clutch, chirping the rear tires on the gravel before pulling out onto the paved road and heading south.

They rode in silence with no radio on for almost half an hour before Lewis said simply, “Thank you.”

Pamela snickered. “Remember that old movie, Driving Miss Daisy? That’s where I got it from.”

“You thought fast. Coming up with that story.”

Pamela nodded. “Part of my training.”

“In the Resistance?” Ginter asked.

She shook her head. “Insurance adjusting,” she said.

Ginter exhaled deeply. “Back in ‘04 during the Balkans War we were outside of a Greek town called Porti. It’s in the mountains. It was all hilly to the west and there’s a wooded plain to the east. There was a mobile Russkie command post directing artillery that had been clobbering us. We had tried to get a bead on the radio transmissions but they were keeping them real brief and this guy kept moving around.”

Ginter guided the Corvette out and around a tractor-trailer truck before continuing.

“We had a plan called ‘one, two, three zap.’ Basically, I take a squad and circle around to the west and enter the town just after dawn. It would look like we had arrived late because of the hills rather than attacking at night, as they would have expected. The subterfuge only has to last a few minutes and we figured they’d counter-attack the probe. Then we’d attack with a full platoon from the east so the Russkies would think that the west was a feint. At that point, their command would take full control of the defense and should start ordering a full redeployment to defend the real attack from the east. And in that momentary flurry of redirection orders we had a ‘copter loaded to lock on to the surge in radio traffic and track a missile into the transmission point and, hopefully, take out the whole C and C.”

Ginter took a deep breath. He kept his eyes on the road. Pamela remained turned toward him, saying nothing.

“Anyway, that was the plan,” Ginter continued. “I came in with a squad on time and there was no perimeter guard. Nothing. We crept into town and I saw a courtyard with a dinky antenna in the window of a building behind a stone wall. There was no gate but we scoped it and still didn’t see anything so I went over the wall. Still nothing. Then through these French doors I see the whole fucking Russkie Command Center including a fat General with his feet up on a desk talking on a regular phone. I figure there have to be guards up the yin-yang. I figure I’m about to die in a hale of bullets. But no one looked up. There was no time to get anyone else without alerting every Russian. I didn’t even have a grenade on me, just my M-16.”

Ginter was gripping the steering wheel hard and sweat beaded on his forehead. He wiped his face with the back of his hand.

“There was no time, and nowhere else to go. I kicked open the doors. It looked like it had been a café. The general turned and started to say something and I lowered the M-16 and put one in his mouth and then I sprayed the room. Three guys burst open a door from a balcony and I sprayed them too. In less than a minute it was all over and there was no need for the ‘copter. I called in my guys and we blew up the room and that was it.”

Ginter took a deep breath. “For maybe 45 seconds of hosing down a room I got a medal from the Greek government. We counted eight dead Russian soldiers. And in those 45 seconds I wasn’t scared. Not one bit. Didn’t shake afterwards. Crazy and adrenaline rushed all over the place, but not scared. Just blew the room and left.”

Ginter swerved back into the right lane, slowed the Corvette, and swiveled to look at Pamela. “Last night was different,” he said. “Last night I was damn scared.”

Chapter 18

On Friday morning, August 9, 1963 Lewis Ginter sat in his car outside the New Orleans train station. In the 84 hours since the Virginia motel incident, whenever he and Pamela were hungry, Ginter remained in the car and dispatched Pamela on a run of shops for sandwiches, chips and sodas. Bathroom breaks had been harder. Ginter had flinched when he first saw a “Colored” restroom, while Pamela had confidently strode past into the one marked, “Whites Only.”

Buying the Corvette had been rash. Registering it with New Hampshire license plates before driving into the South compounded the error. Although he had not yet been stopped by the police for being black-in-a-Corvette, he chastised himself for his lack of forethought. He compensated by only driving at night, or by having Pamela drive while he remained slouched in the passenger seat. He had resolved that if stopped and threatened with arrest he would shoot his way out of it. But that determination had not been comforting. Shooting a white police officer would have left him on the wrong end of a manhunt.

Ginter wondered if traversing back in time had eroded his intellectual or cognitive ability.

“It’s all screwed up,” he kept telling himself. “That’s all it is. Everything is messed up and you’re just not thinking clearly.” He resolved to dump the Corvette.

Across the street, a black shoeshine boy stood outside the terminal. The kid looked about 14 and Ginter mentally calculated that by 2026 he would be about 77. He wondered if he would still be alive, an African-American elder living in New Orleans. He toyed with the idea that when he got back to Cambridge he would travel to New Orleans and find the man, until he remembered that Hurricane Katrina had displaced most of the city’s black population.

Seeing no police, Ginter exited the Corvette and approached the youngster. He asked him for directions to Canal and St. Charles Streets. After getting them he retreated to the car.

Pamela had spent the last three days trying to talk Ginter out of shooting Lee. She had repeatedly emphasized that he would get caught. Driving the Corvette out of New Orleans would be impossible. The police wouldn’t arrest him; they’d just gun down the nigger who had shot the white guy. And even if he were arrested no defense would stop his eventual execution. And for what? Just so maybe Ché Guevara would get killed in Bolivia? Did Lewis want to throw his life away on a plan that might possibly thwart one small piece of the Communist initiative? Besides, Pamela argued in summary, what if someone else saved Ché anyway?

“You won’t get away with it,” she said. “And it probably won’t work. So why do it?”

But she had stuck with him. She hadn’t asked to leave the car at any of a number of way stops. Here in New Orleans, she was with him still.

When she emerged from the terminal with hotdogs and open soda bottles he checked his watch. If he had calculated it correctly, he would be there in plenty of time.

He hoped he had the date right. He was sure he remembered correctly. But what if the little weasel himself had been wrong? Or worse, had lied?

He checked his watch again, and then cursed himself for doing so. Was he coming apart? On the street, passers-by ignored him. A good sign.

He turned and got in the driver’s seat as Pamela circled around and got in on the passenger side.

“I’ll drive,” was all he said before gobbling the cool hot dog. He ignored the offered soda.

It took them eight minutes to reach the corner of Canal and St. Charles. He pulled into a parking space with a clear view of the street corner. He switched off the engine and used his left elbow to subtly check beneath his oversized brown cotton sport coat. He shook his head. Nerves, Lewis. He wondered when the last time was that he had checked for a sidearm. Greece, it was Greece.

No one was at the corner. Ginter’s heart sank. Had he arrived too late, or too early, or did the weasel have the wrong date after all?

I always knew Lee was an idiot, he thought. He considered that the incident might never have happened but had simply been manufactured for the memoirs. How am I going to track him then? Where can I pick him up?

And then, diagonally across the intersection, he saw him, dressed in a white short sleeve shirt, a placard hanging around his neck. He was approaching pedestrians, offering them small white pamphlets. He tried to read the placard when the man turned toward him, but he was too far away. “The Hero of Acapulco,” Ginter mumbled disgustedly. Got you.

For a moment he considered approaching the pamphleteer and making contact but decided against blowing his cover. He contemplated removing the loaded Colt from under his arm, dashing across the street, and blowing out the man’s brains—what there were of them.

Pamela stared at him apprehensively. He was sweating profusely and could feel the stickiness under his starched white collar.

“Damn, no air conditioning,” he joked, but she didn’t smile. She kept looking at him.

Pamela reached down to the floor and lifted her pocketbook up into her lap. Ginter looked at her quizzically.

“Well, she asked, “are we getting out or not?”

He turned back to the intersection. “No,” he said. “You’re right. That won’t do. I won’t kill him. At least, not here. I need a better plan.”

Pamela turned her gaze to the pamphleteer. Three Hispanic men approached him. The man seemed to recognize them as he smiled and extended his right hand. But one of the Hispanic men began yelling and calling the pamphleteer names. “You son of a bitch. Why, you are a Communist!”

Another shouted, “What are you doing?”

Ginter checked the men again. Only three. Not the ten to twelve as claimed in the memoirs.

Several pedestrians paused on the sidewalk as the confrontation continued. The three men were screaming, “Communist!” and “Liar!”

Others took up the shout and began jeering, telling the man to go back to Russia.

Ginter saw one of the Hispanic men remove his own eyeglasses and hand them to a companion. The pamphleteer lowered his own arms and yelled, “Hey Carlos, if you want to hit me, hit me.” Another of the three grabbed the pamphleteer and then grabbed the pamphlets and threw them into the air. They scattered in the light breeze.

The pamphleteer began yelling in the face of one of his tormenters. When a New Orleans patrol car approached the intersection Ginter slouched down in his seat.

A second cruiser pulled up and after a brief conversation all four men were handcuffed and shoved into the back of the second cruiser. Lights off, the two cruisers pulled away.

Well, Mr. Lee Harvey Oswald, not an auspicious beginning for the Hero of Acapulco, is it? Ginter mused.

“Still not there?” Amanda asked.

Paul deVere replaced the receiver on its cradle. “Still on vacation.”

“You think he really is?”

DeVere shrugged. “Hey, it’s mid-August. Didn’t all these New York people go out to the Hamptons or something every summer?”

It was Amanda’s turn to shrug. “I don’t know. They were never my crowd.”

She lay back on her bed at the New York Waldorf and gazed at Paul deVere who stood, looking down at the telephone as if expecting it to ring. The two weeks since they had tumbled unconscious in Manchester, New Hampshire, had passed in a blur. Their hurried train trip to New York through Boston had led to an extended stay at the Waldorf. They stuck to their rooms during the day, venturing out at night.

Amanda suggested that going out together was risky lest one of them slipped and made a conversational reference to their situation. Further, she urged they take separate rooms, decreasing the likelihood people might link them. Paul had not argued.

Other than Amanda’s quick trip to the beauty parlor for a more contemporary hairstyle, they worked on reformulating their plan. Calls to Harrison Salisbury at the New York Times were intercepted by a variety of secretaries who dutifully checked before informing them that he was still on vacation.

Frustrated, Amanda urged that they do something productive while waiting. They purchased two typewriters, reams of paper, and envelopes, and began an aggressive letter writing campaign to every newspaper they could find, warning of “The Coming Communist Menace.” Neither had illusions that the campaign would amount to a hill of beans, but it couldn’t hurt. They had time to fill while waiting for Salisbury’s vacation to end, or for Lewis to turn up. They took solace that calls to the Manchester Police Department, New Hampshire jails, and the New Hampshire State Hospital, revealed that neither Lewis Ginter nor Pamela Rhodes were in custody. Somehow, they had gotten away.

“If we get to see Salisbury, what will we say?” Paul asked.

“Tell him the truth?” Amanda suggested.

“Yeah, right,” Paul scoffed. “How are we now going to prove that we’re from 2026?”

“You have a better idea?” Amanda challenged testily.

“No,” he said apologetically. “I’m just wondering if there is something else we can do. We seem to be just sitting around waiting for him to come back from vacation.” He looked at the street below.

“I don’t know where they can be either,” Amanda said to his back.

He turned. “They should have called by now. I mean, if they could. He mentioned the Waldorf at my house. He should think of that.

“I think he was wrong that someone else came back,” deVere continued. “I think those cops were just checking for kids drinking. If someone wanted to kill us, they would have been waiting with guns when we arrived and blasted away. Why send cops to poke around? What could they have done? Arrested us for loitering?”

He turned back to the window. “No one followed us. I haven’t seen anything suspicious. It’s just the four of us and we’ve split up for no reason.”

Amanda didn’t answer.

“Suppose Salisbury never gets back?” he asked. “Suppose he goes to Europe on a story and isn’t around until December? Is there something else we can do?”

“Such as?” Amanda asked.

“I don’t know,” Paul said. “You’re the history professor. What else can we do to convince Kennedy to invade Cuba, or step up in Southeast Asia?”

“We could try to see him,” she offered.

“I’m serious, Amanda, what other options do we have?’

“I’m serious too. We can try to see the President.” She raised herself up on one elbow, a thoughtful expression on her face.

“And just how do we do that?” Paul asked cautiously.

“Well, let’s see,” Amanda said, “the most powerful men in Washington are probably J. Edgar Hoover, the head of the FBI, and Senator Strom Thurmond, of South Carolina. Either of those two might get us in.”

“Why would they?” deVere asked. “What would we say to Kennedy?”

“Hmm,” she said, sitting straight up. “Why would it be any different from what we’d tell Salisbury? Hey, if we’re going to strike out it might as well be with the President. If we’re going to fail we might as well fail at the top.”

Paul pondered. “Didn’t Kennedy have a girlfriend? That actress who committed suicide?”

Amanda groaned. “You mean Marilyn Monroe?”

Paul nodded. “Could we approach her and get her to sign an affidavit or something and then blackmail our way into the Oval Office?”

Amanda got up off the bed and began pacing. “She died last year. It’s too late for that.”

Paul frowned in disappointment. “Any other girlfriends?”

Excitement grew in Amanda’s face. She quickened her pacing. “Yeah, Exline, no not Exline, Exner. Judith Exner. She’s also the girlfriend of Sam Giancana.”

“Who?” Paul asked.

Amanda waved him off. “But the others. The others.”

“What others?” he asked.

Amanda frowned. “J. Edgar Hoover. Hah!” She smiled broadly and began moving her hands as she paced. “Of course! What an idiot I’ve been! J. Edgar Hoover has a penchant for dressing up in women’s clothes. There are pictures of him at a party that some people in Organized Crime have.”

Paul appeared doubtful. “I don’t know, Amanda. We don’t have those pictures and if we did, how would we get in to see Hoover to tell him we know that he’s a cross-dresser? He’d just call in some goons and charge us with some sort of crime for threatening him.”

Amanda stopped and stared straight ahead. Her lips mouthed her thoughts. Paul remembered that pose from Ithaca, mouth twitching, the stare, fists clenching and unclenching. She was on the historical hunt.

“You may be right,” she said. “But Thurmond, we could get in to see Thurmond. And I bet he could get us into the White House.”

“And how do we get a United States Senator to help us?” deVere asked.

“Oh, Paul, Paul, Paul,” she said, beaming. For the first time since she had gotten off the bed, she looked right at him. Her eyes blazed and he stepped back.

“Because, my dear Paul,” she laughed, “Senator Thurmond, the beloved segregationist of the 20th century, has a daughter.”

Paul shrugged. “Yeah,” he said, not comprehending, “so do I.”

“Yes,” she answered, “but the Senator’s is black.”

Chapter 19

“Here it is,” Ginter said, pulling up in front of 107 Decatur Street. A red sign with blue letters over the door proclaimed, “Casa Roca.” Through the plate glass store front, Lewis Ginter and Pamela Rhodes could see bolts of cloth piled on the right side of a center aisle that extended back from the front door. Other housewares were arranged on the left.

“Cuban owned general goods store circa 1963,” Ginter added.

“Not exactly Wal-Mart,” Pamela mused.

“Let’s go shopping,” he said, getting out of the Corvette. “Coming?”

Since his moment of uncertainty in New Orleans two weeks earlier, Lewis Ginter had slowly re-acquired his confidence and self-assurance. “Getting my sea legs,” he had explained. In doing so, the pair had given the Corvette a workout. They traveled to Dallas to survey Oswald’s wife’s apartment in an effort to spot Collinson or Pomeroy. After a week of snooping came up empty, they had raced back to New Orleans. Only a quirky radiator hose marred the trip.

He was becoming more comfortable in the South now. He had learned to look down when he passed a policeman and away from approaching whites. But he still found himself pressing his left elbow against his armpit, just in case.

As he and Pamela walked across the bare wooden floor of Casa Roca, Ginter smelled mustiness.

“Excuse me,” he said to the mustached man behind the counter. Ginter estimated him to be in his early thirties, and obviously Cuban.

“My name is Alex Johnson,” Ginter began. “I am looking for some people who may have tried to contact you a few weeks ago about the time of that incident on Canal Street between Mr. Oswald and the owner of this store, Señor Bringuer.”

The man eyed him suspiciously and then shifted his attention to Pamela. “Carlos?” the man asked in a thick Spanish accent. “What is your relationship with Carlos?”

“It is not with Carlos,” Ginter said. “It is with Mr. Oswald. Mr. Oswald is not the anti-Castro activist he says he is, and Señor Bringuer needs to know that. Would you be Carlos Bringuer?”

The man shook his head. “Carlos is not here. We know all about Señor Oswald. He was in here a few days before the fight telling us that he was an ex-Marine who wanted to fight against Castro. He left his training manual here as proof. But Carlos has no interest in fighting. That is not his way to bring down Fidel. After they got arrested, Carlos debated the man on the radio.”

The man gestured out the door. “Let those who run the camp across the river plan their street fighting in Havana.”

Ginter nodded. “I am concerned with two of Oswald’s friends who may be spies for Castro.”

“Spies?” The man’s eyes narrowed. “You walk in here and I don’t even know you and you talk of spies? How do I know you are not a spy?” The man looked past Ginter to the deserted street.

“You don’t,” Ginter said blandly. “But what does it hurt to listen?”

Before the man could respond Ginter continued. “The men we are looking for are two white men.” He turned to Pamela. “One is older, about mid-fifties, very light skinned, white hair, balding, medium build. The other is short, stocky, messed up hair,” he finished as he pictured Arthur Pomeroy at the meeting in April.

Ginter turned back to the clerk. The man pursed his lips and shook his head.

“I would remember such men, Señor,” he said slowly. “Carlos does not meet with anyone I do not know. I know well this Señor Oswald. But no men like you describe have met with Carlos or with any of the others who are with us.”

Ginter looked hard at the Cuban before nodding.

“Thank you,” Ginter finally said. “If you see them please tell Carlos for us that they are not to be trusted.”

“I will tell him, Señor,” the man said as Lewis and Pamela walked back outside.

In the car Pamela asked, “Do you believe him?”

“Yeah,” Ginter answered, turning the key and starting the Corvette. “Collinson and Pomeroy haven’t been around here either.”

Paul deVere answered the telephone on the first ring.

“Dr. deVere?” the female voice asked.

“That’s me.”

“This is Charlotte from the New York Times. I know you have been calling to see Mr. Salisbury. I just found out he’ll be out of town all next week. He’s going to be giving a speech up at Syracuse University Tuesday night and from there he’s flying to Kansas City. His first available appointment would be in two weeks.”

“Syracuse University?” deVere asked. “What kind of speech is he giving up there?”

“He’s going to be speaking to the journalism school about the church bombings story from last winter.”

“I see,” deVere answered. “No, that will be all right. If we still need to see him in two weeks we’ll get back to you then,” he said and hung up.

Paul deVere dialed the front desk and asked to be connected to Amanda’s room. How long is the train ride to Syracuse? he wondered.

Chapter 20

Paul and Amanda sat in the back row of Hendrick’s Chapel on the campus of Syracuse University. It was mid-September, and the school had been back in session only a few weeks. The lecture by Harrison Salisbury was well attended. In the aftermath, Salisbury stood at the front of the chapel chatting with a few students. One by one, they peeled off. Paul knew from his own teaching experience, Salisbury would soon be alone.

“Without the documents, he’ll never believe us,” Paul said.

“You’re the scientist,” Amanda said as she rose from the pew. “You explain the science. I’ll cover the history.”

Paul followed her to the front of the chapel. Seeing two adults approaching, the last student moved past them toward the doors. Salisbury, who Paul estimated to be about his own age, looked up. Amanda extended her hand.

“Mr. Salisbury?”

The man’s glance moved from her to deVere, and then to the rear doors. He slowly extended his own hand.

“Yes,” he answered cautiously. “Can I help you?”

“My name is Amanda Hutch. Dr. Amanda Hutch. And this is Dr. Paul deVere. Is there someplace we could speak privately?” she asked, searching the now empty chapel. Salisbury followed her gaze before shrugging.

“This is probably as good a place as any,” he said. “Is this about my speech? I noticed you sitting in the back, and you don’t look like students.”

“Oh, no, sorry,” Paul stammered. “It’s not about your speech. Although it was very interesting,” he added quickly.

“Are you physicians?” Salisbury remained polite but Paul detected concern in his voice.

“No,” Amanda answered. “We are not physicians. Actually, we are professors. We teach, sort of, at MIT.”

Salisbury raised his eyebrows. “What does ‘sort of’ mean?”

Paul cleared his throat. “Mr. Salisbury. The information we have to share with you may seem odd. We just ask that you hear us out before jumping to any conclusions.”

Salisbury’s gaze again moved from one to the other. “So, this is not about Birmingham?”

“Birmingham?” Paul asked.

Amanda turned to Paul, clearly exasperated. “You know, the topic of his speech.”

She turned back to the lecturer. “Mr. Salisbury, your articles on the church bombings were excellent. No, not about Birmingham. Paul, why don’t you explain the science.”

DeVere took a deep breath. Salisbury had visibly relaxed when Amanda had said that they were not there about Birmingham.

“Dr. Stephen Hawking’s book, A Brief History Of Time, discussed the concepts of time and space. Dr. Hawking wrote and lectured extensively on the subject, and developed a theory of wormholes. However, he believed that time travel was not possible.”

“Hawking? Does he teach with you, sort of, at MIT?”

“At Cambridge University in England. Astrophysics.”

“Ah,” Salisbury nodded.

“Same field as myself at MIT. We’re both Astrophysicists.”

“Well,” Salisbury interrupted. “I’m not the science man at the Times. If you’re looking to get a science article written—”

“No,” deVere interrupted. Amanda frowned at the force of deVere’s interjection.

“No, I’m not,” deVere continued. “Please hear us out. Another theorist, Kip Sone, believed that wormholes could be used to connect various points in time and space, in other words, to act as time machines.”

“Like H.G. Wells?” Salisbury asked.

“Yes. Like Wells. Anyway, a third theorist, Dr. Bennett David, took Sone a final step. Hawking felt that if one attempted to travel through a wormhole the resultant disruption in the space-time continuum would make the travel impossible. In his view this explained why we can only remember the past but not the future.”

“Or sometimes neither,” Salisbury joked.

DeVere smiled and continued. “Dr. David theorized that travel through wormholes was possible if matter were sufficiently accelerated. But to keep the balance in the universe that he theorized was necessary, there had to be contrapositive wormholes, in order to get back.”

Salisbury nodded slowly. “Roundtrip ticket.”

“Exactly!” deVere thundered. “And everything that traveled back to the earlier time can return without being accelerated again.”

Harrison Salisbury leaned back against the table, pursed his lips, and nodded.

“This is interesting. I like this. It’s certainly different than Birmingham. This David fellow, can I talk with him?”

DeVere shook his head. “In his later years he kind of, how should I say this, went off the deep end. He became a full time surfer.”

“Oh? That’s too bad. He moved to California?”

“No, he spent his days on the Gorenect.”

“The what?” Salisbury asked, his brow furrowed.

It was Amanda’s turn to enter the conversation.

“The Gorenect,” she added quickly. “It’s a system linking computers so that they can all talk together.”

She looked to Paul for help.

“It was named after its inventor,” Paul offered.

“I see,” Salisbury said. “I’m not familiar with computers. Well, what about this Hawking fellow. You said he wrote a book. When was it published?”

“Nineteen eighty-nine,” Amanda answered without flinching.

DeVere watched as the expression on Salisbury’s face stiffened. He looked at the pair and then his gaze drifted to the closed chapel doors behind them. Paul was aware of how alone the three of them were, and realized that Salisbury felt it too. His heart sank.

“I see,” Salisbury said. He cleared his throat. “This has been very interesting, but I’m not your writer.”

He stood up off the table and reached to the podium for his notes. “However, there are several writers in the New York area—“

“Wait!” Amanda’s sharp command startled even Paul. Salisbury halted, his hands poised to close his briefcase.

“Listen,” she continued. “We didn’t ride up from the Waldorf in New York City just to track you down to tell you time travel was possible. We come from Cambridge, Massachusetts in 2026. Cambridge, Massachusetts, A.S.S.R., not Cambridge, Massachusetts, U.S.A. From a world in which the Soviet Union has won what you call the Cold War. All that’s left of the U.S.A. are three semi-autonomous trade zones. The rest of the old United States is all Red. With a capital ‘R.’ Straight up Communist, blindly following orders from Yeltsengrad, which used to be Minneapolis. I risked my life to come back here and you WILL at least hear us out!”

Salisbury stood frozen, his hands clutching his case. His eyes, however, darted from one to the other.

“Minneapolis?” Salisbury asked. “My home town. Are you guys John Birchers?”

“What?” Paul asked. He looked to Amanda.

“John Birch Society,” Amanda answered impatiently. “John Birch was an American missionary in China who was killed by Communist forces. He was considered the first American casualty of the Communist expansion, or at least of the Chinese Communist takeover. A group of right wingers in the United States formed an organization called the John Birch Society that was popular in the 1960s.”

