Time Travel Omnibus, page 936
Her hands spread apart. She rose in one lithe movement from the chair, brushing imaginary strands back from her face as she picked up her bag; he wondered how long ago she’d cut that hair. “So I’ve said what I came to say, finally. Sorry it took me so long, and thanks for the conversation—I enjoyed our talk. If you think that maybe you’d like to continue it, I’ll be over at the Boarshead for the next few hours. If you happen to go there yourself to have a beer, I’ll be in a booth back by the rear door. If you happen to stop by. Just to talk. I still want to hear your arguments about changing history.”
She was already at the door, stepping out into the hallway.
“Sarah—”
She stopped, half-turned to look back at him.
“I think,” he said, “I just might be a bit thirsty. I have some papers to grade, but . . .”
Her smile crinkled the corners of her eyes. “Good. You see, maybe one person can make a change in how things are supposed to go . . .”
His reading of the student papers was haphazard and rushed: they were for the 101 Intro course, which was all bullshit anyway. He kept smelling Sarah’s perfume and hearing her laughter and her voice. He thought of her in the booth at the Boarshead, maybe checking her watch and wondering if she’d made a mistake, maybe getting up to go.
He set his blue Pilot pen aside and stuffed the papers in his briefcase. He told himself he’d get to them later tonight.
Maybe. Depending.
Damian was still thinking of Sarah and how he would meet her tonight and what they might say and what might happen afterward. He left his office, locked the door, and took the elevator down. He went out the main entrance of the building and started across the roadway to the faculty parking lot across the street.
Damian was generally a careful pedestrian. This afternoon, mulling over Sarah and their conversation, he was not.
He never saw the car.
DOWNTOWN KNIGHT
James M. Ward
“Beta One, this is Alpha One,do you copy? Over.”
“Loud and clear Alpha One,” the FBI agent responded.
“Beta One, do you have a better angle on what’s coming in those twenty vehicles approaching the compound? Over.” Agent Jeffers, the lead FBI agent, was sitting in the Alpha One central observation post.
Computer screens showed twenty new black Cadillacs pulling unusually large horse trailers through the main gate of the Gambino family Mafia compound.
“Negative, Alpha One, check the Gamma station. Over,” The Beta FBI agent advised.
“Gamma One, this is Alpha One, do you copy? Over.”
“Loud and clear Alpha One. Those twenty vehicles have come to the middle of the compound and are unloading Clydesdales from horse trailers. Over,” answered the high observation post.
“Agent, repeat that, what the hell is a Clydesdale?” snapped the confused Jeffers.
“Alpha One, this is the Delta station. I can see them as well. Clydesdales are large horses bred in the Clyde valley of Scotland. They were used by the knights of the Middle Ages as the best mount to carry all the weight of a man and his armor. Over,” answered the FBI agent.
“Horses? What does the don of all the Mafia bosses want with twenty huge horses?”
“We have no idea sir. Over,” came the replies from observation posts Beta, Gamma, Delta, and even Epsilon.
Four weeks later, sixty hard-eyed FBI agents all sat in the same meeting room discussing the astounding new developments of the Don Corollas Gambino family.
A frustrated Jeffers looked over the field agents of his command. These were the best men in the agency. There was nothing they couldn’t find out, which was why Jeffers was so flustered.
“Gentlemen, for fifteen months we’ve been observing the Gambino family. In the past two months atypical behavior has been observed among the family members and the compound. Something is happening, and we need to know what it is to go in with due authority and cause. I want your maximum effort on this case. Carson, what do you have?” Jeffers steepled his fingers and waited.
“Two weeks ago, two armored cars entered the compound. We traced the vehicles back to their main branch. When we interviewed the drivers, they tried to tell us they couldn’t divulge what was in their client’s delivery.”
The other agents burst into laughter at the thought of mere security guards trying to keep information from them.
