Part 2 (1/2)

George apparently hadn't seen him. Her cigarette had disappeared, too. 'That's right. Looks like it was done by an...

Esau dropped from a Dornier. No one was injured - the firemen had to let the fire burn, though: St Kit's hospital and Paddington station were both hit, too. By the way, permission to call me Roz when there's no one else around.'

George grinned. 'You're billeted around here, aren't you?'

Roz glanced up at the TARDIS. 'I am, yes. Hardly recognize the place at the moment.'

Reed lowered his voice. 'It was heavy last night, Roz. A lot of the planes came from the Channel Islands according to radar. Jerry was d.a.m.ned lucky, too; virtually everything they dropped hit something important. There wasn't even a bomber's moon. We can't hit them back without hitting civilians too. Kendrick wants to brief us at 08.45, so you're coming back with us.' He moved away, wanting to inspect the damage for himself.

Chris stepped over. A week ago, when they had first arrived in London, he had been very taken with the fas.h.i.+ons of the time. Overnight, he had grown himself a thick handlebar moustache, which he a.s.sured Roz was 'just like they have in the air force'. Thanks to his body-bepple, Chris's teeth and nails were always distinctly sharper than human normal. The combined effect of his pointy teeth and new facial hair was to make him look like a gerbil. Roz hadn't the heart to break the news to him.

'It was quite a night, wasn't it?'

Forrester looked up at him. 'Yes, twenty-three dead, two hundred injured.'

'That's not what I meant,' Chris whispered.

'I know. I just met the Doctor.'

He perked up. 'Where?'

'Just here. Don't get too excited, he's off somewhere again. He'll be back tomorrow at the same time. He gave me this for you.' She handed over one of the TARDIS keys.

Chris held it up to the light and frowned. 'What's he playing at?'

Roz wished she knew.

The Scientific Intelligence Division Headquarters were part of the War Office, on the banks of the Thames. From the outside the building was imposing - a seven-storey building in white stone. Inside, the rooms were smaller, perhaps less impressive, but nevertheless Chris thought that the third-floor office he shared with Roz and Reed was wonderful. Oak panels, an antique (even relatively speaking) globe, a full drinks cabinet. There was a lovely musty smell that centuries of air-conditioning had erased by the thirtieth century, his and Roz's native time. A large oil-painting hung on one wall - Daedalus and Icarus soaring. Chris couldn't identify the artist, but could appreciate the skill that had gone into its crafting.

Although the windows had been taped over to stop the gla.s.s shattering during an air-raid, the room afforded a view of the rest of Whitehall. The office was cluttered with files and maps, the largest of which permanently filled a vast round table in the centre of the room.

Admiral Kendrick entered the room. They all stood, saluting. Kendrick acknowledged this, but marched straight over to a composite map of Northern France pinned to one wall. Kendrick was a large man, in his late fifties now. He had an almost regal bearing, and a heavily lined face. Chris had quickly learnt about his commander's military record.

Kendrick had proved himself escorting convoys across the Atlantic during the Great War, over a quarter of a century ago, where he had learnt to second-guess the U-boat commanders. He was respected throughout the armed forces. Kendrick glanced up.

'The Channel Islands.' He said nothing more. Chris grinned, and looked over to Roz, but his partner appeared not to recognize the name. She returned his glance with a mocking look that made him turn away.

Reed piped up, 'I thought we'd agreed that the Germans were holding them for propaganda value only, sir?'

Kendrick grunted. Chris watched Roz glancing between them, bemused.

'Yes, we did, but it doesn't mean we were right. Latest reports show heavy air and naval activity. I think there is something big going on. Cwej?'

Chris mulled it over, pretended to predict what might happen. When he finally spoke he was quoting from one of the books he'd found in the vast TARDIS library. 'The Germans would be foolish not to use the islands for training.

They could practise amphibious landings. How far is it from France?'

'About fourteen, fifteen miles to Jersey,' George answered automatically, his eyes still fixed on the map.

'About half the distance to the south coast of England.