She turned back to Harrison Salisbury. “No, we are not John Birchers.”

“She’s a history professor,” deVere added lamely.

For the second time that evening Harrison Salisbury hesitated, and then he leaned back on the desk behind the podium.

“At MIT, right?” Salisbury asked. “So, tell me the rest of your story. Who’s our next president?”

Amanda nodded. “Bobby Kennedy.”

Salisbury snorted. “Not very inventive. Everyone knows he has aspirations.”

Amanda ignored him. “There are two things going on right now. In October 1962, last fall, President Kennedy declined to invade Cuba during your so-called Cuban Missile Crisis. That was against the advice of just about everyone in his circle. Curtis LeMay, Senator Fulbright, Senator Richard Russell, everyone.”

“And how do you know what the advice of these people was last year?”

“Kennedy secretly tape records all oval office conversations. They’ll become public eventually.”

“I see,” Salisbury said. “So obviously you listened to them in the future. At MIT.”

“Cuba is even now working to undermine Central America,” Amanda continued, ignoring Salisbury’s soft sarcasm. “Eventually, Southern and Central America will come under Cuban influence. Right up through Mexico. It will become another Soviet Union, right on our southern border. And Communism will expand over all of Southeast Asia and down the Malay Peninsula by the late 1960s.”

“During Bobby Kennedy’s administration?” Salisbury asked slyly, still eying the rear doors.

“Yes,” Amanda answered. “It gets worse. The Soviet Union makes a grab in the Balkans and Europe. But long before all that we’ll be threatened right here with weapons of mass destruction along the Mississippi Valley.”

“Interesting. Are you saying it’s too late?” Salisbury asked.

DeVere shrugged. “We don’t know. Our plan was to come back to the summer of 1962, approach you, and tell you our story. We had newspaper articles to prove we are real time travelers. We wanted the New York Times and the Washington Post to push for a Cuban invasion last October. The United States would have won that war.”

“Yeah! But at what cost?” Salisbury asked. “It wouldn’t have stopped there. Russia would have grabbed Berlin in a heartbeat and it might have been atom bombs on the Hudson after that.”

“Do you want to know the cost of Soviet occupation of most of the United States by 2026?” deVere asked quietly.

“How could the Soviets ever take over America?” Salisbury scoffed. “That whole Soviet philosophy would never be accepted here.”

“Philosophy?” Hutch asked incredulously. “Political philosophy? Political philosophy had nothing to do with it. It was all about power. The Soviets re-invented themselves as neo-Soviets. They pandered to fringe political and religious groups unrelated to traditional Soviet values. Not that the neo-Soviets really gave a shit about these people. But they convinced enough ordinary Americans that they cared about their issues. Finally, they had a majority that supported them. But it had nothing to do with politics. Once they got into power they were able to make money, lots of money, in this country. And that’s all they really cared about.”

“Interesting. So why didn’t you come back last year?” Salisbury asked.

“The CA,” deVere answered. “The American version of the KGB. They were onto us and we had to leave earlier than we planned. This was the closest wormhole we could find but it landed us back in 1963, and not 1962.”

DeVere closed his eyes as he pictured the scene in the lab, the Russian with a gun and the fire alarm blaring. Why had the fire alarm gone off? Ginter had said there was no fire.

“Nice story,” Salisbury said. “So, isn’t it too late now? Why would Kennedy invade Cuba now? Assuming your story is, eh… true.”

“It’s got to be stopped some place,” Amanda said. “With the Communists moving up through Central America and Mexico and down through the Malay Peninsula, the United States will be helpless to stop it all. After that, it’s all academic. Just like falling dominoes.”

“Dulles,” Salisbury answered. “His containment theory.”

Amanda nodded. “Dulles. But worse than he ever thought. The Soviet Union and China will fight two huge wars. Millions die. The United States will get sucked in on the side of China, a bad choice, and when China goes down the U.S. will be threatened with weapons of mass destruction, not what you think of as hydrogen bombs but chemical, and what will be called dirty weapons. Some will cause massive casualties. That blackmail, combined with the million man army on our Southern border, missiles in Cuba with chemical warheads, will lead to a series of appeasement treaties.”

“War between Russia and China?” Salisbury thundered. “They are both Communist! But I’m not even the foreign affairs guy any more. If you had a plan to recruit a drum beater last year, why me?”

“You will be,” Amanda answered. “Starting in about 1964 or so you will be the foreign affairs guy at the New York Times.”

“Flattering,” Salisbury said, but Paul detected a flicker in the man’s eyes.

“So tell me, if you’re from the future, who will win the World Series this fall?” Salisbury asked mischievously.

“Dodgers,” Paul answered immediately. “In four.”

“Sweep the Yanks?” Salisbury scoffed. “There is no way.”

“Way. Sandy Koufax will be Series’ MVP. Cards in ‘64, Dodgers again in ‘65 over the Twins in seven, Orioles in ’66 over the Dodgers in four. Sweep. Write it all down.”

“He’s a baseball fan,” Amanda offered helpfully.

“So I see,” Salisbury said dryly.

“And my Mets,” Salisbury continued suddenly. “When will they ever win more than they lose?”

“Not until 1969 when they’ll win the World Series. They will go from next to last place in 1968 to winning the World Series in 1969.”

Salisbury laughed out loud. “World Series? This decade?” He chuckled again. “There’ll be a man on the moon first.

“Look, you two seem nice enough,” Salisbury continued. “Your story is entertaining. When you walked up here I was afraid it was about Birmingham and you were southern reactionaries. The Klan or something.

“But, I don’t believe one word of your story,” Salisbury continued. “As you probably know.

“Say, wait a minute,” Salisbury said, his face brightening. “Now I get it. Did Joe Spinelli put you two guys up to this? He did, didn’t he? That rascal.” Salisbury began laughing again.

Paul straightened up. “Amanda, it’s time to go.”

Hutch wasn’t ready to give up. She leaned forward and jabbed her finger on the table.

“What we said is true. This country is in danger.”

Salisbury stood up off the table. “Look, if the Mets win the ‘69 Series, I’ll believe you. Come back then.”

“It’ll be too late then,” deVere said flatly. “Cuba is already plotting Central American adventures. By the end of this year, the United States will have decided to pull out of Southeast Asia. If you won’t listen to us, at least keep your eyes and mind open.”

Salisbury nodded, picked up his briefcase, and took a step toward the front of the chapel. He turned back briefly.

“I will do that… Dr. deVere. Thank you both for coming.”

“You don’t have to run out, Mr. Salisbury,” Paul said. “We’re leaving.”

With a nod to Amanda he turned and strode out the rear doors to the Syracuse University quad, Amanda right behind him. As the wooden doors swung shut behind them deVere heard Salisbury laughing softly and muttering, “The Mets in ‘69.”

“I told you,” Amanda hissed as they walked down the steps, “that he’d never believe us.”

“You told me?” he asked incredulously. He stopped and looked at her.

“I now realize,” deVere sighed, turning and continuing his descent, “that it wouldn’t have mattered who I married.”

Chapter 21

Lewis Ginter stepped into the phone booth and closed the louvered door. He dumped his pile of change onto the shelf, lifted the receiver, inserted a dime, and dialed zero. When the machine returned his coin, Lewis added it to the pile.

It had been over a month since he had left Paul and Amanda in Manchester and he had yet to contact them. It should be about 8:00 a.m. in New York, and if they were at the Waldorf, contact should be easy. If they weren’t there…

Lewis almost held his breath as he asked the desk clerk to connect him to Paul deVere’s room. The pause at the other end was maddening but Lewis sighed in relief when the phone began ringing. At least he’s registered there, he thought.

After eight rings, the desk clerk came back on and asked if he wished to leave a message.

He hesitated before asking, “Could you connect me to Amanda Hutch’s room please?”

After a pause the phone began ringing again. He was about to hang up when he heard her voice at the other end.

“Hello?” she said.

He sucked in his breath. “Amanda?”

“Lewis?” Her voice was crackly.

“It’s me. Where’s Paul?” he asked.

“He’s out getting the papers. We read them every morning. Lewis, where the hell have you been? Are you O.K.? Is Pamela with you?”

“I’m fine. Pamela is fine.”

“Where are you?” she asked.

He hesitated. He wished he had reached Paul. “Down south,” he said. “Near Dallas.”

“Texas?” she asked.

“Yeah, Dallas, Texas.”

“Is Pamela still with you?” she asked.

“In a way,” he answered.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“Hey, you’re the history professor,” Ginter countered. “I’m staying in a colored motel. And I don’t mean the wall decor. Pamela is staying in one for white people a few miles away. We communicate by telephone and my motel doesn’t have a phone in the room, just cockroaches.”

There was a long pause. “I’m sorry,” Amanda said. She sounded genuinely apologetic. “Be careful.”

“Don’t worry, I have been.”

Lewis looked through the booth’s windows at the surrounding parking lot and scanned the cars coming and going. Nothing suspicious.

“Have you seen our friends?” Ginter asked, annoyed at how stilted this conversation was sounding.

“Friends?”

“Collinson or Pomeroy? Anyone seem not right at the hotel? Anyone following you? Anything not feeling right?”

“Neither one of us has seen anything that seems out of the ordinary, whatever that means,” Amanda said. “But you know, Lewis, neither one of us would know if someone was tailing us, we don’t have that kind of training. How about you?”

For a moment Lewis questioned his decision in leaving Paul and Amanda on their own. Maybe he should have risked circling back for them. If someone else were back here, they were sitting ducks. But whoever came back apparently didn’t want to harm them, at least not yet.

“I haven’t seen any sign of anyone, or anything suspicious.”

He told her about his efforts in New Orleans to discover whether Collinson or Pomeroy had been in contact with the anti-Castro faction.

“Anti-Castro?” Amanda asked. “What does that have to do with anything? I don’t remember them amounting to anything after the Bay of Pigs. And why were you in New Orleans?”

“Just a hunch,” he lied. “The anti-Castro thing is the biggest Cuban angle happening right now. And that’s in Louisiana. There was some sort of paramilitary camp for anti-Castro Cubans right outside of New Orleans that the feds raided a few weeks ago.”

Amanda seemed uninterested. “Lewis, even we weren’t planning on coming back here in 1963 so why would someone else have done that?”

The same thought had been bothering him. It all made no sense. He tried to change the subject, more from embarrassment than anything else.

“So, what are you working on?”

Amanda talked about their unsuccessful approach to Harrison Salisbury and their letter writing campaign.

“I really can’t blame him, can you?” Ginter asked. “I mean, what would you have said a year ago if someone had come up to you with this story?”

“We have another plan,” Amanda said. Ginter could sense the hesitation in her voice.

“Which is?” he demanded.

“We’re going to try to get in to see the President.”

“How?” he asked. “Even back then, I mean back now, security isn’t going to let you do that.”

“Paul and I are going to get Senator Thurmond to get us in to see the President.”

“Why would he do that?” Ginter asked.

Amanda explained the plan to get them into the Oval Office.

“Do you know how risky that is?” Ginter asked in amazement. “You might get arrested. If you do get in to see Kennedy why would he believe you any more than Salisbury did?”

“We’re thinking we can tell Kennedy about his girlfriend as proof we’re time travelers,” she said simply, but even from thousands of miles away Ginter could sense her own doubt.

“Unless you have something better?” she demanded.

He considered a moment. What difference did it make? he asked himself. Why the secrecy? No one seemed to be making any progress anyway.

“Maybe,” he said.

He cleared his throat. “I’ve been working on a plan involving a defector from Russia,” he said. “I’ve still got some stuff to do. It may work out O.K. I’m going down to Mexico. If it all works out I may be able to change some part of history. Then if it really works out I might get the guy to come back up to Dallas and I’ve got a plan involving Kennedy, maybe something that will convince him to change his mind on Cuba.”

Ginter paused. He suspected that Amanda thought that he sounded vague.

“O.K.,” was all she said. “Is Pamela involved in this? What is she doing?”

“I can’t involve her much,” he said. “I can’t even be seen with her without running the risk of getting rousted by the cops. I, I never really knew…” Ginter’s voice trailed off.

“I understand, Lewis,” Amanda said sympathetically. “So, she’s not going to Mexico with you?”

“She can’t. She’s got no identification to get back in the country. She’s O.K. checking into motels but not crossing borders.”

“When we will hear from you again?” Amanda asked.

“When I get back. Stay at the Waldorf,” he instructed her.

“Lewis,” she asked, “did you end up with Kennedy’s itinerary?”

“I have it,” he answered.

He heard a sigh of relief from the other end. “I was afraid it had gotten lost,” she said. “Can you make another copy?”

“I will,” he promised. “I’ll send it to you at the Waldorf.” She gave him the address.

“And make sure to say ‘hi’ to Paul for me, will you?” Ginter asked before hanging up.

In New York Amanda rolled over on her bed and replaced the receiver. “Say ‘hi’ to Paul for me,” Lewis had said.

Funny, if things had worked differently, she’d have heard that said hundreds of times over the last 28 years, whenever a friend of theirs called.

Instead, 28 years ago she had left him at the Ithaca bus station, or rather, he had left her, late as he had been to get back to teach a class.

“Are you sure you’re O.K.?” he had asked her in the bus station. “You look like you don’t feel so well.”

“I’m fine, how are you doing?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I’m sick about this, Amanda. I’m just sick. This morning I thought I was going to throw up. I wolfed about five antacid tablets.”

“But you didn’t get sick,” she laughed. “You’re just projecting your own feelings on to me.”

Paul nodded glumly and looked back over his shoulder toward the clock on the far wall.

“You think they’re following me?” Amanda teased. “You think I’m that big a radical they’d have an agent tail me around, make sure I go to Leipzig?”

Paul flushed and looked down. “No,” he said, his face reddening as he stared at the floor. “No, I don’t think that, it’s just…”

Amanda nodded and touched his shoulder.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know. These are sucky times. The whole world has turned upside down and it’s like you and I have fallen off. Some crackpots blow things up and everyone is afraid, so damn afraid.”

Paul looked up and Amanda panicked that she had said too much. But then he nodded, and she relaxed. She took his arm and guided him across the room.

“How many antacids did you have this morning?” she teased.

“Five,” he said. “I’m really sick about this, Amanda, about you going just because the bastards are making you.”

She patted his arm.

“You’ll be fine. Hey, I’m not sick over it. Even if I didn’t have to, I might have chosen to study abroad. It gives one a new perspective.”

They walked to the candy counter, arm in arm, and bought two Snickers, their favorites. Paul peeled back the wrapping while Amanda dropped hers in her purse.

“For the trip,” she said.

“You sure you’ll make the connection in Boston O.K.?”

She nodded. “Plenty of time. I’ll be in Munich in the morning.”

She looked at her watch. She knew she had to at some point.

“Oh my goodness, Paul, you’ve got to get back to campus. You have an eleven o’clock. I’ll be fine.”

She let his obvious relief pass without comment.

They hugged tightly, and kissed deeply, but she knew. They said all the right things, but she still knew. At her urging, he turned and walked to his car. She stood in the concourse for a full minute before making her way to the ladies room. She entered the first available stall, collapsed on the tile floor, and vomited into the bowl. She wished she too had antacids.

Chapter 22

Lewis Ginter lay staring at the wobbling ceiling fan in his third floor room in Mexico City’s Hotel d’Estes. It wasn’t helping. He was soaked in sweat.

He had been in Mexico City for a week, and the late September temperature had not dropped below 90 degrees. His hotel room, on the south side of the building under tarpaper eaves, did little for his comfort.

Lewis had never liked Mexico, and the Hotel d’Estes was, even by 1963 standards, a dump. He wondered if the temperature was usual for the city in late September. He would have asked someone—a casual inquiry of a desk clerk perhaps—but he remained wary of unnecessary contact with “63ers” as he had come to think of them. Knowledge of the climatic conditions of a Mexican city was of no benefit to him. He just knew it was hot.

Ginter had driven down from Laredo knowing he had to be in Mexico City at the end of September. He recalled that it was on a weekend that his efforts would be needed, but was unsure of the specific dates.

As he did several times a day, Ginter mentally checked his body. He began by checking his skin, his muscle reflexes and his joints, and ended with a memory test by asking himself questions about his past. In the seven weeks since the four of them had traversed, Lewis Ginter had discovered no physical ill effects.

Yet mentally, he felt different. Was it the wormhole? He reflected back on the run-up to his departure from Cambridge, and chastised himself for lack of preparation. This mission had gone terribly wrong. Last summer—was it last summer or a future summer?—he should have studied more. Maybe he was too old and his military training had faded. Maybe he had relied too much on Hutch’s expertise. The image of them scrambling around the lab with Pamela, Hutch hurriedly gathering up scattered papers, and tumbling into the Accelechron, Plan A already a shambles, sickened him. How could he have allowed the development of such a complex mission without an alternate plan?

But that didn’t matter now. He was in 1963, separated from Hutch and deVere, trying to formulate Plan B on the fly. It was impossible to convince the President not to pull out of Southeast Asia. Check that. It was impossible in 1963 for a black man to do it.

But he was not without options. He couldn’t change Southeast Asian military history, but he could change what would happen in South America, to stop Ché Guevara. Heck, the guerrilla would have been stopped long before his run north if not for that American turncoat.

Lewis knew the Soviet version. “Hero O.H. Lee used his American Marine training to encircle the reactionary forces with liberation fighters.”

But Ginter also knew the truth. Oswald, or Lee, as he called himself when he defected to Cuba, had screwed up, taken the wrong road, and arrived after Guevara’s force had already been attacked, but in perfect time to counter-attack. The trap had failed, and Guevara, who should have been killed, escaped. Without the charismatic Ché Guevara, Cuban agitation in South America might have petered out. And without the Communist threat in South America, the U.S. could have focused on stopping them elsewhere. And without Lee Harvey Oswald, Ché Guevara would have been killed in that Bolivian jungle.

So now, he had to stop Oswald however he could. He should have shot him in the head in broad daylight in New Orleans, and Rhodes be damned. But then he had seen the pathetic, gaunt loser, passing out leaflets. Plan B had hatched. “The perfect patsy,” Ginter had said to himself.

And so Ginter had spent the last sweat-soaked week in the Hotel d’Estes, staring at his ceiling fan. He only left the room, his fist full of coins, to call every other cheap hotel to see if Señor Oswald had checked in.

“Non, Señor,” was the constant reply.

Until this morning. Friday, September 27, 1963. Hotel del Comercio. Another third-rater just four blocks from the bus station.

“Si, Señor,” the desk clerk had answered.

“Oh, good,” Ginter had said, nonchalantly. “Oh, no need to leave a message. I will meet him later.”

He hoped that the del Comercio’s desk clerk would not mention the call to the American guest. Oswald didn’t speak Spanish, at least not yet, so the odds were good.

Ginter rose from the bed and checked his new Timex. Eleven twenty-three a.m. He dressed quickly and, as always, quietly. Despite the humidity, he slipped a sport coat over his starched white shirt. It clung a little in the damp, but was cut full enough to hide the .45.

The walk to the Cuban Embassy took only a few minutes and Ginter arrived shortly after noon. He passed the embassy on the opposite side of the street without glancing over. At the corner he turned and strolled past a row of apartment houses.

He surveyed the Cuban Embassy every day. The stone facade building, located in a generally residential neighborhood, was difficult to keep under surveillance. There were no good places to read a newspaper while standing, and no public park in which to innocently loiter. All surveillance had to be moving, and eventually someone might notice anyone who kept circling the neighborhood.

But surveying was not really necessary for the plan. Ginter knew what Oswald would do, and what the Embassy would do. He had two days to change it.

On Saturday, Lewis Ginter spotted Oswald leaving the Cuban Embassy from across the street. The 23 year-old had stormed out the front door, scowling. Ginter turned sideways as his target turned left and trudged back toward the del Comercio.

Ginter folded his newspaper, stuck it in his pocket, and followed at a discreet distance. Oswald passed directly under the neon sign with the orange “Hotel” and green “del Commercial” that hung off the side of the brick building. Ginter waited three minutes before drawing a deep breath and entering the lobby.

“It’s now or never,” he muttered, as he approached the main desk.

“Señor Lee Oswald?” he asked the mustached desk clerk.

“Room 46, fourth floor,” the desk clerk answered after checking the ledger.

Seeing no elevator, Ginter headed to the narrow carpeted stairway. He stepped past the worn marks on the landing and followed the frayed line that ran down the middle of the fourth floor carpet. The hallway light outside of Room 46 was burned out. Ginter did not pause. He had rehearsed this countless times.

He knocked twice, firm and authoritatively. He heard the chain rattle and the door opened six inches. Even from the dim hallway Ginter recognized the gaunt face. He looked older than his 23 years. Ginter estimated his height at about 5 feet 8 inches, some four inches less than that reported in the official biographies.

“Ya’?”

“Señor Oswald? I am Carlos Enrique.” Ginter paused. He hoped his feigned broken English wasn’t too obvious. “From the Cuban Embassy,” he added. “May I come in?”

Oswald gave Ginter a quick look up and down, and then slammed the door. Ginter heard the chain unlatch before the door swung open wide. Oswald stepped back.

Ah, the naiveté of 1963, Ginter thought as he entered. He closed the door behind him. The room was even smaller than Ginter’s at the Hotel d’Estes, and other than the bed there was only a small desk and one chair. Oswald sat on the bed and Ginter took the chair. Don’t let him talk.

“Your cable to Moscow from the Soviet Embassy was redirected to Havana where it came to the attention of my supervisor.” Ginter paused. “Let me be perfectly frank, Señor Oswald. We have checked your background and believe that you may be of enormous value to the people’s revolutionary movement in Cuba, and elsewhere.”

“So, I can get my visa?” Oswald asked. “Right away?”

“Señor Oswald.” Ginter cleared his throat. “I don’t think that you understand. Although I am attached to the Cuban Embassy I am not exactly… how you say… a diplomat.” Ginter smiled blandly and turned both palms upwards.

“You’re with Cuban Intelligence,” Oswald said.

Ginter cleared his throat again. “Let’s just say that my supervisor was very, very impressed with you. In the short time since your arrival in Mexico City we have done quite a bit of investigation into your past. We are all very impressed.

“But to tell you the truth your arrival in Mexico City was not the first time we had heard of you.”

Oswald looked quizzical.

“Your work in creating the Fair Play for Cuba Committee in New Orleans brought you to our attention some time ago.”

Oswald reacted, and Ginter could tell that he was about to speak. He held up his hand, palm outward.

“Oh yes,” Ginter continued. “We know all about you. But your arrival here surprised us. My supervisor included. Another example of your unpredictability and”—Ginter feigned hunting for the right word—“spontaneity. That’s important for someone who could play a pivotal role in the coming revolutionary period.”

Oswald sat back on the bed and leaned against the plastered wall. Ginter surmised that Oswald realized that this was not a courtesy visit to hand him a visa.

“A person with your talent, your American Marine Corps training, your knowledge of the Russian Language, your willingness and ability to infiltrate the American right wing, your willingness to attack the reactionaries with military force as demonstrated by your cleverness and courage in surveying General Walker’s home and your bravery in attempting to shoot him—”

Oswald shot bolt upright and opened his mouth. Ginter held up his hand again.

“Oh yes, we know all about that. And as I say, we are very impressed.”

Oswald closed his mouth and sat up straighter. Ginter saw a prideful smirk growing on the gaunt man’s face. Could he really be this dumb?

Ginter leaned forward. It was time for the kill. “A person of your talent is of immeasurable value to the revolution. We need heroic men like Lee Harvey Oswald. But not in Cuba. Now, we need you in the United States.”

Ginter knew it was working.

“If you are interested in doing important work for us, I would like you to come to the Embassy tomorrow morning. I know it is Sunday, but it is important.”

Ginter smiled again. He had to cement his legitimacy.

“If you decide to do work for us we would want you to join your wife in Dallas.

“Yes, yes we know where she is,” Ginter continued when he saw the surprised look. “We will pay your expenses. We could give you money tomorrow and field agents will coordinate your actions.”

Ginter stood up suddenly. “Do not decide now. Think it over.”

Ginter looked at his watch. He wanted to avoid any discussion. “If you decide to help us, meet me in the Embassy at 11:00 a.m. sharp.” Ginter turned to go. He put one hand on the doorknob before turning back to his host.

“Make sure you are not followed tomorrow. Especially within the last block. Just make sure.”

Ginter dressed early Sunday morning. He was nervous, which he took as a good sign. If things didn’t go well, there was another option, he thought, as he strapped on his shoulder holster.