Carson continued, “The trucks delivered two large chests each—filled with thirty thousand gold coins minted in Italy. Gold bars were delivered to the foundry by agents of the Gambinos, and a minting order was placed. The best in engraving talent went into making the gold coins they produced. Side A has the face of the old Don, Corollas Gambino. Side B has the Gambino Italian family crest. Each coin is worth approximately five hundred dollars in today’s gold trading market.”
There was a rumble among the men as each agent computed the worth of all that gold.
“Let’s keep it moving, people; that’s only part of this new puzzle,” Jeffers said. “Agent Ackers, report from the observation posts.”
“The younger members of the family have been taking riding lessons on those huge Clydesdales. The son, Corollas Gambino junior, is on his horse at least three hours a day. He’s becoming quite accomplished, and we’ve noted he’s grooming and even shoeing his mount.” Akers took a deep breath before continuing. “We’ve also noted an increase in the family members moving into the compound. Tommy ‘the Cooler’ Gambino arrived last Friday; Cousin Dino Gambino and Uncle Artoro Gambino, two heads of muscle groups, arrived on Saturday of last week. Cousin Carlos Gambino, their main moneyman, came yesterday. All told, there are at least twenty new Gambino relatives living in the compound—and all of them are the young leaders of the family from here and from Italy. These men are all very important people in their organization, and there isn’t one of them older than thirty.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Jeffers said. “Does anyone have anything else to report?”
Agent Breck stood up. “The Clydesdales were purchased from a breeding farm in Scotland. Fifteen are pregnant mares, the other five are high-quality stallions. They appear to be the best of that breed in the world. No expense was spared. The mares are worth fifty thousand each, and the studs one hundred thousand.”
Agent James raised his hand.
“Yes,” Jeffers recognized the agent.
“Thank you sir,” James stood up. “For two and a half years now I’ve been tracking a pair of teachers coming in and out of the compound. One is an instructor in languages of the Middle Ages. The other is a fencing master who has been teaching the younger Corollas the saber and long sword.”
Breck shifted in his seat and raised an eyebrow at James.
James continued: “At first, we speculated the language teacher was just showing the young Corollas the language of his ancestors—on some whim from the father. The swordsman? We figured he was just giving them a little exercise. Now I’m thinking there could be some strange tie between the horses, the gold, and those lessons. The fencing instructor has picked up his lesson times from once a week to three times a week now.”
Jeffers’s face turned redder as his level of frustration grew. There was something going on here, and he didn’t know what it was. “Agent Theon, what about those black trucks?”
Theon was their best investigative officer. He had an outstanding ten-year record in drug enforcement, and had been brought to the unit to investigate the black trucks. “As you all know, for a year now at the beginning of every month black trucks have been making deliveries to the compound. Despite our surveillance cameras, it has been difficult to determine what they have been delivering. The observation posts report large crates coming out of the trucks. Intensive interrogation of the drivers reveals they don’t know what’s inside. Backtracking the trucks has revealed little. It’s more than clear elaborate efforts were made to hide the crates’ contents. The Gambinos know we’re watching. And I have to believe that they know they’re going down.”
“And yet? What about those crates?” Jeffers motioned for Theon to keep going.
“After a great deal of effort, and with the help of my squad, we’ve discovered that more than half the trucks have been delivering power equipment. Heavy transformers and the like purchased from large companies here in the US. We also know that whatever the other materials are, they come from Germany. We have agents working there to backtrack the deliveries. I’ll be going to Hanover myself tomorrow.”
“Excellent work, Theon.” Jeffers looked over his group, having just made a decision. “People, something big is perking at that compound. There’s a full moon in two nights. We’re going to hit that compound with everything we have then. I’m authorizing a hundred men to invade and discover whatever is happening there. This afternoon we’ll go over the maps. We’ll take down the Gambinos, and with luck we’ll find enough goods to put them all away for a very long time. Dismissed.”
The men left with smiles on their faces, Breck muttering that it was about time they’d be seeing some action on the case.