They could iron out the bugs in the landing procedures, find out who gets seasick, which new landing craft don't work, what supplies they will need, that sort of thing.'

Kendrick looked enthusiastic, but Reed merely looked curious. ' ”Iron out the bugs”?'

Chris bit his tongue. It was so difficult to know which phrases were being used and which weren't in any given year. In the end, he'd approached Benny - who after all was a seasoned time traveller as well as an archaeologist. She'd turned out to be quite an aficionado of the cinema of this time, and had recommended half a dozen war movies. They had given him as much insight as any academic textbook. It had been there that he had learnt that all officers had moustaches, something he hadn't found out about in any of the books. Kendrick had one, although it wasn't quite as magnificent as his own. 'A Canadian expression, George,' he said quickly, 'it means ”to solve the little problems”.' Reed seemed to accept that.

Kendrick was nodding thoughtfully. 'You could be right, Cwej. There's something else: they seem to be testing some totally new weapon there. One of our operatives on Guernsey thinks that Hartung was there last week.'

Kendrick handed Reed a buff folder, which he began examining. This time, Chris was puzzled. When the Doctor had told him that they were going to 1941, he'd spent quite some time researching the period - nothing he'd read had mentioned this Hartung person.

'I've not heard of him,' he heard Roz admitting.

Kendrick didn't look surprised; indeed he hardly seemed to notice she had spoken. Chris was baffled: he had noticed that for some reason, Kendrick often ignored what Roz had to say. As a result, his partner had become noticeably quieter in the last couple of days. He made a note to ask her about it when they had a spare moment. Kendrick certainly reacted when Chris also admitted he knew nothing about Hartung.

'The German avionics expert,' Kendrick offered.

They both shook their heads.

'Used to be a racing driver, built his own cars?'

Chris apologized, but still didn't recognize the name.

'I'm surprised. Perhaps he's a bit before your time. We're expecting a lot from Hartung in the future, though. He's an expert in all sorts of fields: aerodynamics, physics, rocketry, mathematics, metallurgy, even radio waves. A genius. They usually keep him very safe. Rechlin, is it, George?'

Reed looked up from the folder he had been flicking through. 'That's right, sir, on the Mueritzsee, north of Berlin.

He has his own team of boffins there. He's been there since November 1936 and the Luftwaffe give him anything he wants - men, materials, money. We're not even sure what he's working on these days. This is the first time he's left Rechlin since Christmas '39.'

'He could be taking part in the landing trials,' Forrester suggested. Kendrick didn't acknowledge her.

'It's not what I'd expected at all. Even with the number of paratroopers they have, the Germans couldn't possibly launch an aerial a.s.sault on the British mainland, it would have to be naval. Besides, there hasn't been anything like the build-up of planes they would need. George, show Lieutenant Cwej and Captain Forrester to the File Room. See what you can come up with. Hartung may be a red herring, but it can't hurt to check. You know what it might mean if it isn't.'

Chris watched George's reaction. The two men were keeping something from them. Hardly surprising; he and Roz had only been in the job for a week so he didn't really expect to be privy to the deepest secrets of British Intelligence straight away. Still, it was something to keep in mind. A glance at Roz confirmed that she was thinking the same thing.

The File Room was in the sub-bas.e.m.e.nt, far below the reach of any bomb. Reed knew that it was the first time that either Cwej or Forrester had been down there. He hoped they wouldn't be disappointed. Bare bulbs cast pools of harsh light across the large room. Row upon row of metal shelving strained under the weight of piles and piles of identical buff folders. Every so often the pattern was broken by a small box of index cards. A handful of men and women, some in uniform, some in neat dark blue suits, stood at strategic points, rummaging through boxes, sorting through reams of paper. The air smelled musty, and a thin layer of dust coated every surface. George effortlessly navigated his way through this colourless world. To the untrained eye, this might not have seemed like much, but this was one of the most important rooms in the world: a repository of knowledge about the enemy. Information from this room had saved thousands of lives, and it might yet turn the course of the war.