Ginter arrived outside the Cuban Embassy at 10:45 a.m. He had timed and re-timed the approach from the street corner to the front door. At a casual stroll it would take approximately one minute, fifteen seconds. Each stop to casually look over his shoulder added an extra five to seven seconds. If the individual lingered at the corner before heading up the boulevard, well, even better.

It was 10:52 a.m. when Oswald appeared at the far corner. Ginter watched him stop and look back. “I knew he’d be early,” Ginter muttered before turning and walking through the wrought iron fence and along the walkway that led to the main doors.

It was Ginter’s first time inside. He would have preferred to have surveyed the inside of the building, but had not wanted to draw attention to himself.

He crossed the wide tile floor and approached the reception desk. To his dismay it was unattended. Even on Sunday the embassy was open and the desk should have been staffed.

Perhaps she’s in the ladies’ room, he thought as he read the plastic nameplate propped on the desk: Sylvia Duran.

He resisted the temptation to either check his watch or turn back for Oswald. He reformulated his plan. He strolled past the desk and started down the narrow hallway. He had gone only twenty-five feet when a short, balding Cuban stepped from one of the side offices and blocked his path.

“May I help you?” the man asked in Spanish.

Ginter looked over the man’s shoulder. The man’s eyes never left Ginter’s face and he remained, feet apart, blocking the hallway.

“I am looking for Consular Azcue,” Ginter said in Spanish.

“He is not in today, may I help you?” The man’s eyes remained riveted.

“Do you speak English?” Ginter asked.

“No, I am sorry, I do not,” the Cuban responded.

Perfect, Ginter thought.

“I wanted to talk to Consular Azcue about some life insurance policies and plans which he might find interesting. A man like Consular Azcue, with a family, could always use life insurance, I believe.”

“Consular Azcue is not in. You would have to make an appointment through his secretary, Señorita Duran. She does speak English,” the man added.

“However, Consular Azcue is not interested in life insurance since he has no need for such.”

Ginter heard the main doors to the Embassy open and close behind him. He breathed an inward sigh of relief that his mark had finally arrived. It was time to play this out.

“All right then,” Ginter said resignedly. “I will call tomorrow.”

Ginter turned to leave. The balding Cuban walked slightly behind him as he walked back to the foyer. When they reached the end of the hallway, Ginter stopped short. It was not Oswald who had entered the Embassy, but rather a dark skinned man who now stood just inside the main doors.

Damn! How long did the idiot spend standing at the corner making sure he was not followed? And who is this?

Ginter wheeled on the Cuban, a third plan already forming. “Perhaps a man like yourself might need life insurance.”

Ginter held out the small black briefcase. “Let me show you a policy.”

Ginter placed his briefcase on an end table and fumbled with the latch.

The Cuban picked up the briefcase and shoved it roughly into Ginter’s hands as the embassy door opened and closed again.

“I have neither time nor interest,” the Cuban said in Spanish. “You really must go. I have important business to attend.”

Ginter took the briefcase and turned back to where Lee Harvey Oswald now stood just inside the front doors next to the dark skinned man.

Good thing the weasel speaks no Spanish.

He walked across the foyer, past the first man and leaned in to Oswald. “These diplomats,” Ginter said in broken English. “You would think it was their own six thousand five hundred dollars. I could kill the man.”

Oswald looked past Ginter at the Cuban and his lips formed a tight smile. “You’re not man enough to kill him. I can do it.”

Ginter laughed and clapped Oswald on the shoulder. “Let’s go somewhere where we can talk,” Ginter said.

Oswald followed Ginter’s gaze and nodded. The pair strolled out through the doors. The oppressive heat of the last week had broken. Ginter stepped into a bright sun showing through a light Mexico City smog. As Ginter proceeded along the walkway with Oswald right behind him, he thought to himself, Eat lead, Ché Guevara. History has been changed.

Chapter 23

The train ride from New York City to Washington was taking longer than expected. Something had sidelined the six coaches 45 minutes from D.C.

“Be about a 30 minute delay,” the conductor had announced, walking quickly through the car. “Something’s on the tracks up ahead and it’ll need to be cleared.”

“What time’s our appointment again?” deVere asked nervously.

Amanda shrugged. “I told you. We don’t have one. All we know is that he’s in D.C. and is supposed to be in his office.”

Paul deVere reached to retrieve the New York Times from the seat pocket in front of him before deciding otherwise. He craned around to confirm that their only company was still the older gentlemen dozing in the last row of the car.

He lowered his voice. “What Lewis said about being careful makes some sense. Are you sure that, you know, blackmail is the way to do this?”

Amanda dropped the copy of Cosmopolitan on her lap and turned. “All we’re doing is using information we have to try to get in to see the President.”

“What if we get arrested for blackmail?” deVere asked.

“I don’t believe you!” She frowned at him. “Before we left, you said this might be a suicide mission, that we could all end up floating around in space somewhere. Yet you were willing to risk that to undo Soviet America. Now you’re afraid of getting nabbed for blackmail?”

DeVere took a deep breath. “How sure are you of the facts?”

“Well, this is not something that was important. We’re talking about historical footnote stuff, so I didn’t commit any of this to memory. If I had my computer I could look this up and get exact dates and names. But I’m pretty sure it’s true.”

“And what do we say to Kennedy if we get in to see him?” deVere persisted. “We know you have a girlfriend and you better not pull out of Southeast Asia or else we’ll go to, to”—Paul pointed at Amanda’s magazine—“Cosmopolitan?”

“No, we say that we’re time travelers and use the girlfriend fact to prove our credentials.”

Paul deVere put his head in his hands and sighed. He shook his head, and looked at her begrudgingly with a grin.

“Just out of curiosity, Amanda, what ever happened to your marriage?”

“Which one?” she asked.

“Well, start with the first. Not to be nosy or anything.”

“You’re not being nosy. The weird thing is that I probably married Will because he was so unlike you.”

“Was I that bad?” Paul asked, aghast.

Amanda laughed. “I didn’t mean it like that. In Ithaca you were focused on your work, not on what was going on around you. You were aware that I was there, but that was it. When we talked about your field, it was your work that was important, not sharing it with me. With Will it was just the opposite. He was very much into me, which is what I thought I wanted. Later I realized that he had no real interest, no drive. Do you know what I mean?”

“I guess so,” Paul answered uncertainly. “Maybe you needed a cross between the two of us.”

“Maybe I’m insatiable.”

Paul didn’t make the obvious joke. He had thought of Amanda often over the years. Still, he was amazed that so much had happened in the short time since she had reappeared.

“What about you?” she asked. “What happened?”

“Me? I’m still married,” he protested.

“Not so happily,” she countered, tilting her head to the side.

“Why do you say that? I am very content,” he argued.

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please.” She waved her arm indicating the interior of the coach. “You’re here. If you were so happy why put so much energy into changing history?”

“That’s different,” he retorted. He reddened and knew he sounded angry. He lowered his voice.

“History is not just my personal life,” he said. “Just because I’m happy personally doesn’t mean I’m happy with the way things are politically. The whole country got messed up. I can be happy in one area of my life and still want to change another.”

She gazed at him intently. He focused on the outside scenery.

“Things change in every married couple’s life,” he added to break the silence.

“What changed in yours?” she asked kindly. “And I’m not being critical. God knows I’ve been the architect of zillions of my own mistakes.”

Paul shifted in his seat. In all the years of friendship with Lewis, they had never discussed his marriage, nor had he with anyone else. With a start he realized that he really didn’t have any friends outside the department. He had never been to a psychologist or counselor, not that he would have put any stock in what they might have said. To Paul they were just people with failed lives taking money from others who believed they were failing in their own. He was sitting next to the last true friend in whom he would have confided.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “When I met Val, well, she also was different than you.”

He looked to see if she had taken offense but Amanda’s eyes revealed only the same soft sympathy.

He returned his gaze to the back of the seat in front of him and cleared his throat. “You were always so, so interested in politics. Maybe that was good, who knows. At first Valerie just loved doing stuff with me. Her focus was always on me, or rather, on us. You know how much I love sports. Valerie and I got Sox and Patriots tickets for a few years. Geez, we had fun. We used to laugh a lot.”

“That must have been nice. Those are great memories,” Amanda said simply.

He searched her face for sarcasm but found none. He thought of the year that Grace had arrived. He thought how happy he had been. That was also the last year the Sox had made the World Series. He and Valerie had a babysitter for game seven and they had been there, starting to stand up when…

“Do you two still go to games?” Amanda asked.

He shook his head. “Taking care of an infant was a lot of work,” he said quickly. “For both of us. Kids come first. One of us stayed home, and it didn’t make sense for the other to go alone. Sometimes I’d go with someone, but she never wanted to go with a girlfriend much. She kept telling me to go with Lewis. That’s how we became friends.”

He shifted uncomfortably.

“She moved out,” he said.

When Amanda didn’t react he suspected that somehow she already knew.

“Thursday,” he said, and then added with a chuckle, “whatever that means.”

He sighed deeply. “Now, sometimes Grace and I go. She’s a huge fan.”

“I’m sorry, Paul, I really am. But not going to sporting events together couldn’t be what happened to you guys.”

Paul was uncomfortable. He was nearing a point in considering his marriage that he never allowed himself. “No, not a cause. Maybe, it was just a symptom.”

Amanda turned serious. “So what is all this for you, Paul? A huge Quixotic Quest?”

He considered. “No, not Quixotic at all. The planning got all screwed up but we still have a real chance. We might get in to see Kennedy. And whatever the hell Lewis is doing, heck, maybe that will pan out.”

“You surprised me, Paul.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“When I learned about the project, it surprised me. I don’t mean that you could figure out time travel. I’m surprised anyone could do that. But you are so committed to doing this. Back in Ithaca, you weren’t political at all.”

“How can you say that?” he challenged. “I always hated the Soviet change. Sometimes it seems like only people in the trade zones gave a damn about what was happening, but I was one of them. My God Amanda, look what they did to you.”

“Yeah, but it’s one thing to feel opposed to it, to grumble while sitting around The Chestnut Tree on a Saturday night with pizza and a pitcher. It’s another thing to risk everything to try and change it. Your actions threaten everything. Your whole existence might be altered.”

“That’s not what David—”

“Oh bullshit on David,” she retorted, suddenly angry. “That’s a theory. If we change history we change everything, including ourselves. Maybe we create a past in which a full blown nuclear war happens. Now Lewis, he’s single, no children, he’s used to offering his life for his country. Anyone in the military faces that.

“But you,” she continued, softening. “You’re in a different situation. You’ve got a great kid who you’re crazy about, a beautiful home, and you’re tenured at one of the best universities in the country. Great retirement package. Are you sure you’re ready to risk all that for an abstract political change?”

“I’d hardly call it abstract,” he said dryly.

“Paul, I know why I’m here and what I’m willing to do. But what about you? You have to figure out your motivation. A few minutes ago you were antsy about committing blackmail. Before December 8, we’re all going to have to figure out just how far we’re willing to go. And to do that we’re going to have to understand what’s driving us.”

Without warning the car lurched forward and began rolling. Paul turned and made a show of looking out the window as the train gathered speed and hurtled toward Washington.

Pamela Rhodes walked past the front desk of the Dew Drop Inn on the outskirts of Dallas. She smiled at the desk clerk as she exited out the front door. He didn’t look up, intent on adjusting the rabbit ears on the portable television balanced on the counter. It was dark and drizzling outside, a bit odd for October in Texas, but she didn’t mind. The Corvette was waiting at the curb.

“How was Mexico?” she asked as she got in.

“Hot,” he answered as he pulled out from the parking space and rounded the corner, throwing her against the door.

“I didn’t mean the weather,” she said.

She reached over and turned on the radio. “Can’t get used to these knobs,” she said as she cranked the tuner clockwise. She passed a radio station playing music, and then wiggled it back to tune it in. Sam Cooke’s “Having a Party” was half finished.

“I would’ve gone,” she pouted.

“You have no ID,” Ginter said. “You could have crossed the border but couldn’t have returned. You need an ID.”

She sighed. “You could have gotten me one. You still can.”

She turned up the volume. “Lousy weather. No top down today.”

“Can’t anyway,” he said. “We can’t be seen together.”

“Jesus, Lewis!” she exploded. “I don’t know what scares you more, Collinson and Pomeroy, or the rednecks. I’ve been hanging out day after day in cheap freaking motels bored out of my mind, while you zip around working on some super secret plan. And riding with you every few days ain’t cutting it.”

Ginter eased the Corvette back into the business district. Through the rain-smeared windshield Pamela could make out shoppers hurrying along under open umbrellas.

“You should have left me behind with Amanda and Paul,” Pamela said. “It can’t be any worse there.”

Ginter gestured at the sidewalk and smiled. “They’re at the Waldorf. You’d prefer that to all this?”

“They’re still there?” she asked. She pondered. “Gee, I don’t know, Lewis, Texas or Fifth Avenue?” she asked sarcastically.

Ginter frowned. “Say the word. I can always put you on a plane for Idlewild.”

“Just tell me about Mexico. Make it up for all I care. I’ve already seen every Leave It To Beaver and I love Lucy rerun there is and they weren’t any better when they were newer.”

“Mexico City was boring,” Ginter said as he cut up a side street. “It’s a dump.”

“So tell me,” she pleaded.

He shook his head. “There’s no reason for both of us to know. It’s safer if you don’t know what I’m up to.”

“Safer for who?” she challenged. “Don’t you trust me? Lewis, it was me, not them, you left Manchester with. If it wasn’t for me you would’ve shot that guy in New Orleans, and gotten arrested or lynched. In case you haven’t noticed I don’t exactly have anywhere to go around here. Or should I say ‘back here.’ If you tell me what’s up, what could I possibly do with that information? Go back to Portland and tell everyone at State Farm what your plan is? They haven’t even been born yet.”

She slouched back in her seat. “Where are we going?” she asked, staring out the side window.

Ginter pulled in to a parking lot adjacent to a five-story motel. Pamela sat up and peered at the sign over the front door.

“Gee, Lewis, you certainly know how to show a girl a good time. Is this your new digs or does this place rent by the hour?”

“Both,” he said, and shut off the engine. “I’ll stay here for a few days before moving on again. This place is O.K. for both whites and blacks. Not too many places around here I can say that about.”

He reached into his pants and pulled out a key. “I’ve got Room 105, first floor. We can talk there. It’ll be more comfortable than the car. You go first.”

He handed her the key. Without a word she took it, got out of the car, and splashed across the parking lot at a full trot. Once in the room she grabbed a threadbare towel from the bathroom and was rubbing her hair when Lewis entered and locked the door behind him.

“It’s not fair to be always bitching,” he said. “You know how risky it is to be seen together. And I don’t mean by Collinson or Pomeroy. Pam, I don’t even stay in places that have phones in the rooms. I have to use pay phones, and have to pay cash every day before I can stay that night. You and I can’t go out to eat together, go to the movies, or even go bowling together. Even when I pick you up, you have to duck in and out of the car and I have to have the top up.”

Pamela paused in her toweling and turned toward him.

“I know,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry. It’s hard for you too, back here. It’s just that, well, being here, I thought I could help, you know, make a difference. This is better than any chance I ever had in Portland to do something that matters.”

Ginter swallowed hard and nodded. He moved to a chair and sat down.

“Speaking of Portland,” he said. “I had another question about your friend. How was Arthur going to get on that ship to blow it up?”

Pamela shrugged. “He had a friend in—”

Ginter waved her off. “I know all that. You told me. A friend in the Harbor Guard. He’d get Arthur on the ship. But what doesn’t make sense is that you said that Arthur was staying in Boston because things had gotten hot for him up in Maine.”

She nodded. “Since he tried to blow up that guy in Portland.”

“But if things were so hot for him that he had to hide out in Boston, then that means they knew who he was,” Ginter said. “In that case there’s no way he gets past anyone to get on any ship, fake ID or no.”

“I don’t know,” Pamela said, and frowned. “Maybe that’s why he never tried it. Maybe he knew he’d never get on the ship. It did seem like he was planning it forever.”

“Why not just give the bomb to his friend?” Ginter persisted. “Just set it and tell him where to place it. His friend obviously knew ships, being in the Harbor Guard. Why did Pomeroy have to get on that ship himself?”

“God, Lewis!” Pamela stood up. “Questions, questions, questions. How the hell would I know?”

She moved over to his chair and stood in front of him. The rain pelted against the glass.

“I have my own question, Lewis,” she said, locking her eyes on his. “Why’d you bring me here? We could have ridden around and talked.”

Lewis Ginter didn’t answer. He remained immobile for several seconds before slowly standing up. He put his right arm behind her and pulled her close. Her eyes remained locked on his but she didn’t resist.

He held her there, their faces inches apart, while neither spoke.

Pamela slowly placed her right arm on the small of Lewis’ back.

“I thought you were going to try this in your apartment in Cambridge,” she whispered. “The night we left. I thought that was why you asked me there.”

He nodded. “It was.”

“That night, the answer would have been no.”

She smiled then, and reaching up with her mouth she closed her eyes. It was exciting; it was always exciting, especially the first time, but here, in Dallas, in 1963…

Ginter pushed her back toward the bed. She reached back with her left hand and felt for the mattress. When she touched it, she dropped down while holding his kiss. She kicked her feet out on the bed and lay back. Already he was working on her blouse. She knew she had to say something, it was awkward, it was never a good time, she didn’t want to stop, but still…

She pushed him away gently. He sat back, bewildered.

“Lewis, I, I’m not on the pill back here. My prescription is back in 2026.”

His mouth curled into a smile and he reached back and removed his wallet from his back pants pocket. He held it up in front of her.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she laughed. She put her hand to her mouth. “When did you get them?”

“Cambridge,” he said. “And don’t worry, we’ve got a long ways to go before we worry about the expiration date.”

Paul and Amanda walked into the Senate Office Building and took the elevator straight to Senator Strom Thurmond’s office without passing through metal detectors or security checks. At every turn he expected someone to stop him, but no one did. They walked into the Senator’s reception area without an appointment and were greeted by a woman behind the desk who smiled. Behind her a door stood partially open into what Paul surmised was the Senator’s private office.

When the receptionist inquired as to their business, Amanda handed her a sealed plain white business envelope with no writing on it. “Please tell the Senator that Dr. Hutch and Dr. deVere are here from MIT and would like to speak with him briefly.”

The woman frowned, took the envelope, and turned it over in her hand before disappearing through the rear doorway. His heart pounding, Paul sat next to Amanda on an overstuffed couch. The woman returned and said icily, “The Senator will be with you shortly.”

Paul had stomach knots. Each time the door to the hallway opened Paul expected a trail of police to tumble in and arrest them. Twice, messengers dropped off paperwork to the receptionist who gave them the same bland smile she had offered Paul and Amanda.

Amanda appeared calm and collected. Whenever the hallway door opened, she looked straight ahead while Paul cast panic stricken looks around the room.

The phone on the receptionist’s desk buzzed. After listening for a few seconds, the receptionist informed them that the Senator would see them. She led them to the door but did not announce them. Rather, she merely closed the door behind them, leaving them alone in a large room with deep blue walls covered with photographs. A man sat behind an immense desk. He neither stood to greet them nor introduced himself.

Paul estimated him to be about 60. He spoke with an unmistakable drawl.

“I’m not accustomed to getting notes like this from unscheduled guests and I want to know the meaning,” he said.

Despite the words, the man spoke without hostility. In his hand he held the white envelope that had now been slit open across the top. The single sheet that had been inside was not in view on the desk.

Amanda sat in one of two chairs opposite the desk. She looked at the one next to her and Paul took it. He had barely settled in when she began.

“Senator, do not believe for one moment that we are here to do you harm. We are American patriots in every sense of the world. I am Dr. Amanda Hutch, and this is Dr. Paul deVere. We are both associated with MIT, although if you check, you won’t find us currently listed on the faculty list.”

The Senator placed the envelope on the desk and leaned back in his swivel chair. He put his hands together in front of him with his fingertips touching, and carefully studied his visitors.

“What makes you think that anything in this letter of yours is true?” he asked cautiously.

“Senator,” Amanda answered, “that letter talks about something that happened a long, long time ago. You were what, maybe 22 years old? The girl was a domestic servant in your parents’ house, just a teenager.”

Amanda shrugged. “How we know doesn’t matter. It’s true. You know it. We know it. We have proof of it. And you don’t want it coming out. We are willing to make sure that it doesn’t.”

“You want something,” the Senator said. “What is it?”

Amanda leaned forward. “We don’t want anything for ourselves. We know about that,”—she nodded at the envelope—“and we know about other things too. What we want from you will help this country. We want you to get us in to see President Kennedy—alone.”

The Senator started. “The President?” he asked. “You want to get in to see The President?” His eyes narrowed. “Tell me why, even if I could do such a thing, why? You can’t kill him, you’ll be checked by the Secret Service. Are you going to try and use something on him too?” he asked with the faint crease of a smile.

“Please believe me when I say we are patriots,” Amanda reiterated.

The Senator waved one hand. “So is every other radical. Why do you want to see him?”

“Senator,” Amanda continued, “this country is threatened. There are foreign forces that want to take over this nation and reduce its power. They want to take our resources: oil, coal, steel. They’ll divide us up into a bunch of competing regions, set us against one another based on our religion or geography, and leave us weak and exploitable.”

The Senator nodded. “The Communists,” he said.

“What you used to call Communism,” Paul said, leaning forward. “But it’s more than that. It’s the East against the West, it’s their way of life versus ours.”

“Used to?” the Senator asked, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “What do you mean, ‘used to?”

Amanda shot Paul a malevolent look. He sat back and resolved to keep quiet. He’d let her handle this.

“What Dr. deVere means is that it is more than that. Yes, our way of life is threatened. Senator, in just over a month President Kennedy will decide to pull out of Vietnam, a huge mistake. We want the opportunity to speak with him, to convince him not to make that mistake.”

“You say that we should increase our military support to Saigon?” Thurmond drawled. “There are two sides to that young lady. I know a little bit about war and dying. I was at Normandy. I am as concerned about Communism as you are, but war is not always the way. And not always successful.

“Besides,” he continued, “the President may or may not be making a final decision on this in the next few months. I’m not privy to that, and you sure are not either. And even if he is thinking of pulling out, why are you sure that you’re more right than the advice he’s getting from his advisors who have a lot more information than you or I?”

It was Amanda’s turn to lean forward, and when she spoke the force of her delivery startled Paul.

“Senator, Paul deVere is an astrophysicist at MIT. One of the best. He and anyone else who have ever taught with him will tell you that there are an infinite number of permutations in the universe. A million things that can happen. Some are good. Some are bad. But one of the realities is that the President of the United States will decide next month to pull out of Vietnam. And as sure as we are of that,”—Amanda pointed at the envelope on the desk—“we are sure that pulling out is the wrong decision. We need to talk to him.”

The Senator nodded. “I suppose I should ask you how you know what the President will do next month, and how you know about that.”

Amanda reached down and lifted her pocketbook to her lap. She opened it and extracted a copy of the itinerary that she had received in the mail from Ginter.

“Senator, this is a copy of President Kennedy’s daily log. It contains a summary of where he goes, how he gets there, and who he meets with and when, for each day from now through the end of 1964.”

Keeping her eyes on the Senator, Amanda opened the sheaf of papers and faced them toward him.

“On Monday, January 20, 1964 he will travel to Iowa and meet with party leaders in Des Moines. He’ll arrive on Air Force One at 10:45 a.m. and will head home at 4:50.”

She flipped to another page. “Next June 17 he will begin a one week vacation on Cape Cod. He will meet with Dean Rusk, Robert McNamara, and his brother Bobby. All will be there at one point or another. He will devise his strategy for the fall election. In November he will narrowly defeat Barry Goldwater.”

When the Senator said nothing she turned the sheaf toward her and flipped back a few pages. She found what she was looking for and turned it back to him. “And here, on Sunday, November 24, 1963 the President will meet with a circle of his closest advisors at a morning meeting at the White House. The topic will be Vietnam and after the meeting he will decide to pull out. By the end of 1964 the Communists will have overrun Saigon and control all of Vietnam.”

She gently placed the sheaf on the desk next to the envelope. “We are as certain of what is on those papers as we are of what was in that envelope.”

Senator Thurmond sat back in his chair and tilted his head forward. He picked up the plain white envelope and turned it over in his hand. He pointed it at Amanda.

“MIT, did you say?” he asked.

Hutch and deVere both nodded.