Two nights later, in a perfectly coordinated strike of helicopter and ground units, the Corollas Gambino Mafia compound filled to overflowing with law enforcement invaders. The power was cut as one hundred of America’s best FBI agents went in.
But the lights never went out in the compound.
Agents came over the walls, crashed through the front gates, and rappelled down cords from five helicopters.
Reports came back to Alpha One from the squads. The horses and the equipment were gone from the stalls. It was noted that the horses hadn’t left through the gates.
The house showed no sign of servants, and surveillance equipment confirmed that none of the family servants had left through the gates either.
“We’re looking for a very large underground entrance, people!” Agent Jeffers shouted to his squad. “Those big horses are going to need a big entrance to walk through.”
The investigation continued.
None of the rooms of the mansion revealed the large chests of gold.
Bedroom after bedroom was searched and found to be empty.
Reports back revealed clothes filled the closets and chests of drawers in those rooms; there was no evidence of things being packed up for a trip.
Not a single cousin, uncle, brother, or anyone else was found.
Until . . .
From five separate entrances, FBI men burst into the large ballroom of the mansion at the same moment. The bright lights of the chamber revealed the elder Don Corollas Gambino sitting in his wheelchair, smiling. Red lights dotted his chest as laser sights targeted the old man.
Beside him was a huge electronic device. Giant sparks of energy arched between two twenty-foot-tall transponder posts.
“What?” One of the agents blurted.
“I was too old to go,” the Don said. “And that’s fine.”
“Go? Go where?” another agent asked.
“I wanted to have the last laugh on you Feds. You’re too late!” raged the old man as he pressed a red button on a handheld unit in his lap.
Agents in the ballroom showed confused expressions. Those same expressions filled the faces of those stationed in the Alpha One outpost. “Too late for what?” the agents asked themselves.
Just then, the compound went up in a massive explosion heard three hundred miles away in the city of New York.
Six hundred and five years in the past, something a little different was happening at a large jousting tourney in the London of 1405.
“You are what kind of knight?” The head stooge spat the words out as if they were unclean things leaving his mouth.
“I’m a knight of the family Gambino. I’m ot’ta the south side of Rome, Italy. You must’a heard of us?”
“I’ve heard of Yorkshire knights, of Templar knights, even knights of the unicorn. I’ve never heard of Gambino knights. If I haven’t heard of these Gambinos, I daresay no one in all of England has heard of them,” said the scowling stooge.
“Well, that’s your loss to be sure, pally.” Don Corollas Gambino tried to be polite under the circumstances. “See, this little shindig should change all that for me. Now sign me up for this clambake, and tell me where to pitch my tent.”
“In due course, knight Gambin-e-o, in due course. Where are your squires, your armor, and other knightly equipment of note?” asked the Chamberlain of the tournament.
“Squires? I never use ’em,” Don Corollas said with a grin. “Just let me sign the roster and get going. Okay, pally?” He slid his hand across the table and left five golden coins on the rough wood. His knowing wink spoke volumes about his true character and he suspected the gold coins would do the rest.
“Knight Gambino, you seem to have dropped these funds. No doubt all you have in the world. Squires are required for this tournament. Since you don’t have one, you can’t participate. I’m so very sorry.” But the Chamberlain’s face said he was clearly not sorry at all. “Better luck next year. Next in line please.”
Seeing it would do no good to argue with this type of stiff on the stiff’s home ground, the good “knight” wandered over to the other knights he’d seen rejected for various reasons. He walked up to the poorest-looking of them and bowed.
“So buddy, why wouldn’t the lord high stuffed armorer over there let you play in his game?”
“My name is Tarlen, not Buddy, but no offense taken,” replied the knight in a cheerful manner. “I didn’t have the required funds to enter. It seems they’ve doubled the fees this year.”
“Tell you what, sport,” said Corollas, “I’m in need of a sort of squire-type guide to help me over the rough spots at this horse-lance-shield hoot enanny. I’ll give you a thousand cool gold ones if you be my squire for the tournament. Wad’da say?”
