Part 8 (1/2)

The Doctor hadn't been there.

He had arranged to meet her by the TARDIS at eight, but he hadn't arrived. This worried Roz more than she cared to acknowledge. It was an hour later now, and she was safely behind her desk at the Headquarters of the Scientific Intelligence Division, with work to do. Princ.i.p.ally she was keeping her mind off what had probably happened to the Doctor and Chris. Annotated aerial photographs of London were scattered over her desk. Each crater was marked in tiny white writing, a record of each explosion which gave the location, the time it happened and the yield of the bomb used. Even with a computer, working out the course of events last night would be virtually impossible. Of course, this office hadn't got a computer. When she'd asked about requisitioning one, they didn't even seem to have understood the question. Why, then, did she have the nagging sensation that she was on the verge of making a major breakthrough?

Wishful thinking, probably. The British were dreading spring, thinking that as the weather got better, the Germans would dust off their plans for invasion, shelved last winter. The British had a codeword, 'Cromwell', meaning that an invasion had started, and they expected to hear it very soon. As far as Roz could tell, this war was dead-locked: the Germans had a powerful air force and army, but lacked the navy to carry through an invasion, and their bombers just weren't powerful enough to do more than superficial damage. Britain had the navy, it was building up the air power, but Germany controlled so much territory on the Continent that invasion was out of the question for a long while yet. Had Hartung found a way to break the stalemate? If he had, what was it?

His field of expertise would suggest some new aerial weapon, but it might not be the superbomber that Lynch thought it was. She made a mental note to research the state-ofthe-art at this time. With her knowledge of the future, it might be possible to predict which technological developments were due in the next decade or so. Had they got atomics yet? Orbital platforms? Ballistic missiles? Any of those would tip the balance. For the moment, all she could do was to stare at these photographs a little longer.

Her eye caught something she hadn't seen before. Lynch was busy with something called a 'crossword', and so she asked George to come across and pointed out one of the bombsites.

'That's St Kit's.'

Reed peered into the picture. 'Yes...' he said uncertainly.

Roz heard Kendrick coming into the room behind them. He began talking to Lynch in a low whisper.

'It is, look, that's Paddington station, that's Portland Street, there's the library. I live around there, remember?'

'Yes, I think you're right.'

'Well,' Roz continued wearily, 'this gives the time of the bomb dropping as last night at 21:00. But that's wrong. It happened the night before last, the first of March; remember I told you about it when we looked at the library?'

Are you sure you're not getting confused? I picked you up there this morning as well.'

Cwej was there when I told you.'

Reed considered this. 'By Jove, yes, he was. Well, that first night, the Germans were particularly lucky. Lots of fluke hits. The spotters must have got mixed up. We've had cases before where they've got the day mixed up. You know: it fell after midnight, so it's a different date.'

And if that observation is wrong, then they all could be.'

Roz sat back, frustrated. Reed scratched his head.

'It is rather complicated, isn't it, Captain Forrester?'

Kendrick said, coming over and laying his hand on her shoulder. 'Could you make us a pot of tea, and we'll try to help you work our way through it?'

'Admiral, I don't think that will be possible. It's a cla.s.sic chaotic system. These planes might all be following strict orders but they are all subject to random factors. Bombers get lost in the dark and drop their loads at random. High winds, heavy ground defences, mechanical problems all alter what a plane is doing. Add to that the unreliability of our eye-witnesses and the length of time it takes to get reports here it -'

'Thank you, Forrester,' rumbled Kendrick.

'Sir, it's a fact.'

'There is absolutely nothing wrong witn our communications,' he said calmly. 'Those chaps risk their lives. Do you know how many wardens were killed last week?

What would you prefer? Smoke signals?'

'I don't know, they might help. What are they?' If they had some sort of encoded-vapour transmitter, why weren't they using it?

'If you don't have anything useful to contribute, Forrester, then kindly let George and me get on with our work.' His tone had changed.