“O.K., so you’re not here for personal gain,” the Senator said. “Even if you’re correct about all this, how can I get you in to see the President? I’m not that powerful. Presidential meetings are few and far between, and are usually initiated by the White House. I can’t just pick up the phone and set up an appointment for a constituent.”

He chuckled. “Even assuming you were that.”

“You can try,” Amanda insisted softly. “You know how important this is to us. If you don’t try—”

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Yes, yes, I know. To heck with this letter here and what it all says. I will make some calls. But not because of that damn letter. I will try my best; you have my word on it. But I can’t guarantee you anything.”

Amanda stood up. Paul followed suit.

“Dr deVere and myself are staying at the Waldorf in New York City,” Amanda said. “We are there under our own names. I’ll leave our names and the phone number with your secretary.”

This time Strom Thurmond extended his hand to them both. “I wish you both sincere luck,” he said carefully, “in whatever it is you’re trying to do.

“And,” he added, nodding at the itinerary, “why don’t you take that bunch of papers with you? I really don’t want a copy.”

Without a word Amanda turned, grabbed the sheaf from the desk, and shoved it into her pocketbook.

Chapter 24

“Are you sure no one has been tailing you?”

A waitress brought two coffees and set them on the diner table. Oswald waited until she had left.

“Of course not. I know what I’m doing.”

Ginter didn’t respond. It was difficult to hold his temper in the face of Oswald’s conceit.

Keep your eyes on the ball, Ginter reminded himself. It had been rather easy convincing Oswald to return to Dallas. His pregnant wife, Marina, was living in nearby Irving, and Oswald wanted to be with her.

Ginter had instructed Oswald to live normally, and not tell anyone, including Marina, of his new role. Ginter would be his sole contact, but the two would meet sparingly. Oswald accepted the conditions without protest.

The Soviet histories had portrayed Oswald as a brilliant strategist and intellectual party ideologue, a man ahead of his time. Even in Ginter’s anti-Soviet military training Oswald had come across as a generally capable, if not spectacular, military tactician. The blunder that had saved Guevara had been the only hint of incompetence.

On the first day back from Mexico City, Ginter had asked Oswald not to contact Marina, and to register at a YMCA to minimize his visibility. Oswald had registered as an active duty serviceman to avoid paying the fifty-cent registration fee. Ginter was furious. Registering as a serviceman invited conversation about his service, and risked exposure. This could lead to embarrassing questions. Oswald now had over six thousand dollars, supposedly from the Cuban Government, and he was trying to save fifty cents.

Ginter visited Oswald frequently at the Y, and advised him carefully on how to act. He told Oswald not to stay long in any one place. From the YMCA, Oswald had moved to a boarding house in the Oak Cliff section of Dallas, at 621 Marsalis Street. He warned Oswald to avoid political talk with anyone, including his wife.

“You are just trying to find a job to support your family,” Ginter said to him in his feigned Spanish accent as he loaded his coffee with two creams and a sugar.

“I don’t need the money,” Oswald snarled. “And I am ready to act now. The Directorate should know that.”

“I know you’re good, Lee,” Ginter said in a kinder tone, “but it is important to maintain the cover.”

Ginter glanced casually around the diner before leaning closer. “Take that job at the depository. Havana says it is imperative.”

Oswald looked insulted. “I’m ready now to help the cause. That’s just a crap job.”

“You ready to order?” The waitress had returned.

“Just coffee, thank you,” Ginter said. The waitress threw him a disgusted look and stomped away. Ginter pretended not to notice.

“You must have patience,” Ginter continued in a low, flat voice. “We need you working in Dealey Plaza all next month.”

Oswald grunted. “Why? I could kill Walker now. Next week he’s having another one of his rallies. There could be three thousand people there.”

“Forget Walker!” Ginter hissed. “The Directorate has bigger things in mind.”

Ginter lowered his voice even further. “There are those in the American Government who are sympathetic to our cause, and ready to act. They are arranging a certain event. We need you and your sharpshooter skills there,” he added with a knowing nod.

“Walker?” Oswald asked.

“This is bigger. Much bigger than Walker. You will be the hero of the century.”

Oswald accepted the accolade without reaction.

“If I’m going to shoot someone,” he said, “I’ll need a better rifle than the Mannlicher. Maybe a Mauser.”

Ginter shook his head forcefully. “No, no. The Mannlicher is perfect. Six point five millimeter? Perfect.”

“But with a Mauser…”

“Forget the Mauser. The Directorate wants you to use the Mannlicher.”

Oswald hesitated. “Sometimes I miss with the Mannlicher,” he pouted. “It’s not my fault. The sight is off and it’s not accurate over one hundred yards.”

“Believe me, we’ve got it all figured out. The Mannlicher will be perfect for our purposes.”

“So you want me to accept the job at the Texas School Depository?”

Ginter nodded and sipped his coffee.

On Monday morning, November 4, 1963 Lewis Ginter walked down North Beckley Street in Dallas’ Oak Cliff neighborhood. As he passed the boarding house at 1026 he noticed that a second floor window, third from the doorway, had been left open and a book placed on the windowsill. Oswald needed to speak with him. But when Ginter joined him early that evening for a walk, he was unprepared for the latter’s agitation.

“The FBI has been around?” Ginter repeated. He thrust his hands deep into his pants and trudged on.

“Agent Hosty,” Oswald said. “He was out at the house asking Marina a bunch of questions last Friday. She told me when I got there.”

Ginter nodded absently. Despite Ginter’s protest, Oswald had insisted on returning to Marina on weekends. Ginter was uncomfortable with the arrangement. It meant he had no contact with Oswald for three days and he feared that Oswald would talk.

But now he was more than uncomfortable. He had no idea who Hosty was, or even if there were an FBI agent by that name. Since deterring Oswald from the Mexico City defection he was operating in virgin history.

“How’d he communicate with Marina?” Ginter finally asked. “Did this Hosty speak Russian?”

Oswald shook his head. “No, Ruth Paine translated.”

“The Russian language student?” Ginter asked. “Is Marina still living with her and her husband?”

Oswald nodded.

“What did this Hosty want, did he say?” Ginter asked.

“Harassment.” Oswald curled his lip and spat on the roadway.

“Harassment about what?” Ginter asked blandly.

“The usual. He wanted to know about my attempt to defect to Cuba.”

Ginter stopped and turned to his companion. Oswald also paused and the two men stared at each other.

“How’d he know about Cuba?” Ginter asked, keeping his voice even.

Oswald shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Ginter turned and resumed walking at what he hoped was a nonchalant pace.

“No one else knows about Mexico City, do they?” Ginter asked casually.

“I didn’t tell anyone.”

“It may be nothing,” Ginter said with voiced confidence. “The CIA must have our Embassy in Mexico City under surveillance. Your visit was reported back to Washington. Perhaps the FBI is doing a routine check. I’ll have to report this breach of security to my superiors.”

“If they know about me they probably know about you,” Oswald said.

Ginter nodded and swallowed. “It’s possible,” he said.

The pair walked on in silence. Ginter’s stomach was churning. If the CIA had also picked up Ginter at the Embassy they might approach Oswald or his wife with questions. What would happen then?

“Did Hosty come back?” Ginter asked.

Oswald shook his head. “Not over the weekend.”

“Call your wife every night,” Ginter advised quietly. “Ask her every night if Hosty returns. Would she tell you if he did?”

Oswald nodded.

“Tell her to find out what he wants,” Ginter said. “He may be trying to compromise me. Someone may approach you and try to give you disinformation about me. If they do, don’t be fooled. They may have bugs planted in our Embassy.”

“If they do they’re wasting them,” Oswald sneered.

The pair had come to a worn city park covered in weeds. In the gathering dust a group of boys were playing football. Ginter estimated their average age at about ten.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Some CIA agent posing as a Russian émigré was asking about me in Ruth’s class.”

Ginter was confused. “Russian émigré? What do you mean?”

“This weekend when I was visiting Marina some guy from one of Ruth’s classes told me there was a newly arrived Russian asking about other Russians in the Dallas area. Did he know of any other Russians who were political? Wanted to meet them.”

“So?” Ginter asked, unconcerned as he watched a kid take a pitch-out and promptly fumble it to the other team.

“Ah c’mon, Billy,” his teammates heckled as the fumbler slowly picked himself up.

“Well, the guy said that this new Russian was told about Marina and said, ‘Oh, her. Yes, I know all about her. Her husband’s in Cuba.”

Ginter didn’t take his eyes off the football field. The boys picked themselves up and resumed playing. The other team began marching down the field with a succession of running plays. As Ginter kept his eyes riveted on them, he found that his hands had tightened on the top bar of the chain link fence in front of him. He could feel the extended strand of chain link digging into his palms.

“This new Russian,” Ginter said evenly, “did anyone say what he looked like?”

Oswald snorted. “He probably wasn’t even a Russian. He was probably FBI following me. The thing about meeting other Russians was just a way to get to Marina.”

“Could be,” Ginter answered. “But why would anyone think you were in Cuba? Wouldn’t the FBI know you hadn’t gone to Cuba? Isn’t that why Hosty is snooping around?”

“That’s why the capitalists will fail,” Oswald sneered. “The right hand doesn’t know what the left is doing. Too much bureaucracy.”

“The fellow who met this Russian, did he say what he looked like?” Ginter asked before remembering that he had already asked the same question. Keep it together, Lewis.

“No, just said it was a Russian who had arrived within the last few months.”

I’ll bet he arrived within the last few months, Ginter thought. He toyed with the idea of approaching the classmate, but rejected it as too risky.

“If he mentions this Russian fellow again let me know. And if you see him ask him what this Russian looks like. Is he tall, short, bald, heavyset or whatever? I know a lot of Russians and I just might know who he is. And keep on Marina about Hosty. I want to know what he’s after.”

The game in the field broke up and the players trudged out of the gate past the pair. The boy who had fumbled walked past with his head down.

“Don’t worry about it, boy,” Ginter said encouragingly, “baseball’s a better game anyway.”

Lewis Ginter sat alone in his two-room motel unit and studied the drawings spread across the kitchen table. It was Tuesday, November 12, 1963 and everything was on track. Oswald was working at the Book Depository. Ginter’s shopping trip to a local gun shop had been successful. Being black had not been a problem. The color the proprietor was most interested in was inside his wallet.

With everything now in place, Ginter had taken a job at the same warehouse as Oswald.

Ginter still hadn’t told Oswald the plan, even when pressed to do so at their meeting the day before. Ginter by-passed Oswald’s angry questions and pressed for new information about the Russian who thought Oswald already in Cuba.

“I didn’t see the student this weekend,” had been Oswald’s unconcerned reply.

Ginter pushed the diagrams away and emptied his pockets onto the kitchen table. He had been weighing this option since learning of the Russian. Now, with his plan just ten days away, he had to act. He scooped up the pile of change, grabbed a light jacket, and headed out the door.

Paul deVere lunged across the hotel bed and grabbed the receiver before the telephone had completed its second ring. It had been almost two weeks since he had last heard from Lewis, and he knew no one else would be calling him at this hour.

“Hello,” he said eagerly as he lay sprawled across the bed.

There was a pause before the voice at the other end began with a drawl.

“Dr. deVere? This is Senator Strom Thurmond.”

It took a moment for the name to register.

“Yes, Senator,” deVere said cautiously.

The Senator cleared his throat. “Dr. deVere, I’ll get right to the point. I called my White House contact, and asked when I could get two very important constituents who teach at MIT”—Thurmond let out a chuckle—“to meet with the President. I said you had information and some very good advice on national security matters that the President should hear.”

There was a pause and deVere detected a sigh.

Thurmond continued, “I was spectacularly unsuccessful. You must understand, Dr. deVere, getting in to see the President is not easy. There are many, many people who want to see him. A United States Senator is powerful, but sir, we are not as powerful as you may think. Getting past even his outer circle of bureaucratic protection is difficult.”

The Senator paused again, and when he resumed he lowered his voice and spoke slower.

“Dr. deVere, I know what you and Dr. Hutch intend to do now that I can’t get you in to see the President. But believe me, sir, I did try. I want you to know that personally, and it wasn’t just one call that I made.”

Paul deVere paused. “I understand, Senator, thank you for trying. I’ll talk to Dr. Hutch. We don’t want to cause problems. We are trying to make a better world and we were hoping that you could help.”

After Paul hung up he stared down at the telephone. He would have to call Amanda. As he reached for the phone, it rang again. Thinking that it was the Senator calling back, he answered with an almost annoyed tone. This time the accent was different.

“Dr. deVere? This is Harrison Salisbury.”

When deVere didn’t respond Salisbury continued.

“I have been thinking a lot about our meeting in Syracuse. I hope you and Dr. Hutch”—Salisbury pronounced her name slowly—“do not think that I was too rude. I know you feel strongly about what you told me.”

DeVere had the impression that Salisbury was hunting for the right words.

Salisbury changed his tact. “I’m not calling too early, am I?” he asked.

The abrupt question brought deVere back to the present. “No, certainly not. This is important to us.”

“Well, Dr. deVere, you may want to know that Pierre Salinger will be giving a talk here in New York next Monday. He’ll be at the Reuben House talking to journalists on contemporary journalism and politics. There will be some academics there as well as a few prominent New York politicians. I can leave your name at the door so that you and Dr. Hutch can get in. You could approach him. That is, if you are interested,” he added quickly.

DeVere was uncertain how to respond. He didn’t want to sound stupid. Finally, however, the pause became embarrassing.

“Mr. Salisbury, who is Pierre Salinger?”

DeVere heard a sharp intake of breath at the other end and he continued on hurriedly. “Please understand, I’m a physicist. Dr. Hutch is the history professor. I really don’t know very much political history,” he added lamely.

“Pierre Salinger is the President’s press secretary. He has the President’s ear and if anyone can get you in to see him it would be Salinger. He also has a reputation of being somewhat, eh, avant-garde,” Salisbury added in what Paul deVere perceived as a diplomatic tone.

“I see,” deVere said, reaching for a pen. “What time is his talk?”

“Seven o’clock,” Salisbury added with more confidence. “I’ll leave your names at the door.”

There was another pause and deVere thought that Salisbury was groping for a way to ask something.

“Dr. deVere, I was wondering. How did you know that the Dodgers would sweep the World Series?”

With all the attention they had given their letter writing campaign, the World Series had slipped past deVere’s attention. He vaguely remembered it from the newspapers, but to him it was old news. He let the question hang.

When there was no response Salisbury continued, “I know that a Dodgers-Yankees World Series was kind of obvious when we spoke but I was wondering how you knew it was going to be a sweep? And, more importantly, how did you know Sandy Koufax would be the World Series MVP?”

“I think we’ve already discussed this,” deVere said evenly, “and I am not going to try to convince you about what Dr. Hutch and I were saying. The facts speak for themselves.”

“I quite agree,” Salisbury said hurriedly. “In any event, don’t forget this Monday at the Reuben House and,” he added with a chuckle, “I’ll certainly be watching for those ‘69 Mets. Might even make a friendly wager or two.”

Chapter 25

Lewis Ginter stepped out of the front door of Cazzie’s Motel, turned right and strode quickly along the crumbling sidewalk. Across the street Pamela Rhodes huddled in the doorway of a closed delicatessen and waited until Ginter had gone 200 feet without turning back before she stepped from her shelter and began tailing him.

Pamela had been keeping Ginter’s motel under intermittent surveillance for the last three weeks. So far, she had learned little. She had no car and no identification with which to rent one. On three occasions she saw Ginter get into his Corvette, now sporting Texas license plates, and drive off. Each time Ginter had returned within 90 minutes. Other times, she followed him as he walked two blocks to a telephone booth outside a bowling alley. She had even phoned Cazzie’s herself to ask for Lewis Ginter, only to confirm that guest rooms didn’t have telephones. Lewis’ use of a public pay telephone was more than a precaution.

When Ginter reached the phone booth he stepped inside and closed the door. Pamela, head down, continued past on the opposite side of the street. At the far corner, she turned and studied a display of used washing machines in a storefront window.

Despite their one night tryst, their relationship had changed dramatically following Lewis’ return from Mexico City. He still called her at the Dew Drop Inn every day, and he would stop by in his car for a chat two or three times per week, but they never went out in public together. She feared that he no longer trusted her. And, try as she might, she could not figure out why.

She watched Lewis dig coins out of his jacket pocket and place three telephone calls. When he was done he jerked back the door and started back to his motel. She wished she knew how to bug the phone booth. Lewis always used the same one, and she assumed that if she knew what she was doing that bugging it would be fairly simple. But electronic surveillance was not one of the skills she had acquired in Portland.

She knew too well that her efforts were useless. She was on the outside of whatever was going on, and if she was going to make a difference she would have to do more than follow Lewis Ginter on walks. She had to get into his motel room.

Paul deVere flung open his door at the Waldorf and came face to face with Amanda, fist upraised, ready to knock.

“I was on the way to your room,” he said, standing aside as she strode in. He furtively checked the hallway before closing the door.

“I’ve been on the phone,” he added.

“So have I,” she said matter-of-factly. “Lewis called.”

“Lewis?” deVere asked. Amanda clutched a sheaf of papers in her left hand.

“Why didn’t he call me?”

She looked at him sharply. “He said he did. Your phone’s been busy.”

“What did he say?” Paul asked anxiously.

“He wants us to come to Texas.”

“Texas? Why?”

Amanda lifted both arms and dropped them. “He’s still trying to run an op with some Russian defector. He wouldn’t say much. But he’s planning something in Texas that involves the President and he needs our help.”

“Kennedy?” deVere asked. “Does he have a way to see Kennedy?”

Amanda shrugged. “I don’t know. He said stuff has happened and his whole plan has fallen apart and he needs us there.”

“When?” deVere asked.

Amanda consulted the itinerary in her hand and shook her head. “He said next week. Kennedy’s only trip to Texas before next February is a political trip to Fort Worth and Dallas on the 22nd. He was, eh, is, trying to shore up political support. He and his Vice-President will visit the two cities in a one-day visit. He’ll motorcade in and out, give a speech at the Trade Mart in Dallas, and be back in Washington by night.”

DeVere grabbed a calendar off the desk. “The 22nd is on a Friday,” he said, turning back to Amanda. “That’s only two days before the meeting.”

Amanda nodded. “That’s next week. I have no idea why Lewis needs us there now.

“By the way,” she asked, “what was your call?”

“What? Oh.” He told her about the calls from Thurmond and Salisbury. Sitting on the edge of Paul’s bed, Amanda listened intently.

“Well, Thurmond’s out,” she said. “But Salinger, that’s a real possibility. He could get us in to see Kennedy.”

“But what are we going to tell him?” Paul asked. “He’ll have the same reaction as Thurmond and Salisbury.”

Maybe,” Amanda mused. She snatched the calendar from Paul’s hand. “If we see Salinger on the 18th we can still get to Dallas on Tuesday.”

She stood up and began pacing. She consulted the itinerary again. “Lewis said he’d call back tomorrow. We’ll tell him we’re seeing Salinger on the 18th and we’ll get a plane to Dallas the next day.”

“Will the 19th be too late?” deVere asked. “If Kennedy is going to meet with his advisors on the 24th…”

“Maybe,” Amanda answered pensively. “Maybe not. Maybe his decision on the 24th won’t be the final one this time.”

When Pierre Salinger finished his remarks the audience broke out in polite applause. A tall, thin man in his mid-forties wearing a tuxedo and horn-rimmed glasses stepped to the podium.

“Please join us in the next room for refreshments,” he announced.

Amanda was already out of her seat and edging forward. Salinger shook the hand of one of his hosts and was turning toward the hors d’oeuvre table when Amanda reached out with her arm.

“Mr. Salinger,” she gushed. “That was a great talk.”

Pierre Salinger turned. Upon seeing Dr. Hutch he broke into a broad smile.

“Thank you, Mrs…?” he asked.

Amanda let go of his arm and extended her right hand. Pierre Salinger shook it.

“Hutch, Dr. Amanda Hutch. From MIT. And this is Dr. Paul deVere,” she said, indicating her companion.

“I know this is unorthodox but we wanted to talk to you for one minute about President Kennedy’s meeting this Sunday,” she continued.

“Meeting?” Salinger asked cautiously, his brow furrowing.

“Yes,” Hutch continued glibly. “We understand the President is going to meet with his advisors this Sunday and that the issue of keeping troops in Vietnam will be decided, eh, discussed,” she added, flashing a smile. “You see, I’m a history professor and I’d like the President to know how dangerous pulling out of Vietnam will be.”

All traces of a smile disappeared from Salinger’s face. His features hardened and he looked over Hutch’s shoulder at deVere who stood impassively.

“I’m sorry,” Salinger said, turning to look at her squarely. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Hutch,” she said pleasantly. “Dr. Amanda Hutch.”

“From MIT?” Salinger asked.

Hutch nodded.

“Well, Dr. Hutch, the topics of presidential meetings are not something I discuss in public. What makes you think that there is one this Sunday? I mean, Sunday, of all days, and that the agenda includes the topic you mentioned?”

The others had moved off toward the food table. DeVere could see Harrison Salisbury hovering about ten feet behind Salinger.

“I’m a history professor, Mr. Salinger,” Amanda answered unflinchingly. “This is my field of study.”

“It’s not history yet, is it?” Salinger asked with a bland smile, and turned to go.

For the second time Amanda reached out and grabbed Pierre Salinger’s arm.

“Mr. Salinger, President Kennedy can not be allowed to pull out of Vietnam,” she whispered urgently. “This country is six days away from making the biggest mistake in its history, and President Kennedy must understand that.”

Salinger’s face turned to cold fury. He firmly removed Amanda’s grip from his arm and placed it at her side.

“With all due respect, Dr. Hutch, the President will keep his own counsel on his decisions. Thank you.” With that, Salinger turned and walked away.

Amanda wheeled and faced Paul. There was a tear in her eye.

“Forget about it,” he soothed. “Maybe history is just that. History. Maybe nothing can be changed.”

“That can’t be true!” she hissed.

Amanda reached over and grabbed her coat off the chair. “It can be done. I know it.” She pushed toward the rear door. “C’mon, we’ve got a plane to catch.”

Chapter 26

“Please deposit 65 cents.”

Pamela Rhodes picked the coins off the shelf and dropped them into the pay phone. After a brief silence, she heard ringing at the other end.

“Good morning. Waldorf Astoria, New York. How may I help you?”

Pamela shifted the receiver to her right hand. “Yes, could you please connect me to the room of Dr. Paul deVere?” she asked.

There was a pause before the voice answered, “I’m sorry, Dr. deVere is not in. He left the hotel this morning.”

Pamela frowned. “Could you connect me to the room of Dr. Amanda Hutch, please?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Dr. Hutch and Dr. deVere both checked out this morning.”

“Checked out?” Pamela asked. She swore to herself.

From the other end Pamela detected a muffled conversation. The original voice returned.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I misspoke. Dr. deVere and Dr. Hutch did not check out. They both left this morning with their suitcases and indicated that they would be back in a few days.”

“Did they say where they were going? I’m a friend of theirs and I really need to reach them,” she added desperately.

“I’m sorry. They didn’t say where they were going or when they’d be back. We are, of course, holding their rooms,” the clerk added in a haughty tone. “Is there a message I can take for either of them?”

“No, no thank you,” Pamela said dejectedly. “I’ll try them later.”

She hung up and stood holding the receiver before slamming it down on its cradle. Where had they gone? And why? She had been hoping that deVere or Hutch would know what was going on and give her some guidance. There was no one else to turn to, no one who could provide her direction.

She shoved her change purse into her pocketbook and slung the bag over her shoulder. She felt so alone. She’d just have to wing it.

Paul deVere hoisted both suitcases and carried them through the Love Field concourse. How long before they start putting wheels on these things? he wondered. He pushed through the crowd.

At the far side he turned and searched for Amanda. She was not by the exit. He began to turn away when she emerged from a newsstand, a newspaper under her arm.

“Taxis are out here,” he called, and pushed his way outside. In the fresh air, a skycap hailed a cab. DeVere gave the driver the address for the downtown Holiday Inn while the skycap put their bags in the trunk. When they were settled in the rear seat deVere waved his hand back and forth in front of his face.

“I can’t believe that they let you smoke like that on the plane,” he groused.

“Hey, tough, it’s the times,” Amanda said, looking out the window. “You know what they say, when in Rome…”

DeVere blew his nose. “Yeah well, just because one is in Roman times shouldn’t mean there are no rules.” He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief and smelled his shirt.

Hutch shot him a warning look.

DeVere ignored the rebuke and nodded toward the newspaper.

“Anything in there?” he asked.