“I say my name is Tarlen and the next time you make that naming mistake we will come to blows. However, I accept your offer if you prove to me that you can pay this sum,” Tarlen replied.
“I likes a careful man. Come over here,” the knight ordered, taking Tarlen to a small wagon. Inside were lots of chests and one contained many times the offered price in gold.
“Aren’t you afraid of thieves and bandits? That’s a lot of gold,” Tarlen queried.
“We Gambinos don’t take lightly to theft. I’ve a few cousins with me and more coming. Ten people have tried to get in’ta that chest. All ten are wearing stone overshoes in the middle of several rivers in the local area. Word gets around, if you know what I mean?”
“Well, yes, I see,” Tarlen responded. “Shall we get you signed up for tomorrow’s event?”
“Onward and upward, pal . . . err, Sir Tarlen,” Don Gambino said with a sly and almost respectful smile.
Later that day, Sir Tarlen and his own squire set up Knight Gambino’s tent.
“Sire, what did the strange knight call this darkly striped material the tent is fashioned from?” the squire asked.
Sir Tarlen held up the tent flap to the rays of the sun. “He called it pinstripe. I can’t imagine why, there are no pins in it.” Tarlen admired the material in the afternoon sun. “He also said his whole family had many tabards made of this material. Did you hear his last comment?”
“No, what did he say?” the squire asked.
“He said something about, ‘seeing the lay of the land and getting the skinny on tomorrow’s free-for-all.’ I can’t imagine what that means, can you?” Tarlen asked.
“No. I say, Sir Tarlen, come look at this Italian armor. It is astonishing.” Wonder filled the young squire’s voice.
The armor’s surface displayed intricately engraved roses and grapevines. Covered in etchings and embossed images, each piece of armor was an artistic marvel.
“Where are the dents and tears? I’ve never seen jousting armor so perfect.” asked the younger squire. “What are these stubby things in these holders?”
“They smell of sulfur and oil,” Tarlen remarked. “Put them back; who knows what devilish things they are.”
“Let’s have no talk of devils, boys,” Don Corollas interrupted.
The knight and squire leapt up from their examinations.
“We Gambinos are all good Catholics, and that’s the way we likes it, see. Looking over the equipment, huh. Pretty good stuff, even if I do say so myself.” The Don brushed his hand over the surface of his armor.
“We were just putting out your armor for the joust tomorrow. What are these odd clubs you have attached to carriers at your armor’s hips?” Tarlen asked.
“Oh those . . . clubs . . . are a family tradition,” the Don explained. “We call them tommy guns. They’re named after my cousin, Tommy ‘the Cooler’ Gambino. He works the north side of Rome. That territory has become real quiet since he started carrying those. If you know what I mean. We never go into battle without them. They are kind’a like high-priced good luck charms. By the way, are there any Sullivan Acts against using missile weapons during the set-to tomorrow?”
“Sullivan Acts?” Knight Tarlen had no idea what his lord asked.
“If I may, Lord Tarlen,” his squire interrupted. “I think he means are there any rules against using missile weapons during the joust.” The squire smiled, getting into the swing of Knight Gambino’s horrible use of English.
“Oh. Use of missile weapons is forbidden, unless the joust is to the death. In that case, only the most basic rules of chivalry apply. The more foolish knights sometimes charge an enemy in a fit of rage. This allows the defending knight to do whatever they wish. However, that hardly ever happens in jousts like these. A knight would have to be very angry to agree to a duel to the death,” Tarlen answered.
“Gottcha in one, pal . . . err . . . Sir Tarlen,” Gambino said with a knowing smile. “Well, let us get some shuteye, shall we? Tomorrow we have a great deal of business to transact.”
It took several minutes for the two English knights to figure out what in the world Gambino said to them. They got the point when his loud snores filled the pinstripe tent. The younger squire went to take care of the horses, and soon all three were asleep.