'Begging your pardon, sir,' - her emphasis on that last word was so scornful it was mutinous - 'but all you have me doing at the moment is making the drinks, a spot of typing and watering the office plant. I was brought into the Scientific Intelligence Division on the understanding that I would be able to put my scientific and a.n.a.lytical talents to use. I remind you, sir, that I outrank both Lieutenants Reed and Cwej. I've been here a week. In that time, you have welcomed their contributions, but you're treating me like some third-grade Servobot fit only for housework and preparing snacks. Well, sir, I've had enough.'

A vein on Kendrick's neck pulsed, but when he spoke, his tone was conciliatory. 'Captain Forrester, your talents may seem very impressive back in Africa and I'm sure that your teachers were delighted that someone with your background could do so well. But I did not give you permission to speak freely. Please be civilized.' To emphasize his intentions he smiled.

Roz, however, exploded. 'Civilized? Your state-of-the-art around here, as far as I can make out, seems to consist of cavalry regiments and bayonets. You attempt to work out the tactical a.n.a.lysis of a Continental war by pus.h.i.+ng toys around a tabletop. You rely on a network of doddery old men on bicycles to bring in reports of bomb damage. Your air defences seem to be based on the principle that if we all draw our curtains at night then the Germans won't be able to see us. And don't you dare question my background, I can trace my ancestry back to Nelson Mandela himself which is -'

Kendrick just smiled, and said, 'Captain, is it or isn't it true that you once ate someone's ident.i.ty papers?'

'Well, yes.' The remark wrong-footed her, as Kendrick had intended it to.

'Is that the mark of a civilized lady?' he asked. It was, by anyone's standard, a reasonable enough question.

'It was the -' Why the h.e.l.l had Chris told them?

'Yes or no?' he pressed.

'It was... Listen, Admiral, I'm trying to help.' Roz had realized that not only had she overstepped the mark, but that she was in an untenable position. Kendrick swept from the room. Reed kept his eyes fixed on the desk. Roz covered her head with her hands. Bad day just got worse.

The Doctor was munching a triangle of toast when Steinmann entered.

The dining-room was on the floor below his guest quarters. The view of the sea was better down here and the decoration was just as opulent. There was a dark patch on the ceiling where a crystal chandelier must have swung before the war, discoloured patches on the wall where paintings had once hung. A row of bullet holes in one of the walls, presumably acquired when the Germans captured the building, had been crudely plastered up and repainted.

The Doctor continued to eat, but sized up the new arrival.

Oberst Oskar Steinmann was in his fifties, his white hair was thin and combed back over his scalp. He had a Roman profile: aquiline nose, high forehead. He was not a tall man - then again, mused the Doctor, who am I to speak? - but he was thin and well-proportioned. He carried himself like a man born to command. Naturally, not a single part of his ironed and pressed uniform was out of place.

'I take it your English breakfast was satisfactory?'

The Doctor dabbed his top lip with a napkin and replaced it on his silver tray. 'Perfectly.'

'Like they serve in England?'

'Oh yes.' Steinmann beamed, but the Doctor went on, 'I'm not English myself, but this is definitely a breakfast like they serve in England. Herr Steinmann, please don't try to ask me trick questions, because I'm cleverer than you and I'll see through them.'

Steinmann's face fell. The Doctor stood, paced the room for a moment, then whirled to face the German officer. 'I don't mind direct questions. Here's one: why didn't Wolff shoot me on the beach? It's obvious I know exactly what you've got down there. It would be safer to have me shot.' The Doctor realized what he had said, and gave a nervous smile that he hoped would be disarming.

Doktor, you mustn't judge the Reich by the standards set by the English. If you were a German agent captured in England, you would indeed have been shot. We, however, choose to keep all spies sent to the Channel Islands alive.

Unlike your own government, even the British agents we pick up in plain clothes are treated as military prisoners of war, with all the rights and privileges that status entails. The same goes in France and the Netherlands.'