Amanda unfurled the newspaper in her lap. It was the Dallas Times Herald and the date, November 19, 1963, was displayed across the top of the front page.

“The President’s coming to town,” she answered.

DeVere nodded and gazed out the window.

“His trip is outlined in here,” Amanda said. She unfolded the paper and shoved it at deVere who turned and looked at it.

She pointed to a map that diagramed a motorcade route.

DeVere resisted asking what she thought Lewis was up to. They put their constant mutual questioning on hold whenever a third person was present.

Pamela Rhodes paid her cab driver, ignoring his stare, and walked briskly to the front entrance of Cazzie’s. She moved past the billiard parlor entrance and entered through the same door she had seen Ginter use. The lobby was a tiny, dimly lit space dominated by an oversized counter. Behind it stood a black man in his mid-sixties who stared at an open magazine.

He started when he looked up. Pamela smiled, hoping that she appeared disarming. The clerk’s eyes narrowed and he glanced over her shoulder.

“Yes, missy?” he asked, still looking behind her.

“I’m looking for Mr. Ginter. Could you tell me what room he’s in?”

“Two Twenty-eight,” the man said without checking anything. “But he’s not in now. Can I help you?”

“He applied to do some work for me and I wanted to hire him and find out when he could begin.”

“You came all the way down here for that?” the clerk asked.

“Well, I tried to call, but there are no phones in the rooms.”

The clerk hesitated. “Mr. Ginter already got a job at the Book Depository,” he said.

Shit! What the hell is the Book Depository? She kept her smile.

“Yes, I know. He told me that. But Mr. Ginter was going to do some additional work for me.”

The old man’s eyes bored into her and she hoped that her nervousness wasn’t showing. She put her left hand on the counter, palm downward, to prevent him from seeing her shake.

“In any event,” she said glibly, “I need to leave something for Mr. Ginter.”

“I can take it,” the man offered, extending his hand.

She had thought of this. She glanced at the wooden mail cubbies behind the desk and extracted a large flat manila envelope from her pocketbook. “I’m afraid it’s rather big. It’s the plans for the job along with his cash deposit,” she said, not handing him the envelope. “Maybe I should just slip it under his door?”

The man considered before dropping his hand and shrugging.

“Stairs to the left.” He returned to his magazine.

At the top of the stairs she proceeded down the hall to room 228. Music was playing from a record player on a floor above her, but no sounds came from any of the adjacent rooms on the second floor. The hallway was deserted.

Pamela’s knock on 228 went unanswered. A faint stench of stale urine reached her nostrils.

I wonder what this neighborhood is like today, she thought. I hope they tore this place down.

She checked her watch. It was a little after 3:30. She checked the hallway again, concerned that the desk clerk might wander up after her. She worried that he seemed suspicious, but she ignored the feeling.

In the dim light, she looked at the door to room 228. To her dismay there were two locks, a key-in-knob privacy lock and a deadbolt. Shit! She had hoped that this would be easy, that there would only be the privacy lock which she could by-pass with a credit card or plastic driver’s license—that is, if she had a credit card or driver’s license, she reminded herself ruefully.

On a hunch she tried the knob. It wiggled but didn’t turn. She bent and peered in between the door and the jamb. The lock itself appeared to be a basic pin-and-tumbler. She could see the bolt slid into the doorframe. She stood back up and looked across the hall. The other rooms didn’t have any deadbolts. Apparently Ginter wasn’t taking any chances.

She checked the hallway again. From her pocketbook she extracted the thin flathead screwdriver and pick she had purchased that morning. She inserted the tip of the screwdriver into the deadbolt’s keyhole and turned it slightly clockwise until the plug was minimally offset from its housing.

She assumed that the lock was a five-pin pin-and-tumbler, but even so she knew that there were still over a million pin combinations. She kept the pressure on the plug and inserted the pick behind it into the keyhole. Bent at the end, the pick slid in until Pamela felt it hit the first pin. Then she lifted the pin until she felt the slight click when the top pin slid into the housing as if pushed by the correct key. She knew the pin falling into place on the ledge in the shaft caused the click, and that once on the ledge it would remain wedged in the housing and not fall back into the plug.

She repeated the process five times until all of the upper pins were secured in the housing and all of the lower pins rested inside the plug. She turned the screwdriver and the plug spun freely, sliding back the bolt.

She smiled. Not bad training in Portland, she thought. Arthur would be proud of her. If only he knew.

Pamela took a thick piece of cardboard from her pocketbook and wedged it between the door and the frame just above the knob. Now, for the privacy lock in the knob. She pointed it downwards and slid it down along the jamb until it caught behind the spring-loaded latch. As she pulled it back, the door released and swung in. She listened for a moment and then pushed the door open wider, stepped inside, and softly closed it behind her. She stood inside the room listening. From somewhere above the record player continued to drone, although muffled now behind the wooden door.

So far, so good.

The room was dark. She resisted the urge to turn on a light and waited for her eyes to adjust. The wide Venetian blinds on the opposite facing windows were drawn. A tattered couch stood opposite a small television set which was propped on a metal stand. To the left, an open doorway led into a bedroom area. To the right, an archway opened onto a pantry. Pamela guessed that the bathroom was off the pantry. Apparently Lewis hadn’t been spending money on lavish accommodations. But then again, he had little choice.

Pamela moved to the far wall. She carefully inserted her fingers between two of the slats of the blinds and gently pried them apart. Five feet away the brick wall of the next building stared back at her. She reached for the string and tugged open the blinds.

Turning back into the room she saw a series of large paper drawings strewn over a maple kitchen table. She crossed the bare wooden floor and stared down at the sketches. She lifted the top drawing and studied the one underneath, and then repeated the process.

On the third drawing two dotted lines extended from a small box positioned inside a larger rectangle which resembled a two-dimensional building facade. The dotted lines ended at a profile of an automobile. The drawings were referenced with distances, angles, and times. Underneath the large rectangle the words “Book Depository” appeared in block lettering. One of the inner boxes five rows up had an arrow pointed to it with “Oswald” printed neatly at the right edge, also in block letters. The guy from New Orleans? Across the row of boxes the word “PATSY” had been impetuously scribbled with what must have been a red pen, as if in disgust. Ginter’s anger, she mused. The next page contained additional cryptic notes.

She flipped back to the top drawing and then moved around to the side of the table, her head tilted to one side. It was a map of city streets with “Houston” and “Elm” scrawled in.

The fourth drawing diagramed a metal bullet jacket showing a 6.5-millimeter jacket with what appeared to be a hand-packed charge.

She flipped through the drawings again. The references to Elm and Houston Streets were familiar. Where had she…? Of course!

She let the drawings fall back on the table and scanned the other two rooms. From a wastebasket she pulled out that morning’s Times Herald. She ripped through the pages until she found it.

“Oh, Lewis,” she whispered.

She refolded the newspaper and returned it to the trash. She had her own copy back at her hotel. She looked down at the drawings to make sure that they were positioned as she found them, but then flipped through them again to see if there was any further identifying information. Finding none, she completed her search of the rooms, closed the blinds, and let herself out into the hallway. Using the flathead screwdriver she moved the deadbolt back into the casing and picked the tumbler pins off their shelf. She turned left and walked down the back stairway.

DeVere dumped the suitcases on the double bed at the Holiday Inn and sat beside them. He grabbed the newspaper from Hutch’s hands.

“Why is Kennedy coming here if he has to be in Washington on Sunday? Do you think it’s a coincidence? Kennedy here two days before his meeting in D.C.?”

“No,” Amanda answered.

DeVere studied the parade route. “It’s like you said. He’s in and out in one day. A motorcade. A speech at the Trade Mart. Then back to Washington. The Vice-President will be with him. Hey, Johnson used to be Governor of Texas, didn’t he?”

“I don’t think he was ever governor,” Amanda said. “But he was from Texas. He was a congressman, I believe. No, a senator. Actually both,” she said, frowning. “He ran against Kennedy in the 1960 primaries. After he left the Vice Presidency in 1968 he ended up getting indicted over some radio station thing. The governor of Texas, John Connolly, will also be with him.”

DeVere nodded absently.

“By the way,” Amanda asked, leaning back against the pillows, “did you happen to notice the man in first class sitting on the right side of the plane when we boarded?”

DeVere looked up. Amanda looked so, so, so like she had in Ithaca. Lying back on the pillows like that…

”What?” he asked.

“When we boarded. The guy with the big jowls sitting by himself. Grey suit.”

DeVere shrugged. “Don’t remember anyone on the plane.”

Amanda nodded. “I couldn’t place him at first. I just caught a quick glimpse in New York. Hadn’t noticed him at the departure gate. Saw him again when we got off and finally figured out who he was when we were in the taxi.”

“And?”

“Nixon.”

“Who? The baseball player?”

Amanda sighed and rolled her eyes. “Richard Nixon.”

When Paul continued to stare at her blankly she continued. “Checkers dog speech? Anti-Communist zealot from the 1950s? Eisenhower’s vice-president?”

“Richard Nixon? I’m not good on vice presidents. You sure it was him?”

Amanda sat up suddenly and curled her legs under her. “Yuppa’, I am. Dead sure. Was the Republican nominee against Kennedy in 1960. They had a series of debates on TV. The first televised presidential debates. I’ve seen the films. That’s how I recognized him. That would have been three years ago. He’s put on a little weight but not much. It was Nixon who Kennedy beat in a close race. Later ran for governor of California. Lost again. Then he retired into oblivion.”

“So the man who ran against Kennedy in 1960 is in Dallas when Kennedy will be here.” DeVere shrugged. “So what?”

“So, maybe nothing. Bit of a coincidence though, with us here, Lewis here, Nixon here and Kennedy coming.”

“You think Ginter is going to do something with Kennedy and Nixon both?” deVere asked.

“I figure he’s angling on approaching Kennedy at the Trade Mart on Friday. Somehow getting information to him about Southeast Asia. Trying to change Kennedy’s mind one last time.”

“Do you think it will work?” deVere asked.

Hutch scoffed. “Has it worked for us? It’s absurd. No one gets close enough to the President of the United States to talk to him. And what would Lewis say?”

“We didn’t do well with Salisbury,” deVere sighed. “But the baseball thing softened him. Our time window is too short. We should have come back earlier.”

Amanda took a deep breath. “Salisbury later wrote that the United States should have intervened in Southeast Asia. He was a hawk in the 1970's. As for coming back earlier—what choice did we have?”

“Yeah, the best laid plans,” deVere scoffed. “Too bad there aren’t any games between now and Sunday that I remember the score of. I can still picture Salisbury’s face when we told him that the Soviet Union and China would fight a war.”

Amanda snickered. “That’s when he tried to run out the door. So, how is Ginter going to have any better luck?” she asked, turning serious.

DeVere scanned the newspaper. “I don’t know. There is going to be a motorcade from Love Field to the Trade Mart where he’ll talk.”

“It will have to be at the Trade Mart then,” Amanda answered. “I guess Lewis will have us rushing up to Jack Kennedy with open arms and empty hands yelling, ‘Watch out for Communism in South and Central America and don’t pull out of Southeast Asia.”

DeVere glanced at his watch. “Lewis said he’d be gone all day but would be here about 5:15 or so. What do you say we head down for a late lunch?”

As the pair stood up they were surprised by a knock at the door. Paul hesitated while Amanda reached out and flung it open. It was Lewis Ginter.

Chapter 27

Lewis Ginter stepped inside and closed the door.

“Jesus, Lewis, how the hell have you been?” deVere asked.

Ginter pulled out a chair and sat down. “Busy. You might as well sit down. This could take awhile. Hey, how’s New York? Been watching Joe Willie throw the football?”

“He’s still in college,” deVere answered, sitting down on the bed. Hutch followed suit.

Ginter nodded. “So, how was your flight? Uneventful, I hope?”

Hutch and deVere exchanged glances but didn’t answer.

Ginter changed the subject. “Any luck with Salinger last night?”

DeVere shook his head. “We’ve come up with zip, Lewis.” He recounted their efforts in New York, and the results of their approaches to Salisbury, Thurmond and Salinger. Ginter nodded at all the appropriate junctures but appeared to be only half listening.

When Paul finished Amanda spoke up. “O.K., Lewis. We’re five days away from decision day. What do you have?”

“I’ve got something going,” he said. “Something I started putting together back at the Carpenter Hotel.” Lewis took a deep breath and exhaled.

“You kept saying that the key is Sunday’s decision to pull out of Vietnam,” he said, turning to Amanda. “You said we should work on Southeast Asia. Stay in Vietnam and the United States draws the proverbial line in the sand that lets the East know that the West will fight. Once stopped, the East begins to slowly crumble from within.”

Amanda nodded. “I believe that. There are computer models—”

Ginter waved his hand impatiently, interrupting her. “Screw Vietnam and Southeast Asia,” he said forcefully. “The answer lies in what Ché Guevara and Cuba will do to this country. Once Ché takes Bolivia, Chile comes under Allende, and the Sandinistas take control in Nicaragua. Most of South America, and all of Central America, falls. This country will be so pre-occupied with that, the Malay Peninsula will be the last thing we care about. After we see what Russian chemical and biological weapons will do in China, and the chemical weapons and dirty bomb here…”

His voice trailed off. There was no reason to continue really, everyone in the room knew the history.

He extended his arms, palms upward. “Really, what choice did the U.S. have?” he asked rhetorically.

“And some would say it was a good trade,” Ginter continued softly. “The U.S. gets rid of its weapons of mass destruction, all nuclear material and research plans surrendered. The national military gets disbanded in return for peace, and prosperity for some. The threat of global destruction is gone. Who can argue with that when we have Beijing as a comparison?”

“What’s your plan?” Amanda asked coolly.

Ginter leaned forward and stabbed his finger on the table. “Ché Guevara must be stopped. Cuba must be stopped. Guevara would have been dead in Bolivia except for that defector. And now I’ve stopped him from defecting to Cuba.”

“Oswald?” Hutch asked.

DeVere looked perplexed. Amanda turned to him. “Lee,” she finished. “O.H. Lee. Oswald was his real name.” She turned back to Ginter.

“What are you talking about, Lewis? Isn’t he in Cuba?”

“Supposed to be.” Ginter leaned back in his chair, grinning. “But he’s not. He’s here, in Dallas. Using his original name, Oswald.”

“How can this be?” deVere asked.

“Didn’t Oswald defect in ‘63?” Hutch asked.

Ginter nodded. “He did. It was late September and history says that he really ought to be back in Cuba. Except, he’s not. History is changed. I stopped him in Mexico City and got him to come back here where he’s now employed at the Texas School Book Depository.”

A look of astonishment came over Hutch’s face. “You, you mean you changed something? We didn’t know if it was possible. My God, Lewis, in New York Paul and I have been unable to change anything.”

Ginter grew serious. “Don’t be so sure about that. None of us know what the effects are of what we’re doing. All I know is this. Lee Harvey Oswald did not defect to Cuba in September of 1963 and will not be there to save Ché Guevara in Bolivia.”

Amanda sat up abruptly. “How do you know he still won’t defect?” she asked suddenly. “O.K., so he didn’t go to Cuba in September, but if he goes next month, or next year, he may still end up on that road.”

Ginter put up his hand, palm outwards. “Convincing Oswald to come back was only part one. He thinks he’s working for me and that I’m with Cuban Intelligence. The guy is an egomaniac. I got us both jobs at the Book Depository because of your Kennedy itinerary,” he said, nodding toward Amanda. “Kennedy will pass by the Depository this Friday on his motorcade to the Trade Mart.”

“And?” Amanda asked cautiously.

Ginter shrugged. “Oswald fancies himself an assassin. He tried to kill General Walker this past April. He thinks he is going to kill Kennedy this Friday as the motorcade passes by.”

“Are you crazy?” deVere almost shouted. “Lewis, we can’t kill anyone, especially the President! Especially you! If you get involved in a plot to shoot the President just think what that would do for race relations in this country for the next 50 years! My God, Lewis!”

“Not to worry,” Ginter said calmly. “This tragic assassination attempt will fail. President saved. Life goes on.”

“And what does that do?” Hutch asked.

Lewis shrugged and turned to Amanda. “Paul’s right. If I were to shoot the President of the United States public opinion would swing horribly against blacks. It would swing against any group that produced such a monster. Anyone who did that would be hated. His cause would be hated. So, we need a patsy. Someone people will hate afterwards. Someone who will galvanize public opinion.”

“You’re not going to shoot him?” deVere asked doubtfully.

“I’m not the shooter.”

“But Lewis, you can’t have Oswald shoot the President,” deVere argued. “And why do you need us here?”

Paul blanched. “Oh no, Lewis, no, you don’t expect us to do this?”

Ginter motioned toward Professor Hutch. “Back in Cambridge we talked about the theory of infinite realities. We know there’s a world where the Soviets succeeded. We’ve lived it. There is now a world where Ché Guevara is not saved by the American traitor. Think of a world where in 1963 a Cuban spy, on direct orders from Castro himself, attempts to murder President Kennedy. Suppose that those orders are found. Think what this country’s reaction will be.” Ginter leaned back to let the effect of his words register.

“Invasion,” deVere whispered.

“Bay of Pigs all over again with American air support,” Hutch added dully. “And American troops this time.”

Amanda shook her head. “But Kennedy’s made a deal with Khrushchev. Part of the missile deal was that he’d leave Cuba alone.”

“He did,” Ginter countered. “In October, 1962, Kennedy made that deal. What do you think Kennedy will think of that deal when he finds out that thirteen months after making that deal Castro tried to have him killed? We’ll be vacationing again under the Havana moon by ‘66.”

“How?” Hutch asked, her voice a croak.

“Simple.” Ginter opened his briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of papers and drawings and scanned through them. “On Friday, November 22, 1963 Lee Harvey Oswald, who believes that he is working for Cuban intelligence, and acting under Cuban orders, will go to his menial job at the Texas School Book Depository. Kennedy’s 1963 reception in Texas helped turn around this state’s support and helped his narrow re-election in 1964 against Barry Goldwater.”

“But Oswald is going to shoot at him?” deVere asked.

“Yup, right from the fifth floor window.”

“What if he hits Kennedy?”

Ginter laughed again. “Impossible. Oswald will have a World War II era bolt-action rifle that couldn’t hit a damn thing, let alone a moving target. I’ve gone shooting with him. The sight is off. Also, I’m giving Oswald six cartridges and loading the clip myself. Do you know what a lufrag is?”

Hutch and deVere shook their heads in unison.

“It’s simple really. Oswald’s first cartridge will have a basically papier-mâché bullet painted black that looks and feels like a bullet when it’s in the jacket but when fired, explodes into nothingness. Inside the jacket is a water-based solvent that will coat the rifling converting any subsequent shots into essentially musket balls. The solvent will evaporate within twenty to thirty minutes leaving no trace. Any subsequent bullets out of the barrel would tumble harmlessly at slow speed to the pavement. If Oswald fires two shots the authorities will later find two cartridges and no bullets will have hit anything.”

“Why not just make all the bullets blank?” deVere asked.

Ginter smiled. “Too risky. If all the cartridges are blanks the cops will ask questions when they find them. I’m giving him six in the clip. Real bullets have to be found in the unused jackets. So only the first cartridge will be a lufrag.”

“Don’t we still have a problem?” deVere asked. “Aren’t there going to be questions asked about a bullet that is never found?”

Ginter shook his head. “Everyone will hear the shots. The authorities will have to explain away the missing bullet with some theory. Someone will think of something. They always do. It’ll either be that the bullet hit a curbstone and disintegrated or embedded itself in a passing car and was never found or some such. Someone someplace will claim they found “bullet fragments” and the cops will latch on to it. Don’t underestimate the power of cognitive dissonance. Once the cops get their theory of a certain number of bullets they’ll make the facts fit.”

“What about the gun barrel?” deVere asked. “Won’t the whatever be discovered?”

Ginter shook his head. “The paper will be expelled out of the barrel in sizes no bigger than atoms. Only the minutest trace of solvent will be in the rifling within minutes of it being fired. By the time the cops examine it the solvent will have evaporated.”

“And what if something goes wrong?” deVere argued. “What if Oswald fires real bullets first? What if he shoots Kennedy?”

Ginter shook his head again. “I’m going to load his clip myself. Lufrag first, five bullets after.”

“And if something still goes wrong?” deVere queried.

Ginter smiled. “Paul, don’t you trust me? What the hell do you think I was doing in Greece back in ‘04? Even if I get a heart attack before loading the rifle, the President is safe. Oswald’s Mannlicher can’t hit anything. The scope is an old Ordinance one.”

Ginter drew a deep breath and his face hardened. “Let me absolutely guarantee you that Lee Harvey Oswald is not going to kill the President.”

There was a moment of silence while deVere pondered his next question.

“What about Oswald?” Hutch asked instead. “What happens to him?”

“Good question,” Ginter answered. “My first inclination was to come up behind him after his last shot and kill him. Dump all the incriminating stuff—instructions from Havana, travel plans, tickets—into his pocket and wait for the cops to find him. No one to refute the paper trail. Plus, apparently the CIA had some sort of surveillance on the Cuban Embassy in Mexico City so he’ll show up on tape there which further ties him to Havana.”

“But that’s no longer your plan?” deVere asked warily.

“No,” Ginter answered. “There were good and bad reasons for it. The good was that Oswald couldn’t talk and refute anything. It also assured that he doesn’t somehow show up in Bolivia through some other temporal avenue. If Oswald ends up dead it will be easy to write ‘case closed’ on this one.”

“But you rejected the plan?” Hutch asked. “Why?”

“The cons outweigh the pros. For one thing I then become a player. You know, ‘the man who killed the assassin.’ I become the Boston Corbett of the twentieth century.”

“He shot Booth,” Hutch explained in an exasperated tone when she saw deVere’s puzzled expression.

“Anyway,” Ginter continued, “me as hero is good. I get my fifteen minutes of fame and maybe I get enough good feeling generated for ‘us colored folk’ that King doesn’t have to organize all those marches.

“But then I become part of the problem,” Ginter continued. “What if some journalist does a background story on me? My roots here are a little sketchy, wouldn’t you agree?” he asked wryly.

“And there’s also the problem of the surveillance in Mexico City. The CIA may have Oswald going in and out of the Cuban Embassy. If so, they may also have me on film. I met Oswald there. Some civilian walked in and saw Oswald and me together. He was South American, maybe a Nicaraguan. If I kill Oswald and my face is all over the media, someone may put us together and then we have that problem.”

Ginter sighed deeply. “So, I can’t kill him.”

“Is that why you brought us to Dallas?” deVere asked incredulously. “You want us to kill Oswald?”

Ginter snorted. “God no, Paul. With all due respect, I’d never trust something like that to you or Amanda.

“Six cartridges for the Mannlicher,” Ginter continued. “All six I’ll pack myself. I’ll load the clip. The first will explode into nothing. Oswald will have a limited target window and will immediately crank in the next round and fire away. The second cartridge will be double packed. Gunpowder behind a C-4 concoction I’ve dummied up myself. When the Mannlicher’s firing pin hits the cap—kaboom!”

Ginter paused again and waited. When neither of his hosts spoke he continued. “The cheap barrel explodes in his face, maybe killing him, maybe not. Maybe it just rips his face off leaving him writhing on the floor where the cops find him. And when they do he’ll either be dead, or half dead, with the busted up Mannlicher and all the other stuff I’ll plant before I beat it down the stairs.”

“Such as?” Hutch whispered.

Ginter chuckled. “Airline tickets from Dallas to Mexico City to Havana, a complete plan in English since he speaks no Spanish, a map of his escape route, and some basic propaganda, all forged and prepared by Cuban Intelligence which planned this whole thing.”

“You think that’s enough for Kennedy to go to war with Cuba?” Hutch asked.

Ginter shrugged. “I’d say so. Once they start digging on Oswald, the press will have a field day. There’s a previous defection to the Soviet Union, a renunciation of his American citizenship, his Fair Play for Cuba activities in New Orleans, his attempt to kill a retired general, his trip to the Cuban Embassy in Mexico City, his meeting with a shadowy black man at the Cuban Embassy who handed him a briefcase with cash, followed by his return to Dallas, the assassination attempt on Kennedy ordered by Castro himself, and his escape route to Havana, all arranged by Fidel.

“If nothing else,” Ginter added, “I don’t think Kennedy will be deciding this Sunday to pull out of Vietnam. And if we get the reprieve on that, coupled with stopping Guevara in Bolivia… well, we’ve got a chance.”

“It’s crazy,” deVere stated.

“Really?” Ginter asked, annoyed. “Why don’t you tell me how your Harrison Salisbury—New York Times plan is progressing? Having a lot of luck, are we?”

Hutch ignored the rebuke. “What happens to Oswald if he survives?” she asked. “What if he’s able to make a run for it down the stairs?”

Ginter shrugged. “I’ll be there when the Mannlicher rips open. After dumping the incriminating evidence next to the rifle, I follow Oswald out of the building and finger him to a Dallas cop. ‘Officer, I believe that’s the man from Dealey Plaza you’re looking for,’ or some such. It won’t take much. The police will move in. Once he’s in custody, it’s all over. Everyone who worked at the Depository will have seen him in the building. Someone will remember seeing him on the fifth floor. His prints will show up on his rifle-remember the picture of him holding it in all the bios? Someone will have seen him bringing it in Friday all wrapped up, heck even in 1963 paraffin tests will show that our ‘Hero of Acapulco’ fired a weapon. He’s cooked. Life in prison.”

“What if he talks?” Hutch asked.

“Let him,” Ginter countered quickly. “If he yacks, perfect. He’ll shoot his mouth off about Communism, Capitalism, the Cuban Revolution, Fidel, how he was recruited by Cuban Intelligence in Mexico, the list goes on. The more he talks the better off we are. The anger against Cuba will mount. Ché won’t even make it to Bolivia.”

“And if he doesn’t talk?” deVere asked.

“There will be nothing to refute the anti-Communist hysteria that will run rampant,” Ginter said. “The link to Cuba and Cuban Intelligence will still be there. I’d say if he does not talk, Kennedy invades Cuba in the spring. Russia does nothing to stop Kennedy—how can they?—still no navy in ’63 to challenge the good old U.S. of A. Guevara dies on a Cuban beach trying to stop The One as it hits the sand. United Fruit has an office in Havana by ‘65. Kennedy establishes a red white and blue line across Southeast Asia, and the Balkans remain free for tin horn dictators.”

“So,” deVere asked, taking a deep breath, “where do we come in? That is, if we’re not to shoot the President?”

Ginter stood up and moved to the window. He looked down at the main street before turning back to face his hosts.

“Someone from CA is back here,” he said flatly.

“Pardon?” Hutch asked.

“Someone. An agent. Not Collinson or Pomeroy but someone else. A Russian. He followed us through another wormhole. He followed us to New Hampshire. It was him that sicced the local cops on us on the hill at that park. And now he’s somehow tracked me to Dallas.”

Several moments paused before anyone spoke.

“That’s impossible,” deVere croaked.

“How?” Hutch asked.

Ginter shrugged. “I’ve gone over the possibilities.”

“But no one else knows how to operate an Accelechron,” deVere protested. “We never wrote down directions. And who could build one? They don’t know how.”

“Maybe not in 2026,” Ginter corrected. “But there are other possibilities. Suppose they had several years to figure it out? Given seven or ten years the Soviet’s best scientists could probably figure it out. Maybe they figured out where we went, and why, and came back to stop us.”

“Impossible,” Hutch corrected. “Why would they send back just one guy? If that were the case they would have sent back a platoon to take us all out.”

Ginter shrugged. “Maybe. And there’s another problem. If they had seven or eight years of Soviet scientific tinkering with the Accelechron then that means that the neo-Sovs remained in control after 2026. Which means that we failed in 1963. So then why would they send anyone back? There would be no need to change anything.”

“But suppose,” deVere said slowly, “that we have already succeeded. Suppose we did change history. Maybe the Soviets invented their own Accelechron and figured the point in time when we changed history and came back to stop us.”

“How would they know we had changed history?” Hutch asked. “It would just be history. Their history. We would be irrelevant.”

“Unless we succeeded and went back and spilled the beans,” Ginter said. “In which case they would know that time travel had changed history. And they’d know when and where to come to.”

“Your Temporal Paradox,” Hutch said. “If we succeeded here and went back to 2026 and told our story, that means we went back to a non-Soviet world. So, if we did, then the CA won’t be there to come back to stop us.”

“Wait a minute,” deVere interjected. “How do you know someone is back? We haven’t seen anyone. Have you actually seen someone?”

Ginter shook his head. “No, but Oswald’s friends have. Oswald’s wife is Russian. At some local language class some Russian guy was asking around about other recent Russian immigrants and one of the students mentioned Oswald’s wife. The guy said that he knew that her husband was in Cuba.”

“So?” deVere asked. “What’s the big deal about that? He’s supposed to be in Cuba. And he’d be there if you hadn’t stopped him.”

“Yeah, but who knew that?” Ginter asked. “Only someone who was aware of Oswald’s defection to Cuba would think that it had still happened. The Russian guy wouldn’t know I had turned Oswald around. He’d still think that Oswald was gone.”

Hutch shrugged. “You’re paranoid, Lewis. Maybe Oswald told other people his plans and the Russian guy just assumed he had gone.”

Ginter shook his head forcefully. “No way. Oswald didn’t tell anyone except his wife. And the guy who was talking didn’t know the wife because the other student was mentioning her as another Russian who was living around here. The agent was described as someone who had just arrived. Mexico City was two months ago.”

“I don’t know, Lewis,” deVere said. “How would anyone know you were even in Dallas?”

“But then what is the agent up to and what can we do?” Hutch asked.

“My fear is that whoever this guy is, he’s trying to stop us,” Ginter answered. “He’ll try to wreck the plan on Friday.”

“Lewis, this is crazy!” Hutch protested. “Even if there’s some Russian guy back here who tracked you to Dallas, how could he possibly know that you’re planning a faked assassination attempt on Friday with the same Oswald who he thinks is in Havana?” She shook her head forcefully. “That makes no sense.”

“Maybe not, but someone is back here and we have to take precautions,” Ginter said.

“How?” deVere asked.

“On Friday, I’m going to be on the fifth floor with Oswald making sure everything goes fine. I need you guys on the street looking out for the Russian.”

“We’re not soldiers, Lewis,” Amanda said. “We’re teachers, for God’s sake. What do you expect us to do? Shoot someone?”

Ginter shook his head. “No, no guns. Just information. We will have walkie-talkies. I need you to watch for someone trying to disrupt us. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Paul glanced at the other two. “What about Pam? Where is she anyway? Can’t she help?”

Ginter let the curtain fall back against the window and shook his head. “I know you two, but I’m not sure I can count on her. I’d rather leave her out of it.”

Lewis Ginter turned back to the room. “So, what do you say?”

DeVere and Hutch sat silently. The sound of late afternoon street noise could be heard in the room. Amanda stood and joined Lewis at the window. Together, they peered at the traffic below.

Amanda turned to Ginter. “Why don’t we just do it?” she asked softly.

“Do it? Do what?” he asked.

She waved her hand at the street. “Just do it. Screw the fake assassination. We want to stop Kennedy from pulling out of Vietnam this Sunday.” She waved her hand again. “Just do it.”

She turned square to Ginter who stood open-mouthed. “Just shoot him,” she said flatly.

“My God, you can’t be serious!” deVere exclaimed from the bed. “We can’t shoot the President.”

Amanda wheeled on him. “And why not?” she demanded. “We came back here to stop Soviet expansion, didn’t we? In two and a half months we’ve accomplished zilch. In five days he pulls out.” She shrugged. “Why wouldn’t it work?”

Ginter strode away from the window. “Impossible,” he said. “We have no idea what Johnson will do. Will he stay and fight?

“As a black man in 1963 I am not going to be part of a plot to shoot the President,” he added. “We’ve got Oswald and a rigged cartridge and enough propaganda material to frame him. Kennedy’s a war hero. Any of you seen P.T. 109 yet? When he finds out that Castro tried to have him bumped off, it’ll become personal very quickly.”

He turned to Amanda. “Like you said, we’re five days away from the decision and three days away from the motorcade. No one can be sure what will happen afterwards but this is all we’ve got.”

“O.K.,” Paul said standing up. “I guess we’ll find out Friday.”

Chapter 28

Lewis Ginter squatted on the planking of the sixth floor of the Texas School Book Depository and peered across to the opposite side of Elm Street.

“You think he’ll be on time?” Oswald asked.

Ginter turned to him. Oswald sat on a crate munching a piece of fried chicken, juice dripping down his chin. Ginter turned back to the street below. How could this guy be an ex-Marine?

“I’m not sure,” he answered in his broken Spanish accent. “There’s nothing to hold him up.”

As much as he loathed doing so he felt obligated to keep up the conversation.

“I’ve got your tickets and passport. I’ll hand them to you as you pass out of the building. This way if for some reason I get caught with them before then you can still clear the area.”

Oswald nodded and peered down the sight of the Mannlicher. Ginter tried to ignore the nervous twinge in his stomach. He had created a sniper’s nest from the book crates stored on the sixth floor. He was concerned that at any moment another employee in search of a better position from which to watch the motorcade might wander up to the floor. Ginter had planned to set up on the fifth floor but had overheard two workers talking about watching the motorcade from there. He had slipped upstairs and carefully moved the paper wrapped Mannlicher up another flight, where he had constructed the nest.

Oswald craned his neck out the window to the left. Ginter followed his gaze. Still nothing. Ginter checked his watch. Twelve-seventeen.

“It shouldn’t be long,” Ginter said.

Across the street he spotted Amanda Hutch walking along the edge of the grass. As per Ginter’s instructions she was vigilantly surveying the crowd, the building, and the surrounding area.

“One of our agents?” Oswald asked.

Ginter cursed to himself. He shouldn’t have let Oswald discern the object of his gaze.

“We have several agents in the crowd, Comrade,” Ginter said evenly. “They will tell us as the motorcade approaches and will provide help in our escape if necessary. But it is better if you do not know of them.”

Oswald nodded and again peered down the sight as if mentally selecting random targets. Ginter put his left hand in his pants pocket and fingered his walkie-talkie. He had bought the smallest one available at a Dallas military surplus shop but still marveled at how cumbersome it was. He longed for his cell phone. At least I never had to buy oversized pants for a cell phone, he mused.

Ginter resisted the temptation to reach inside his pocket and raise Hutch or deVere. If they had noticed anything suspicious they would have radioed.

He was uneasy with the patchwork nature of his plan. He was better qualified to be outside looking for the Russian. He questioned whether Paul and Amanda would be able to spot an agent. He questioned his decision not to arm them. But he couldn’t leave them up here to manage Oswald. If Oswald failed to fire then this would all be a waste. Ginter couldn’t be everywhere.

He brushed his right hand against his pants pocket and felt the bulge of the snub-nosed Colt .38. He would have preferred his .45, but the semi-automatic didn’t fit in his pants, and he had no reason to wear a sport coat to this job.

“What are you doing?” Ginter asked.

Oswald had removed the clip from the Mannlicher and was turning it over in his hand.

“Just checking,” he said.

“Well, check with the clip in the rifle, please,” Ginter said icily. With the lufrag already loaded first Ginter didn’t like Oswald tinkering with the clip. The wired cartridge was second. The third, fourth, fifth and sixth were real. When Oswald had come up just before noon he had removed the clip and studied it before replacing it as Ginter had held his breath. Seeing Oswald do it again was unnerving.

“You’re a bit edgy,” Oswald said, in his sneering tone.

Ginter breathed deeply. “This is an important mission for the Revolution,” he said, staring out across the street.

“And,” he turned to look at Oswald, “an important mission for us.” He let his gaze hold Oswald’s an extra moment.

Oswald hesitated before turning back to the street. Ginter checked his watch again. Twelve-twenty.

The sun was bright, but being inside shielded the pair from any glare. Amanda was now across the street to the far left, closer to where the motorcade was expected. She had her back to him, and appeared to be trying to use her walkie-talkie. She was shaking it as if trying to get it to work. He listened for his own to crackle but heard no sound from his pants pocket. What did she see? He craned his neck and scanned along the crowd back to his far right. He started scanning back to his left when he saw it, so commonplace that at first that he almost missed it. Walking toward him, from the direction of Houston Street, was a woman with a brightly colored yellow and red babushka, a babushka he had seen before, a babushka she had purchased in Connecticut 15 weeks earlier.

Damn! What the hell is she doing here?

Amanda must have seen her too and was trying to raise him.

Ginter’s pants pocket crackled. He looked at Oswald blankly for a moment before reaching in and retrieving the walkie-talkie. It wasn’t Amanda—it was deVere.

“I see a Dallas police officer crouched behind your building near the railroad yard,” deVere’s voice almost shouted through the radio. “I think it might be him. Over.”

Ginter and Oswald stared at each other.

“Why?” Ginter barked into the handheld set.

“I think he’s got a rifle in his hands.”

“Counter-revolutionaries,” Ginter said quietly to Oswald. “We knew they might try to stop us.” He glanced back outside and saw Rhodes again, leisurely walking toward the Book Depository. She was glancing around, obviously confused. Shit! What the hell is she doing here?

Oswald shrugged. “Maybe it’s a real cop.”

Ginter could feel the cold hand reaching up again. Not crouching.

“Are you sure? Over.” Ginter asked, as Rhodes stopped 200 feet to his left and turned around.

Ginter only heard crackled static.

The icy hand tightened. Maybe Oswald was not the target. Maybe there were two groups. Maybe…

“Paul, can you hear me?” Ginter asked urgently. To his relief deVere answered.

“I’m here.”

“Can you get to the overpass? Keep your eye on the overpass. Amanda, are you there? Over.”

When there was no response Ginter cursed again. He could no longer see Rhodes. Ginter surmised that she had continued around the far end of the Depository. He couldn’t see Hutch either. She must have spotted Rhodes and was following her around the building. If so, with the building now between them, the 1963 walkie-talkies would be useless.

“Paul, I’m on my way.” Ginter stood and turned to Oswald. “I’m going to take out the cop. He will be trying to circle around to the overpass to get a shot off at you to prevent you from shooting Kennedy. No matter what, complete your mission. I’ll meet up with you at the rear door to the building as we planned. If I’m late wait for me in the lunchroom.”

“If they know what I’m doing, why don’t they just run up here now?” Oswald asked suspiciously.

“We’ve got the government with us. It’s the reactionary renegades who are here,” Ginter answered. “Comrade, complete your mission!”

Ginter turned and walked briskly across the warehouse floor to the stairwell. He raced down the steps two at a time. At the ground level he turned and stepped outside, still clutching the walkie-talkie.

“Anything?” Ginter barked.

“No,” deVere answered. “I don’t see anyone now. The policeman was on the knoll. I can’t raise Amanda. I didn’t catch all of what you said.”

Standing next to Ginter, a man with an umbrella turned and gave an inquisitive look. Heart pounding, Ginter turned away. “Keep looking for the cop,” he barked back.

What are they up to? Could a Soviet agent have tailed him there without any plan? Not if the guy had a rifle. Whoever it was had to be stopped. If the agent knew Ginter and his plan, he would know that Ginter’s priority would be to protect Oswald. That meant Ginter would return upstairs.

Or, the fake policeman might be a lure to get Ginter out of the building away from the approaching motorcade, while all the while circling back around the building. Another thought struck him. Maybe he has Hutch already and that’s why she’s not answering.

“Amanda, are you there?” Ginter barked. His brain raced. If an agent already knows from history what I did, he knows we all have radios. He’ll have one and be listening in. Perhaps it’s time to change the change in history.

Ginter studied the overpass. From there, one would have a clear, but angled, shot at Oswald’s sixth floor window. When Oswald leaned out to fire, a shooter on the overpass could take him out.

There was no response from the walkie-talkie. To Ginter’s right, a man held a small movie camera like those Ginter had seen in old movies. Ginter abruptly turned left, away from the overpass and brushed past the man with the umbrella. He quickened his pace and shifted the walkie-talkie to his left hand. They can’t know I’m outside. He raised the walkie-talkie for one last transmission. “I’m heading back inside the building,” he said, even as he raced away from the door. “Everyone complete their mission.”

Ginter switched off his walkie-talkie before jamming it back into his left pants pocket. As he rounded the Depository’s corner, he reached in to his right pocket and tightened his fingers around the Colt.

From across the street, Paul deVere saw Lewis Ginter emerge from the Texas School Book Depository, speak into his walkie-talkie, and heard him say that he was going back inside even as he turned left. DeVere was confused. He looked at the triple overpass, but saw no one on it.

At the top of the Depository, the large clock read 12:25.

DeVere’s radio crackled. It was Hutch.

“Lewis, can you hear me? I saw the man Paul saw. I think it’s O.K., he’s a policeman. Do you want me to follow him?”

Paul jumped in. “Amanda, this is Paul. Lewis said he was going back inside but he went around the building. I don’t understand what’s going on. The cop I saw was the other way. Where are you? Do you see him?”

There was more static before he heard Amanda answer, “…railroad yard behind the hill.”

DeVere looked back to his right. Ginter had disappeared from view and any transmission to him would now be blocked.

“Lewis, are you there?” Hutch pleaded.

Paul raised his radio. “Amanda, Lewis has gone around the building. He told me to watch the overpass.” DeVere looked back at the still empty structure.

“I’m coming,” he spoke into his handheld unit. DeVere saw the clock change to 12:26 as he stepped into the street. To his right he could sense the crowd begin to stir.

“Where’s he now?” deVere asked on the run. “Can you catch up with him?” But all he heard was more static.

Across the street a grassy slope extended to deVere’s left, past the Depository, up to the fence where he had last seen the police officer. As the crowd’s excitement grew, deVere stepped over the far curb and began striding up the hill.

At the crest was a stark wooden fence. He moved toward a break fifty feet away. When he reached it and turned to go behind the fence he heard what sounded like a firecracker coming from behind him and to his right. A gunshot? He instinctively turned and looked back down the hill. The front of the police escort was approaching the overpass. One of the motorcycle officers turned and looked back over his right shoulder.

As deVere crossed behind the fence, he saw a Dallas police officer in full uniform, standing on a tree limb, holding a rifle. It extended across the top of the barricade. DeVere recognized it as out of place in 1963: a laser scoped sniper rifle.

A second shot rang out, sounding like yet another firecracker. DeVere was confused as to why there was no explosion. To his right he saw an open black Cadillac begin to slow.

Even as deVere’s brain urged him forward, the officer took careful aim. DeVere stumbled over twisted tree roots. The officer remained steadfast, face against the stock, staring down the sight.

DeVere concentrated on the shooter’s trigger finger as he launched himself. He cringed for the rifle blast but heard only a dull whoosh, and, for an exhilarating moment as he and the officer tumbled down the back of the hill, he thought that the rifle had jammed.

At the bottom deVere scampered to his feet, but the officer was up before him.

“My God,” deVere gasped. The officer’s cap had come off and Natasha Nikitin’s long brown hair tumbled around her shoulders.

“Surprised to see me?” she asked, tossing back her head.

“I… I…” deVere stammered.

“There’s no time,” Nikitin answered, looking back behind her across the railroad yard. “We’ve got to get out of here. Quick. We can’t be found.”

Natasha turned away and then hesitated. She turned back and tossed the rifle to deVere who surprised himself by catching it.

“Disassemble it,” she barked. “Then let’s get out of here.”

Natasha picked up her policeman’s cap, shoved her hair into a ball, and jammed the cap back on before turning and hurriedly striding to a green Nash parked a few feet from the bottom of the embankment.

DeVere hesitated, the rifle in his hands. Natasha grabbed the handle to the driver’s side door before again turning back to deVere. She stood there, looking him straight in the eyes. Paul deVere tightened his grip on the rifle’s metal stock. He could shoot her. He could try to wound her. He could kill her. He could level the rifle and hold her until the police arrived.

He did none of those things. He took a deep breath and lowered the rifle. He walked over to the Nash. Natasha nodded and ducked in the driver’s side. He yanked open the passenger door, got inside, and slammed the door shut. The Nash was already running and Natasha gunned the accelerator with a roar.

“I don’t have much experience disassembling a rifle,” he said dumbly.

Natasha ground the car into first gear and let the clutch out quickly. The car lurched forward with a squeal and almost stalled.

“I know,” she said. “Hang on.”

DeVere grabbed hold of the door handle. As the car rocked toward the exit he turned and watched a dust cloud rise behind them.

“Rear wheel drive,” he said dully. “You tossed me the rifle to get my trust, didn’t you?”

Instead of answering Natasha gunned the Nash across the parking lot past two men who stared open-mouthed. They see us and the car, deVere thought.

“And should I trust you?” he asked.

Natasha smiled thinly as she guided the car across the twisting parking lot behind the Depository and out onto Houston Street. “I could have killed you as you came up the hill and still made my shot. Plenty of bullets, a silencer on the rifle, no one else around. No one would have seen your body until after the motorcade had passed.”

DeVere sat, gripping the door handle. He still found it difficult getting used to no seatbelts. The car swayed with each turn.

“Why didn’t you?” he asked.

“If you can’t break it down, put it in the back seat,” she said.

“What? Oh.” DeVere turned and laid the rifle across the back seat.

“Cover it with the blanket,” she ordered.

Natasha removed her policeman’s cap and tossed it on top of the rifle just as deVere pulled a woolen Hudson Bay blanket over it.

“Did you get the shot off?” he asked.

“I did,” she answered.

“Did you get him?”

She just turned and looked at him.

“Why?” deVere asked.

“Because your plan had failed. Kennedy can’t be allowed to pull out of Vietnam this Sunday. And now he won’t,” she said simply.

DeVere ignored the switch in verb tense, a pattern he had found himself using since his arrival. He nodded dumbly.

“I thought you were someone else,” he said.

“As you can see, I’m not.”

“It wasn’t Collinson or Pomeroy. You were the Russian asking about recent defectors.”

Natasha nodded.

“You followed us back to New Hampshire,” deVere said. “It was never them.”

Natasha didn’t answer. She reached the main street and slowed the Nash. A police cruiser sped past in the opposite direction, its siren wailing and bubble light flashing. DeVere turned and watched it head toward Dealey Plaza. Natasha furtively followed it in her mirror.

“How?” deVere asked. “And why?”

“You weren’t going to convince Kennedy to invade Cuba, or stay in Southeast Asia. He had to be stopped. I told Rostov to bring the rifle with him to the lab. It’s a Dragunov SVD-S. The best. He even carried it up the stairs.”

She laughed derisively when she saw deVere’s confused expression. “He couldn’t exactly leave it in the cab now, could he? When he went in to the lab I crossed over the ceiling to your precious Accelechron you had so thoughtfully turned on for me. I had the pack with the Dragunov. I jumped in ahead of you by a couple of minutes and came back through the wormhole landing in the park with the cannons. I grabbed the pack and ran. Some children hollered at me but I cut through the woods. I hid the rifle in the brush and followed you to the hotel and tracked you from there,” she added as she downshifted and braked at a downtown red light.

Paul grimaced and turned away. “Rostov. That was the other Russian at the lab?”

Natasha nodded. “Igor Rostov.”

“And then you followed Ginter to Mexico City?” he asked.

Natasha took her eyes off the intersection and turned to deVere.

“I know nothing about Mexico City,” she said.

“Then how did you know Ginter came to Dallas?”

The light turned green and Natasha started forward at a normal speed.

“I didn’t,” she said, keeping her eyes on the road. “I came to Dallas on my own. Although I should have figured that Ginter would develop a plan to stop Oswald. He’s been fixated on him and Guevara from the beginning.”

Natasha slowly maneuvered the Nash out of the city. An occasional police siren wailed in the distance. He thought better than to ask where they were heading.

“Why did you come to Dallas?” he asked.

“For the same reason as Ginter. But with a different intent. Rostov told me what day he’d be arriving in Boston. I knew what wormhole would be open that day. The first thing Rostov would do would be to hack into Professor Hutch’s home computer. Remember, I am actually qualified for my internship.” She laughed again.

“This was Kennedy’s last top down motorcade before November 24,” she said. “This last chance to get him. Your original plan would never have worked. Professor Hutch has the brains but you needed Ginter. Ginter has the military training but not the historical perspective. I should have figured he’d go for Oswald, though,” she added thoughtfully.

“How did you find Ginter in Dallas?”

“Purely by chance.” Natasha guided the Nash onto a highway and shifted the car into fourth gear. She swung into the outer lane and accelerated quickly, heading north.

“I needed a cover in Dallas, so I contacted the Russian community to tell them I had defected and my husband had died and I was alone. That’s how I found out about Oswald. I recognized the name of course, but knew he was supposed to be in Cuba. When I heard that he wasn’t, I figured that Ginter was involved. What I didn’t understand is why he just didn’t kill Oswald outright.”

“Did you know what was planned?”

“Not until I smoked him out.”

“What?”

“Smoked him out. I mentioned to the Russians that Oswald was supposed to be in Cuba hoping that would get back to Ginter. I also mentioned something about President John Lindsay and everyone looked at me and I made a big deal out of it hoping that some of that would also get back to Oswald and then to Ginter. And I guess something did. They met and I tailed Oswald to their meeting and then tailed Ginter back to his apartment.”

“Lewis thought it was your Igor fellow.”

“He did?”

“Oswald only mentioned a Russian émigré. And the detail about Cuba.”

“And Ginter assumed it was a male?” Natasha scoffed. “Of course. Sexist pig.”

The pair traveled in silence, past the suburbs, and north through the Texas fall. DeVere would have turned on the car radio, but the Nash didn’t have one.

He turned to Natasha. “Are you sure?”

She nodded glumly. “In the morning we will get a newspaper but I am quite sure. That was my training at Valdavosk. Sniper. I had a clear shot. Right front head shot. I saw you coming but knew I had time.”

“What will happen to Oswald now?”

Natasha shrugged. “What was he supposed to do?”

“Miss. The gun was supposed to blow up.”

Natasha laughed derisively. “And blame it on the Soviets because Oswald had once been there? Stupid plan. What did Ginter do, rig the cartridges?”

“Something like that.”

Natasha shook her head. “I would think in a day or two he’ll get arrested. Or maybe shot during arrest. Three days at most and they’ll have him behind bars.”

“Won’t they know that Kennedy was shot from the front?”

Natasha shrugged again. “So maybe Oswald had an accomplice. A second shooter who never got caught. So what? Nineteen sixty-three forensics are not so good. Maybe they’ll think that it was a shot from the rear.”

“There was a camera,” deVere said.

“What?” Natasha twisted toward him. “Where?”

“In the front of the building. I saw it. Some guy with one of those old non-video things.”

“Sixteen millimeter?”

“I think so. Or maybe even eight. You know, the things people used to take with them on vacations that had no sound.”

“Did he film the whole thing?” Natasha asked, a trace of alarm in her voice.

“I don’t know,” he said dryly. “I was attacking a police officer at the time. But I assume he brought it to film the President.”

Natasha blew air through her teeth. “Then they’ll figure out there was a frontal shooter. The force would have knocked the President’s head backwards. If that’s on film…”

“Who knows,” deVere said. “Maybe they’ll never figure it out.”

The asphalt and cement gave way to open spaces and ranches with white picket fences. DeVere was reminded of the words from an old Commander Cody song. He tried to remember all the lines but failed at, “white as a ghost.” That’s what Kennedy was now, he concluded, a ghost.

The Nash rumbled north, leaving each alone with their thoughts. Finally, deVere broke the silence.

“So. Why?”

“Me? You thought I was a loyal Soviet citizen?”

“You certainly acted the part. Leading your Igor to the Accelechron.”

“I had to go back with you and I had no other way of doing it since I didn’t know how to create a second wormhole. I had to be there when you left in yours. And I had to lead Rostov to the Accelechron.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “He had the rifle. I had no reason to requisition one. And I had to go back to change history, not engage in some silly letter writing campaign. Did you really think that would work?”

DeVere winced as he thought of the letters he and Amanda had been sending from the Waldorf. He thought of his pointless meetings with Salisbury, Thurmond and Salinger.

DeVere sighed. “You really killed him?”

Natasha looked at him wordlessly.

“You still haven’t said why,” deVere said.

“Why not? The only reason I took the Boston job was because you were working on time travel. I figured it might give me my chance.”

“Chance?”

“Chance. Why do you think I requested sniper training at Valdavosk?”

“To kill Kennedy?” deVere asked incredulously.

Natasha laughed out loud. “No. To kill someone. Chairman Lenkov or Putin or any of the bastards. You know my file. My parents were killed in the Second Great War. So I took sniper training and when I heard about Boston and you, well, I knew I might be able to do it.”

“But why not simply come to us?”

“What? To help write letters?” Natasha laughed again when she saw deVere grimace.

“I scouted the Trade Mart,” Natasha continued. “Kennedy gave a great… would have given a great speech. But getting in with the Dragunov, getting it assembled, and then getting a clean shot would have been impossible. I traced the parade route and—”

“You knew the parade route?” deVere asked.

Natasha snorted. “I knew about the Trade Mart speech. I had seen the motorcade on film. A search through microfilmed newspapers revealed the parade route published three days ahead of time. And there it was.”

DeVere thought of Tuesday’s newspaper.

“After that it was simply a matter of finding a quiet place that allowed me to set up and get a clear shot. I only needed one,” she added.

The words of another old song swam through deVere’s head. “Little sister don’t miss when she aims her gun.” He couldn’t remember the artist.

DeVere marveled at the dusty, flat landscape.

“Now what? Where are we going?” he asked.

“To New Hampshire,” Natasha answered. “But not together, just in case. We have sixteen days until the wormhole reopens in that little park of yours. We’ll head to Tulsa and I’ll drop you off.”

Tulsa. DeVere grimaced. It was in Tulsa that Peter had died while visiting cousins. DeVere’s father had never gone back. And now here he was heading to Tulsa, again. Strange, but he had grown up in New Hampshire and had returned through the wormhole to New Hampshire. And Peter had died in Tulsa and now he was returning to Tulsa, but with the world changed. Everything changed. Kennedy was dead, and would anything ever be the same?

“Tulsa,” he muttered out loud.

Natasha looked over at him, and nodded. “Sixteen days should be enough time to get to New Hampshire, don’t you think?” she asked.

It was dark when Natasha pulled off the road just north of Sallisaw, Oklahoma and followed the blinking sign that read, “Motel.” She had changed out of her police uniform before crossing the state border and was now dressed in a loose fitting cotton skirt and flat shoes.

DeVere was concerned that at this hour the motel office would be closed. But when they pulled into the parking lot, the neon “Office” sign was lit and a flickering light shown through the window.

“I’ll go in,” deVere suggested. “A Russian accent might raise suspicions.”

Natasha remained in the Nash as deVere walked to the office. As he swung open the screen door he saw five people huddled around a black and white television set. On the screen Lyndon Baines Johnson stood at a podium on a Washington tarmac, next to Jackie Kennedy, addressing the nation.

Chapter 29

Sunday, December 8, 2006

Lewis Ginter stood inside the Weston Observatory and surveyed Manchester from the top of Derryfield Park. He was at the city’s highest point. To his left, the access road led to the parking lot. It was the same lot where three months earlier two Manchester police officers searched the area while Lewis and company crawled to the woods.

The lot was empty now. Ginter had arrived before dawn, after parking his Corvette several blocks away in front of an elementary school. He retraced his steps through the woods and up past the stone quarry. Won’t be anyone using it for a swimming hole today, he mused as he peered through binoculars at gathering storm clouds.

He had wanted to be the first to arrive, and picking his way through the pre-dawn light had given him that. Using a crowbar, he had pried open the lock on the rusted iron door to the abandoned granite tower. Once inside, he had climbed the crumbling metal steps to the observation area. He opened one green shutter just enough to gain a view.

He had stayed hidden, inside, waiting for 3:15 p.m. when the wormhole would re-open.

Natasha arrived next, shortly after 2:30. He heard a vehicle straining up the access road and watched transfixed as a green Nash drove slowly past the reservoirs until it reached the center of the parking lot. The driver shut off the ignition, and slowly exited, keeping her hands away from her body. She walked deliberately up through the clearing, wearing a red backpack. Just like the ones in Greece, he thought. Son of a bitch.

Although it was raw and chilly, Natasha paused a few feet into the clearing, dropped the pack, and unzipped her jacket. Then she used both hands to hold the sides of her coat away from her body and slowly turned around.

Ginter smiled. Damn, she’s good. She knows I’m here.

He was about to descend when a second car, a bright yellow taxi, entered the lot and stopped. Paul deVere and Amanda Hutch exited together from the back seat. DeVere reached in through the front passenger window and paid the cabbie. He’s alive after all, Ginter thought. From his vantage point he could hear deVere tell the driver, “No, we’re all set,” before the cab turned and drove off.

Ginter had quietly walked away from the Texas School Book Depository while scouring the frenzied crowd for his friend, the written material to frame Oswald still in his pocket. In the 16 days since, he doubted that deVere was still alive. Not after all that had happened. Coming around the Depository, Ginter had seen Kennedy get hit from what appeared to be a frontal shot from the grassy knoll. He had started to head up there when he had spotted Amanda, trembling, standing alone across the street from the Depository. He changed direction and crossed Elm Street, taken her gently by the arm, and wordlessly led her away.

He never found Pamela. He feared that she had been taken into custody, but he resisted the temptation to contact the police or, for that matter, to remain long in Dallas. Pamela had money, was white, and knew when the return wormhole would open. The rest was up to her.

Ginter and Amanda left Dallas after packing and sanitizing Lewis’ apartment. He carefully wiped down every surface in his rooms at Cazzie’s, obliterating any fingerprints. By early evening, they were heading west in the Corvette, arriving in Los Angeles early Saturday morning. From a seedy hotel room in Watts on Sunday morning, they had watched Jack Ruby shoot Lee Harvey Oswald. As Amanda gasped, Ginter thought how lucky he was.

From there they traveled north, then east, backtracking occasionally, at times together and at times separately.

Since they were now moving without a pre-ordained plan, Ginter knew there was no way that Paul could contact them, if he were alive.

He watched as Paul and Amanda walked up to Natasha and the three began conversing. Ginter detected neither concern nor surprise in his friend’s demeanor. He noted with approval that underneath winter coats both deVere and Hutch appeared to be wearing the same clothes they had during their arrival in August. Together the three turned and walked to the tree line and Hutch and deVere bent and scraped away the earth. Ginter looked around one more time from his perch but still saw no sign of Pamela. He moved back from his blind and carefully picked his way down the stairwell.

In New York, Ginter and Amanda had arranged to meet again, although they stayed in separate hotels. They watched television, although in 1963, the flow of information was maddeningly slow.

They read newspapers, listened to the radio, and watched more television.

And they waited for December 8, and for any word from deVere.

If he’s still alive. Ginter had used that phrase often, partly, he told himself, to jinx deVere’s death and partly, to prepare Hutch for what Ginter secretly feared might be the truth, that the unknown Russian agent had kidnaped and later killed deVere before proceeding back to his own wormhole.

At other times Ginter had feared that December 8 would be a trap, that the Russian knew the wormhole’s return path and would ambush them to prevent any re-return. And so, on this damp and raw morning Ginter had sat in the Weston Observatory surveying the park through binoculars, and trying to figure it all out.

No pro-Soviet agent from 2026 would have shot Kennedy. Ginter thought he had it pretty much figured out, but seeing Natasha with the pack put a face on the shooter.

Of course, he thought, as he exited the tower. He walked down to the three, keeping his own hands away from his clothing. Natasha studied him closely. The red pack lay on the ground beside her.

To his right was the small grove of sycamores into which he, Amanda, Paul, and Pamela had crawled. Although the weather hinted at the approaching New England winter, there were still birds in the trees. He thought he heard them singing. Then they stopped abruptly. Ginter turned to see Pamela emerge, alone, from the stand. She had apparently come back to the park by the same route as Ginter.

“Looks like everyone made it,” Ginter said.

Paul stepped toward his friend, his arm extended. “Lewis, there’s something you have to know about Natasha.”

Lewis waved him off. “I think I already know.”

“I left Dallas with her,” Paul continued. “She dropped me off in Tulsa and we agreed that it would be safer to get back here separately. I had no idea how to contact you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Lewis said, still watching Rhodes as she approached.

“You made it out O.K.?” Ginter asked her.

Pamela nodded. “No thanks to you. I got out as fast as I could. I hid in a hotel for two days and then flew to Boston. I stayed there until yesterday, when I took the train up here.”

Pamela tugged her jacket tightly around herself and moved to Lewis’ right, directly across from Natasha.

“How’d you two meet up?” Ginter asked Amanda.

“We both checked back in to the Carpenter,” she said simply. “We saw each other there.”

Ginter snorted. “So much for cloak and dagger.”

“Lewis, I have to tell you about Natasha,” Paul began again eagerly. “She came back through our wormhole ahead of us. She’s involved in Euro-Resistano. She was in Dallas and asked about Oswald. Her being there was just a coincidence.”

Ginter turned to the Russian. “I think I’d like to hear it from Natasha herself.”

She shrugged. “It’s as Dr. deVere says. My parents were killed in the Second Great War with China. One doesn’t easily forget spending her youth in a Soviet orphanage. I could tell you stories…” Her voice trailed off.

“But I won’t,” she finished with determination. “I have long been active in the resistance in Europe. And as I told Dr. deVere, your plan never would have worked. Kennedy had to be prevented from pulling out of Southeast Asia and your plan”—she indicated Ginter—”gave me the perfect option.”

Ginter nodded slowly. “I see,” he said and frowned. “But how did you get back to 1963?”

“I was in your lab weeks before the wormhole. I have my own Physics background, you know. And once I knew what you were up to, I had to go back and do what you couldn’t.”

“Tell me about Dallas,” Ginter said evenly.

“Dallas was simple. I had brought back a Dragunov SVD-S with a laser scope and set up the best shot.”

Ginter moved away from the group and stretched his back out to the left and then the right. The movement brought him directly to Natasha’s side so that the red pack lay between them on the ground.

“Nice choice,” he said. “I saw the older version in Greece. Seven point six two millimeter. Accuracy is what, less than two MOA at 600? Perfect, but how did you know about the Depository?” Ginter asked. “I mean, you being there with a Dragunov at the same time that we’re there with a Mannlicher. Bit of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

It was Paul’s turn to speak up. “She told me all about it,” he said. “It was the last chance before the 24th to stop Kennedy.”

“What I can’t figure out,” Ginter continued, ignoring his friend and looking straight at Natasha, “is how you would know where I was or what I would be doing on that Friday. Unless, of course, you had prior information.”

“What do you mean?” Paul demanded.

“A Russian was snooping around the émigré community and mentioned Oswald being in Cuba,” Ginter said. “Oswald thought the Russian was an American spy. But an American agent wouldn’t have thought that Oswald was in Cuba. Only someone from the future who didn’t know that history had been changed would have thought that he was there.”

“Of course,” Paul said. “It was Natasha. She admits it. You’re the one who thought it was Collinson or Pomeroy. You’re the one who was wrong.”

“Yes,” Ginter said. “Which is why I sent for you to come to Dallas. I incorrectly assumed that the Russian was a man.”

Natasha slowly raised her eyebrows. “So what,” she shrugged, “if that were me? I’ve told Dr. deVere it was.”

“The so—what is that Paul and Amanda didn’t come to Dallas until the 19th, well after I had found out about the curious Russian. You didn’t end up in the Dallas Russian community by coincidence. Someone tipped you off that I was in Dallas doing something with a defector. I never clued Pamela in about the plan but you two”—he looked at Paul and Amanda—“knew that I was in Dallas running an op involving a defector from Russia. You may have assumed that I meant that the defector himself was Russian, not that he had once defected there. If that had been passed on to Natasha it would explain why she showed up in Dallas asking about Russian defectors before you two came down there.”

Paul deVere exploded. “Lewis, you don’t know what you’re talking about! I had nothing to do with Natasha and neither did Amanda. You’re, you’re paranoid!"

“Maybe, but I’m not wrong,” Ginter said.

Ginter turned to Natasha. “You have degrees from Karl Marx University. Advanced degrees in Physics. But you also have a history degree, don’t you?”

“And your point, Lewis?” Paul demanded, crossing his arms.

Ginter turned to Amanda. “You’ve taught at many places around the world, including Leipzig. The only University in Leipzig is Karl Marx University.”

“Lewis, talk about guilt by association,” Paul sputtered, but Ginter detected a trace of doubt in his friend’s voice.

Ginter pressed on. “I have a friend in the postal service who told me a young, good looking CA agent sent a package priority confidential to a Vladimir Romanov at Karl Marx University. My friend didn’t open it, but he thought it important enough to tell me about it.”

Natasha shrugged. “So much for PC mail now-a-days. Vladimir is my handler in the resistance. And he is also in the CA.”

“A boyfriend?” Pamela asked.

“I wouldn’t think so,” Ginter said. “He’s listed as an astrophysicist at Karl Marx and is older, much older. He would have to be in order to be senior enough in the CA to be sure Natasha got sent to Boston.”

Ginter turned back to Natasha. “Who is Vladimir Romanov?”

“He’s my husband,” Amanda said in a flat voice from the other side of the circle. “And Natasha’s uncle. Her mother’s brother.”

The four turned to stare at Dr. Hutch.

Natasha started to speak but Amanda silenced her with a wave. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Natasha, what’s done is done,” she said.

She turned to Ginter. “Natasha is only trying to protect me but now”—she waved her arms around—“what difference does it make?”

Paul started shaking. “Amanda, you told me you were divorced.”

She smiled at him. “Actually, I told you I was twice married. You just assumed I had divorced my European husband. After my visa expired I married him to stay in Leipzig so we could finish training for this.”

She turned back to Ginter. “When Vodkaville began getting suspicious of Paul researching time travel, they passed that information up the line to Vlad since he was the chief physicist with the Agency. And he learned from Paul’s file about us in Ithaca. And it wasn’t hard for him to figure out my true leanings,” she added with a smile. “Even over there.

“He came and asked if I would help,” Amanda continued, facing the group.

She turned to deVere directly. “As soon as he explained it I knew you would do it, Paul. If anyone in this universe could have made this time thing work you could.”

She paused, and her soft gaze lingered on his face.

“But I also knew that you probably didn’t have what it took to get it done at this end,” she said abruptly, turning back to the others. “Technology is not enough, no matter how advanced.”

She turned to Ginter. “And military prowess wasn’t enough. To affect the type of political and historical change that we were all talking about that had to come from within. For me, I’d do anything for what I want. But for you it was just personal.”

Paul swallowed hard. “Peter,” he said.

Amanda scoffed, and the gesture took Paul by surprise.

“Is that what you tell yourself?” she asked. “Or just others? Maybe Peter is part of it, but it’s more personal than that. It’s really you, isn’t it, Paul?”

Paul blanched, and then reddened.

“If you can undo the Soviet takeover then maybe things that went wrong get undone, not only in the country but in your own life,” Amanda said. “You become a different person. The person you might have become if the whole world had never flipped over on us.”

Amanda looked back at Ginter. “I didn’t know you, Lewis, and Vlad didn’t have a good read on you either, so we couldn’t count on you to pull it off.

“But Natasha has the fire to do what it took,” Amanda continued. “And Vlad has that same fire. He got Natasha assigned to this project. He even cleaned her personnel file so there was no link back to him.”

She turned to Ginter. “What gave it away?”

Ginter smiled. “You did. You told Paul in the lab that you had to go back and get your purse. He told me that you had said it was a bad time of the month or some such.”

“Yeah, so what?” Paul asked.

“Our friend Amanda is a cancer survivor. Ovarian, surgery, and then chemo, correct?”

Amanda nodded and Paul detected a faint smile on her face.

“And that meant instant menopause,” Amanda finished. “Good listening, Lewis. I see that your outside knowledge extends beyond antique automobiles.”

“But what does that have to do with anything?” Paul asked.

“There had to be something else in the pocketbook,” Lewis answered. “Something important to go back for. What could she possibly need? I assume it was some sort of radio and Natasha had the sibling?”

Amanda shrugged. “I’ve since thrown it away.”

“So you told Natasha I was in Dallas running an op with a defector from Russia that would involve Kennedy. You both assumed that meant that the defector was a Russian. That’s why she came down and was asking the wrong questions in the émigré community,” Ginter said. “And after we met on Tuesday, you told her about my plan. Except you had determined that Kennedy should be shot for real, and my plan gave you two the perfect cover.”

Paul deVere slumped to the ground and put his head in his hands. “I just can’t believe this,” he said quietly. Amanda kneeled next to him and put her arm around his shoulders.

Paul looked up. “So, Natasha, why’d you set off the fire alarm? Is the lab on fire?”

“I’m going to guess not,” Lewis answered for her. “That also threw me off. I assumed there either was a fire or someone wanted to make us think there was one. But what you really wanted, Natasha, was to summon firefighters and District cops to force us to use the wormhole before they arrived and arrested us.”

“Yes,” Natasha said. “And I also needed to cover the noise of scraping along over the ceiling to that back area. Amanda is right, Professor Ginter. We underestimated you.”

Ginter nodded. “You’re not the first Russian to have done that.”

Paul shook his head. “You should see how he is with girlfriends who lie to him.”

“I’m going to guess again,” Ginter continued. “You knew from Romanov’s parallel research that August 8, 2026 would open a wormhole to 1963, prior to Kennedy’s decision to pull out of Southeast Asia. And you let your Russian friend…?”

“Igor Rostov,” Natasha answered helpfully.

“…Rostov, hack into Amanda’s computer knowing it would trip an alarm because you had told her that her home computer was safe. And you knew that Rostov wouldn’t call for additional help because he was doing this solo to make himself look good.”

“That was Vlad’s plan,” Natasha answered simply. She turned to Amanda. “I’m sorry, but it had to look good. You had to look panicked.”

Paul roused himself from his hunched position. “So, are Collinson and Pomeroy still alive?”

Ginter slowly shook his head. “Technically, they’re not born yet. But back there they were probably both in custody. Or rather they will be.”

“But if no squisher came back,” Paul asked, “if it was just Natasha and she had the same goals as us, how’d they get caught?”

Ginter looked at Natasha and held her gaze for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. She seemed to nod imperceptibly just before Ginter broke off eye contact to answer Paul’s question. Natasha slumped down next to Paul and squeezed his hand reassuringly.

“I didn’t say no squisher had come back,” Ginter said. “I think we’ve been joined in our recent journey by either a squisher or a pathological liar—from Portland.”

This time when Ginter turned toward Pamela three other sets of eyes moved with his.

“What, what, do you mean?” Pamela stammered.

“Eckleburg didn’t miss much. I never knew him to screw up. Why would he send someone who knew nothing about explosives to check out a bomb project?”

“Yeah, so?” Pamela said, regaining a bit of her composure. “Maybe someone else screwed up?”

“Or maybe he didn’t screw up. Maybe he thought you were a bomb expert because you are one.”

“That’s ridiculous!” she exclaimed defiantly. “I told you, Arthur was the bomb expert.”

“Whose bombs always failed. Didn’t they, Pamela?” Ginter asked. “The civil administrator in Portland, the CA recruiting center in Bangor? All failures. There wouldn’t have been enough C-4 to sink any ship in Portland Harbor. You designed those bombs, not Pomeroy. And when they did go off no one was ever injured because they had been tipped off.”

“So, Arthur wasn’t that good at it,” Rhodes challenged defiantly. “He was a drunk. You’re connecting dots that aren’t related.”

“Am I?” Ginter challenged. “Tell us all what you told me about how you met Arthur. You said that you had spent a weekend at your brother’s one-week time-share in New Hampshire and you met Arthur at a bar. You had driven up on a Friday and back on Sunday?”

Pamela had a disgusted look on her face. “Yeah, so?”

“I told you my niece had a time share at Loon Mountain. Hated it. Bad investment. A one-week time-share runs from Saturday to Saturday. You wouldn’t have been up there for a full weekend.”

Pamela looked incredulously from one to another. “Are you believing this? You’re talking six years ago, Lewis! How the hell am I supposed to remember how long I was in some lousy condo in New Hampshire? Do you forget that I was engaged to a resister? Did you forget that? Or do you believe that I was responsible for the cops showing up early at that Chase job?”

“You ever been to a wake, Pamela?”

“Huh?”

“You ever been to anyone’s wake in Maine?”

“Of course I’ve been to a wake,” she answered indignantly. “What are you talking about?”

Ginter discerned concern creeping into her expression.

“Did you ever notice that when someone dies and everyone is standing around the funeral home people will say stuff based not on how close they were to the dearly departed but rather based on the angle of their relationship?”

Ginter could tell that no one around him knew what he was talking about. He pressed on. “Let’s take a professor at MIT. Colleagues, even those that knew him for 20 years will stand around the casket and talk about his research skills. Former students will tell about stuff that happened in his classes. His adult nephew will talk about how as a kid he’d walk over to his uncle’s house every Saturday morning to ride on his pony. The professor’s girlfriend will tell about how he liked to swim naked on Saturday mornings.”

“So?” Pamela asked. But Ginter could see the look of alarm growing.

“What people say about the deceased depends, you see, on the angle they knew him from, not necessarily on how close they were to him. But your description of your fiancé sounded like a freakin’ obituary, right out of a file. ‘He was my fiancé and he was an environmental lawyer who once settled a big case.’ That’s what you say about a boyfriend you loved?” Lewis asked incredulously.

Tears welled up in her eyes. “Maybe, just maybe, it’s just too painful to think of him any other way,” Pamela protested.

Lewis was undeterred. “Was it so painful that you didn’t even refer to him by name? I’ve known lots of people who have lost spouses, boyfriends, lovers, and they always refer to them by name. ‘I was engaged to Joe, who was great.’ But you never made it personal. You told us this tearful story and never even mentioned his name.”

“I know his name!” Pamela roared.

“Oh sure, you remember it from the file. But you didn’t use it. And you should have known his age. When I asked you how old he was, you nearly gagged on the question. You never figured that issue coming up when you reviewed the CA file for your cover, did you?”

“What, what do you mean?” Pamela stammered. “I told you he was my age.”

“Correction, after you fumbled the question, I suggested that he was your age and you grabbed at it.”

“Well, he was my age,” Pamela insisted.

“Really?” Ginter asked. “Unfortunately for you, I knew Curt. Not close but well enough. When he was killed three years ago, he was in his mid-fifties. You’re what, 35? If I know how old he was, why didn’t you?”

Pamela sucked in a deep breath. “I was embarrassed,” she said. “Curt was older than me and that was always an issue—”

“Why didn’t you know his nickname?” Ginter continued. “On the drive south after we passed New York you said you always loved the Apple and wanted to stop off and paint the town red. The same city where your fiancé supposedly was killed? C’mon! And when I worked his nickname into the next sentence you never reacted. As you stand here today, you still don’t know his nickname,” Ginter challenged.

“And by the way,” he added. “Curt played baseball, not football.”

Pamela dropped her eyes and nodded. “O.K., O.K., so I lied about being engaged to him. I never even met him. I had heard a lot about him from a girlfriend in Portland whose boss knew him. I just thought that if I told you that, you might accept me easier.” She looked up at them all. “You’ve all sacrificed so much and I just wanted to fit in.”

Paul and Amanda looked back at Lewis Ginter. He sensed doubt in their faces. To his left, however, he could tell that Natasha was not taking her eyes off the Portland woman.

“The punch,” he said simply. “When we were leaving Cambridge you dropped Igor with an open palm karate chop to the face. Pretty professional for a pamphleteer.”

“I learned that at the Portland YWCA,” Pamela said, her voice almost a whisper.

“They teach that one at the Academy,” Natasha said, still sitting on the ground to Ginter’s left. “I know; I had to learn it. You never told me she had dropped Igor with a flat punch. He’ll be out for over an hour.”

Ginter sensed Natasha starting to stir and saw out of the corner of his eye that her right hand was no longer in view.

“I never learned that at any Academy,” Pamela wailed. “I told you, I learned it in a women’s self-defense class.”

“And is that also where you learned what Ralph Collinson looked like?” Ginter asked.

“Huh?” Pamela asked, but her eyes held the wild look of a hunted animal.

“You told us you came down to Boston July fourth weekend. Collinson disappeared, when?” Ginter asked, turning to Paul.

“Before June 22,” deVere answered slowly.

Ginter turned back to the woman. “Yet when I asked you for a description of Collinson you gave it to me. Exactly where in custody did you see him?”

“But it was at that meeting in April, you saw me there,” Pamela protested.

“Collinson wasn’t at that meeting,” Ginter answered evenly. “Remember?”

Ginter took a step to his right. “You were at Dealey Plaza. You must have broken into my room at the motel and seen the plan. The sketch referred to Oswald as a patsy.” He waved his hand. “A bit impertinent, I know. Before he got shot by Ruby, Oswald was on TV, saying that he was just a patsy. Where’d he learn that from? From you?” Ginter demanded.

Rhodes looked wildly from one to the other. “I was in your room,” she stammered. “But only because I wanted to help. I wanted to do something and you weren’t telling me what was going on.”

Paul deVere cleared his throat. “It’s true,” he said. “Oswald called himself a patsy. And Lewis called him that to me and Amanda.”

“You called him a patsy,” Rhodes cried, indicating Ginter. “You had even written it down.”

“But I never told him that,” Ginter said evenly. “Only if someone saw the plan and talked to Oswald would Oswald use that word.”

Ginter turned full to Rhodes. “When I last saw you in Dallas you had crossed the street and were out of view. The plan said we would be on the fifth floor. You climbed up to the fifth floor to find Oswald, didn’t you?” he demanded.

“You’re crazy,” she croaked, but her voice was only a whisper.

“From the plan you would know that the second bullet was charged. You know explosives and knew what would happen. You knew that our plan was to not kill Kennedy and you told Oswald that. The Mannlicher never blew up and Oswald got off three shots. They only found three shell casings and two unused cartridges. That’s five. What happened to the loaded one? When I ran down the stairs did I pass you as I ran past the fifth floor? Had you gone in there looking for Oswald? Did you see me go by and then climb up to the sixth, knowing that Oswald was now alone? Did you tell him that he was being used as a patsy, that he had been set up? Did you empty his clip and show him the charged cartridge? Did you take it from him and race down after me, leaving an angry and hurt Oswald alone with just enough time to reload his clip? But you didn’t know about the ‘frag, did you? After you left he reloaded the clip bullet, ‘frag, bullet.”

Ginter had moved closer to her. Rhodes clutched her pocketbook in her hands.

“Let’s see what’s in the bag,” Ginter said softly.

“I don’t have any exploding bullet,” Pamela wailed. “Look, I can prove it.”

With a sudden movement she reached into her shoulder bag. Ginter realized too late what she was doing. Even as he reached under his left armpit he felt, rather than heard, two muffled thuds from the red pack to his left. Pamela jerked backwards, her right hand holding the short bladed survival knife she had yanked from her bag and was spastically attempting to slash at Ginter. She was dead before she hit the ground.

“Jesus!” Paul exclaimed, staring at Pamela’s motionless body.

“Why did you start that, without a gun on her?” Natasha asked Ginter matter-of-factly. “Agency grads always have a blade.”

Ginter walked over to Pamela’s body. “Sloppy, I guess. I was Special Ops, not Intelligence, remember?”

“Are, are you sure?” Amanda stammered, starting to sob, her arms tight around Paul deVere. She buried her face in his chest.

“I am sure,” Natasha said. She stood and walked over to the body and peered down before nudging it with her foot. Two holes through Pamela’s jacket two inches apart had turned crimson and a tiny line of blood extended between them.

“I wonder how she likes the connection of those dots?” Natasha asked tonelessly, looking at the corpse without emotion.

“I didn’t know you could assemble it blind in a backpack,” Ginter said.

“Not the whole thing,” Natasha said. “The ‘S’ model has a shortened barrel and a folding metal stock which I didn’t need for such a point blank shot.”

“Are you really, really sure?” Amanda sobbed.

Natasha nodded. “Igor’s superior, Petrovchenko, would have had someone to get around me. He always had a back-up plan. Perhaps he was suspicious of me, having seen that parts of my file were soft. Even Igor accused me of having a protector when I wouldn’t submit to him. She was Petrovchenko’s insurance.”

“But Pamela saved us from Igor,” Amanda blubbered. “At the lab.”

“Had to,” Ginter answered. “She knew that Natasha had disappeared from the hallway and figured out that she was already in the wormhole. She had to follow her at that point.”

“But why not just let Igor kill us and then she could go after Natasha?” Amanda asked.

“Rostov didn’t know who she was,” Ginter said. “And she needed us to work the Accelechron. She didn’t know how to do it and the wormhole was closing. Petrovchenko obviously didn’t trust Natasha, and so Rhodes had to follow her. And she couldn’t kill us back here because she needed us as bait to find Natasha.”

“She must have killed that campus police officer who went missing,” Natasha added. She pointed with her toe at the serrated knife lying next to Rhodes’ body. “Probably trying to get in to see your little machine and the officer came upon her. The patrol car was found near the lab.”

“What do we do now?” Paul asked. He gestured to the ground. “With the body, I mean.”

Ginter considered. “The quarry. It’s deep enough. Weigh the body down with rocks.”

Amanda looked at her watch. “The wormhole, it’s opening now.”

Ginter reached over and picked up Pamela’s shoulder bag. He pried it open, snickered, and reached in. He pulled out the loaded cartridge.

“Why’d she keep it?” Amanda asked.

“In case she needed a quick explosive,” Natasha answered.

“The wormhole will be open for about two hours and thirteen minutes,” Paul said. “Anyone who passed through can pass back. Anyone who didn’t pass through won’t even notice any physical disturbance. Is everyone ready?”

Ginter turned to Natasha. “The police who were here in the park when we arrived,” he asked simply. “You called them?”

The Russian nodded.

“The wormhole departure ratio was 55 to one,” Ginter continued. “If you jumped in even two minutes before we did you would have gotten here almost two hours before us. Plenty of time to find that store with the pay phone. But why?”

“To make you think a neo-Soviet might be back here,” Natasha answered. “To get you thinking about your Ms. Rhodes, just in case.”

“Why not just tell me?” Amanda asked. “I could have warned them.”

“How?” Natasha demanded. “What could you have told them without letting the cat out of your pocketbook about you and me? No, I had to make them suspicious on their own.”

“And at the hotel?” Ginter asked. “You sent them again?”

Natasha laughed. “Dr. Hutch told me the story. No, I did not send them again. I do not know why the police were at your hotel but apparently you made a right turn on red, which is not legal in 1963. Like you said, Comrade,” she added with a smirk, “you were never in Intelligence.”

“The wormhole’s open now, “ Paul said, rising to his feet.

Ginter stepped back. “You three go. I’m staying.”

Hutch physically reacted. “There’s plenty of time to, to, take care of this,” she said pointing at Pamela’s body. “We can all carry it to the quarry. We’ll have to dump in her body, weigh it down. The gun too,” she said pointing at Natasha’s red backpack with the hole in it. “And, and that bullet.”

“No, I mean I’m staying here and not going,” Ginter said.

“What? Lewis, you can’t,” Amanda said vigorously. “We’ve discussed all this. You know too much. It would be too dangerous for history.”

Ginter tilted his head back and chuckled. “Know too much? Know what?” he demanded. “Everything is changed now.”

He pointed to Natasha. “Thanks to our Russian friend here. Or, hopefully will be changed. There’s no history now except what we make and I want to be here to help make it. If she didn’t change it in Dallas, maybe I can still do something here.”

DeVere and Hutch looked unconvinced.

“Look,” Lewis Ginter said slowly. “There’s nothing back there for me. What use is a former Special Ops guy who was injured in a war that now might never get fought?”

He looked at Hutch directly. “I’ve been here three months. I’ve seen prejudice. You think there is racism in 2026? Try segregation. America’s going to change. In eleven years Martin Luther King will give his ‘Freedom Reigns’ speech. Everything will be different now. I want to be here. This is my new battleground.”

It was Natasha who broke the silence. “I’m staying too.”

“There is no other wormhole for the two of you. And you’ll never build another Accelechron with the technology that exists today,” deVere said quietly.

“I never got to know my parents,” Natasha said. “And I have no country. At least, I hope that I won’t have the Soviet one,” she added, smiling at Amanda.

“Who knows,” she smirked at deVere. “Perhaps Lewis and I will revisit your Harrison Salisbury at the Times and tell him all about it. He may not have believed you two, but maybe, just maybe”—she looked at Ginter—“he will believe us and another tragedy can be averted.”

Ginter shrugged. “I can always use another sniper.”

“Not with this rifle, though,” Natasha said. “Dr. Hutch is right. It’s going in the quarry with that,” she said, pointing at Pamela’s body.

“It’s safe to go back,” Ginter said. “Assuming that our Russian friend here is right and Igor will be out cold for over an hour you should have plenty of time to revive and get rid of his body. That’s if he is even there, in your new future.”

“And,” Natasha added with a smile, “the bullets in his gun are all blanks anyhow. I made sure of that.”

“It’s time,” Hutch said, glancing up from her watch and standing up.

Amanda and Paul stared at the innocuous pile of leaves in the middle of the clearing that now stood within the open circle of time.

“Heck, it worked one way,” deVere said. He forced a smile. “Don’t bet too much on those ‘69 Mets of yours. People will get suspicious.”

“I just want tickets to Super Bowl III.”

Natasha moved to Dr. Hutch and the two women embraced tightly. Paul deVere shifted uncomfortably.

“I hope things work out back there,” Natasha said when they separated. “For all of us.”

Amanda nodded wordlessly.

Natasha moved over to Paul. “I always tried to get you to call me Natasha.”

Paul smiled. “Of course, Miss Nikitin. Perhaps I should have.”

She laughed and stood back from him, but held his eyes. “Godspeed,” she said softly.

Paul swallowed and nodded awkwardly. “My grandfather knew there was a God,” he said.

DeVere broke his gaze away from his intern’s and turned to Lewis. He considered extending his hand to his friend but decided that doing so would be maudlin. Instead, he extended his hand to the side and without a word Amanda took it. They looked at each other and together walked across the clearing and out onto the pile of soggy leaves.

Chapter 30

Amanda Hutch sat up first. As the cobwebs began to clear from her brain she raised her head off the floor and looked around. Paul deVere lay next to her. She thought she hadn’t lost consciousness. But as with their departure three months earlier, travel through the onrushing wormhole had left her exhausted and weak and she found herself unable to move.

DeVere opened his eyes and rolled onto his side before sitting up. He rubbed his temples and pulled at his shirt.

“We have to deal with Igor,” he said groggily.

“What?” Amanda was still foggy.

“Igor should still be lying where Pamela dropped him. If we’ve done it right it should be August 8, 2026, just a few minutes after we left. We didn’t have time to tie him up, remember?”

Amanda stood and stumbled around the counter to where they had left a bloodied Igor. The tile floor gleamed in all directions. It was, in fact, shinier and cleaner than she remembered it.

“Where is he?” deVere asked, standing behind her now. “Don’t tell me we screwed up and came back on another day.”

Amanda turned toward the back of the lab.

“Ah shit,” she said.

“You find him?” deVere asked from the sink area.

“Where the hell is the Accelechron?” Amanda asked.

DeVere spun around. Together they stared at the back of the lab. The far wall was bare except for a poster commemorating the tall ships visit in the summer of ‘25. Filing cabinets stood against the walls. The back wall was intact, and the room was deeper than when they had left. There was no walled off area.

“Where the hell is the Accelechron?” deVere demanded.

“This is different,” Hutch stammered. “I’ve got to… got to go to my office. Get on the computer. Maybe get a newspaper.”

Hutch took a step toward the door but reached out with her hand and grabbed the counter.

“Easy does it,” deVere said. “Remember how we were in the park. It will take time.”

“The fire alarm,” she said, cocking her head to the side. “It’s not ringing.”

Paul hesitated. She was right, the building was silent.

“Someone must have turned it off,” he said.

Amanda stumbled back to the counter and slumped on a stool opposite Paul. She reached for the computer mouse in front of her and started when she touched it.

“It’s already on,” she said.

“What is?”

“The computer,” she answered. “I have to get on the Gor… whoops! Here it is.” She squinted at the screen that faced away from Paul and moved her right hand quickly back and forth.

“According to the Icon it’s called the… the Internet.”

Paul turned back to the front of the lab and studied the walls. They were painted white as before but to him the tint seemed brighter and, as with the floor, shinier.

“I wonder what else is different,” he mused.

“Paul, there’s something I have to tell you,” she said from behind him. “Something I couldn’t tell you before.”

He turned back to her. In doing so he momentarily became dizzy and reached out with his hand to steady himself on the counter.

“I know,” he said. “It’s about your child.”

“What?” she exclaimed.

“I know all about it,” he said. “You weren’t honest with me. Lewis told me. He didn’t trust you so he looked into it.”

“Lewis?” she asked. She glanced back at the screen and manipulated the mouse some more.

“Lewis knew?” she asked incredulously. “And Lewis told you?”

“He had someone check your divorce decree from North Carolina. The court papers said you two had no children. There was no Jeffrey in Braintree. That whole story was bullshit.”

He waved his hand. “It’s O.K. It doesn’t matter now. You told us why you really came to Cambridge.”

She looked back at the screen and kept searching. “There’s something else,” she said, and began typing on the keyboard.

“Here I am,” she announced simply. She leaned forward and studied the screen. After a few moments she turned to where Paul stood, still gripping the counter.

“Amanda Hutch,” she said softly. “Full professor, MIT, History, Cambridge, Massachusetts. Personal: Married to Dr. Paul deVere, full professor, MIT, Astrophysics.”

Paul stared at her, not comprehending. His cobwebs still hadn’t fully cleared.

“Paul,” she said. “We have to talk. There’s something I need to tell you.”

To deVere’s left a telephone jangled. He stared at it.

“Go ahead, answer it,” she urged.

To deVere the ring sounded slightly different. He stuck his finger in his right ear to clear it. He picked up the receiver and punched the lit button.

“Hello?”

“Daddy!” the voice implored. “Tell me you’re not going to be late are you?”

“Late? For what?”

“Aw, c’mon, Dad. Don’t give me a hard time. The game starts at seven.”

“Game?” Even through his haze his heart leapt at the voice.

“We finished at the mall and Nance wanted to know if I could show her your lab before we go over to Fenway so I figured we’d come up before you and Mom left. I knew you’d be late. I’ve been calling your cell all the way across town but you’ve got it turned off again. You’ve got to learn to just keep it on. And don’t give me that generation crap. Even Uncle Pete and Elaine say it bugs them too. You gotta’ get with it, Dad.”

DeVere paused. “Fenway? The game is at Fenway?” His mind began to clear. “Uncle Pete and Elaine?”

Grace clucked sarcastically. “Duh. No, it’s in the middle of the bay. Hey, we’re in the lobby now. We’ll be right up. Love ya.’ Bye.”

Grace hung up. DeVere stood holding the receiver.

“Who was that?” Amanda asked, clutching at her forehead.

He replaced the receiver and turned to face Amanda, a huge smile across his face.

“It was Grace.”

“Grace?”

“My daughter, Grace. We have tickets for the Sox tonight. Against the Mets.”

“Tonight? That’s impossible,” Amanda scolded. “We’ve got far too much to do.”

DeVere began to laugh. It started with a chuckle and then erupted into a full-blown roar. He moved to the counter and slumped on the stool opposite Amanda.

“Are you okay?” she asked with concern.

“Don’t you get it?” he asked. “We’ve got tickets to see the Sox. Grace is on the way up here with a friend of hers and we’re going to the game.” DeVere continued to roar. Seeing Hutch’s blank look only made him laugh harder.

“At 7:00. At Fenway Park, where the Sox are playing.”

“What do I care whether the Red Sox are playing a baseball game? Are you mad?” Hutch asked incredulously.

“You really don’t get it,” he said, and then laughed even louder. “The Sox are playing at Fenway Park. Not at Petrovyards. Fenway was torn down in 1996 to make way for a more proletariat friendly Petrovyards where all sports were welcome. But now this is Fenway Park. It never got torn down. Petrovyards was never built!”

DeVere gestured around the lab. “The Russian is not lying here in a bloody mess with a broken nose because he was never here!” He pointed at the back wall. “The Accelechron is not here because it was never built. It was never built because there was no need for it!”

DeVere paused and watched Hutch’s face slowly transform as the significance of what he was saying registered. He could tell that her brain was also clearing. She remained inert on her stool, a stunned expression across her features.

“My God,” she said slowly when she finally spoke. “We did it. We didn’t just change us, we changed history.”

“We did do it.” DeVere continued to chuckle. “I don’t know what to do. I am as light as a feather. I am as happy as an angel. I am as merry as a schoolboy. I am as giddy as a drunken man! We did it, Amanda. We changed history. The spirits have done it all in one night. Past, present and future!”

“Not the spirits,” Hutch corrected, becoming more professorial. “Us. You, me, and Lewis. And Natasha,” she added with a look of sadness. “We all did it. So don’t give me the dickens on this one.”

DeVere nodded. He brushed off his clothes with his hands.

“That’s why Lewis didn’t come back with us,” Hutch said in a monotone. “He couldn’t come back and he knew it. Because he was never here. Without the Soviet victory everything is different with him. If he had come back through the wormhole he would have been a non-person. No personal history, no nothing. He would have been here physically alright, but out of place. And he knew it. God, we were so dumb.”

DeVere shrugged. “What did you mean we were married?” he asked softly. “Were you joking?”

“Paul, there’s something else I have to tell you. The staff bios are here on line at the MIT website. You and Lewis were right; I wasn’t totally honest with you. This whole thing was personal for me too. Very personal.

“Paul, you had a great career ahead of you. Being married to me, some two bit radical, wasn’t going to help you. You never would have gotten where you did. And God knows you never would have invented the Accelechron and set everything right. I just didn’t know what else to do. I loved you so much. I was scared, so scared. I didn’t want to make trouble for you. And I knew I couldn’t do it by myself, I knew that.”

“What are you talking about?” Paul asked.

Amanda reached across the counter and took his hand. “You have to understand. Vlad was a wonderful man. He was a good friend when I needed a good friend. It was his idea and he was right.”

“I know that, you explained all this in the park,” Paul protested impatiently. “You don’t have to tell me about Vlad. Whatever you did with him is your business. You don’t have to explain anything to me. But what’s this about being married?”

She let go of his hand and shook her head. “You don’t get it. Vlad’s sister and her husband were the only real options. But then the war came and I was sick about it. Horrible. Millions dead. And afterwards everything was so screwed up it was years before we could do anything. Years before we even knew anything. Every time off from school I’d go to the Soviet Union, searching…”

“That’s all different now,” he said. “We’ll look it up. For all we know those wars never happened, none of them.”

“But they did happen, Paul, at least, they happened for me and you.”

Behind him Paul deVere heard the knob rattle and he turned to the door. He watched as Grace, every inch the daughter he knew, walked through the doorway, her arms filled with shopping bags. His face exploded in a smile.

“Hey Dad, hey Mom, who’s pitching tonight? It was supposed to be Conestan but the Globe said something about that rookie lefty maybe getting his first start.”

Three steps into the room Grace halted abruptly, her mouth hanging open. Paul stared back, equally open-mouthed, at the doorway.

“My God!” Grace exclaimed.

“Oh my God!” Paul repeated, under his breath.

Grace’s mouth closed. “That’s what I said, Dad. Mom, what the hell did you do to your hair? It, it looks great, doesn’t it, Sis?” she said over her shoulder to her companion. “Although it does look like something out of the nineteen sixties. You guys going to a costume party?”

Paul stared at the young woman standing just a few feet behind Grace. Her long brown hair hung straight down her back, and her angular features and deep blue eyes were unmistakable.

“Natasha?” he croaked softly. “I, I don’t get it.”

He swiveled back to Amanda who sat behind him, beaming broadly at the pair who had just walked through the door.

“How, how can this be?” he rasped in absolute confusion.

Instead of answering she again checked the screen in front of her before sitting back on her stool.

“I just thought I’d do something different with my hair,” she said airily. “Like it?

“So Nancy,” she said turning her attention to the older girl without waiting for an answer, “you haven’t seen your father’s new lab? He’ll give you the grand tour. Every time is like a new experience for him, right, honey?” she asked, turning to Paul.

She checked the screen again. “Maybe after you finish up that PhD at the University of Chicago you can get a professorship here with your dad. Any reason you can’t have a father and daughter teaching in the same department, Paul?” she asked coyly.

Amanda reached over, clicked out of the screen in front of her, and stood up. As she passed Paul she lightly took his hand and guided him to his feet.

“It’s O.K.,” she said softly. “It’s all O.K. Like I said, there’s something else I have to tell you about, about Ithaca, about when I left, but it can wait.”

She turned to the two young women at the door. “First, we have to take our daughters to the game tonight at Fenway Park. Some parents our age take their kids for granted but I don’t think we’ll ever do that, will we? And besides,” she added mischievously, “the rookie’s pitching and like you always say, Paul, we’ve got to prioritize.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Greg Ahlgren is a criminal defense lawyer in Manchester, New Hampshire. He received his B.A. degree from Syracuse University in 1974 and his J.D. from the University of Pennsylvania School of Law in 1977. He has been a criminal justice professor, a state legislator, and a political activist, and has appeared as a frequent guest on both national and local television and radio shows on true crime and historical issues. His other books include the international thriller The Medici Legacy and, together with Stephen Monier, he co-authored the true crime book Crime of the Century: The Lindbergh Kidnapping Hoax. If you enjoyed this book and wish to peruse other books by the author, or wish to comment on this book, please visit his writing website at GregAhlgren.com. He can be contacted directly at Greg@GregAhlgren.com.

Content

Greg Ahlgren
PROLOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

ABOUT THE AUTHOR