John Schettler - Touchstone

Paul smiled. “You’re getting the hang of this at last,” he said. “That’s just another positive outcome from your illegal mission. Yes, we were in the sphere of influence of the Arch, and that made us Free Radicals. We got Maeve’s call about Kelly while we were still in the Nexus, and we resolved to go to Kelly’s aid then and there. That resolve was enough to put the issue in doubt. Time was not ready to close the continuum, so she put Kelly into a Schroedinger’s Box and we made sure that cat stayed alive!”

“So now they realize their plot against Kelly failed,” Maeve breathed. “They know we are on to them, and if what you said is true they are looking for verification on the events surrounding this meeting.”

“Exactly,” Paul agreed. “They want clarity. It’s the only way they can plan any counter-operation against the action we decide to take here.”

“But they can’t have spies everywhere,” said Kelly. There’s no one here now but the four of us, for example, and this is where the real decisions will be made.”

“True, but you would be amazed what a good historian can dig up,” said Nordhausen.

“A lot of trouble!” Maeve harried him, and the professor waved her off.

“The point is well taken,” said Paul. “We leave subtle clues on the world, almost without a second thought. The phone calls we made last night make an easy example. There’s a record of them somewhere now, with exact times. The queries we run on the Internet can be data based.”

“Not!” Kelly protested. “I’ve got our systems locked up tighter than a witch’s—” He caught himself, realizing he was not just out with the boys. “Well you know what I mean.”

“OK, so our systems here are secure,” Paul continued. “Yet every time we spin up the Arch, Con-Edison knows about it, right? Our damn electric bill could stand as a record of our operation times. Last night we all signed in at the hospital registration desk to go visit you, Kelly. And Robert—didn’t I see you swipe a credit card for the meals we picked up on the way over to your place?”

“Well all I had with me were British pounds and shillings left over from my mission,“ said the professor.

“Fine, but there’s a record of that transaction—timed and dated. We drive, we buy gas, groceries, we go through intersections that have been rigged with cameras for years now. We pass through RFID chip readers every time we go into a store. Beyond that, we scribble notes and just toss them into trash cans like they were gone. Hell, we leave fingerprints on everything we touch. A good gumshoe and a forensics team could learn an incredible amount of detail about our lives if they set their mind to it. Look how we solved the spatial and temporal coordinates for the mission to the Hejaz? It was just an errant note scribbled on a receipt. And speaking of Mr. Graves: when he showed up seven years ahead of schedule what did he do? He holed up in a monastery to leave as little impression on the Meridian as possible. The almost invisible wakes we leave while going about ordinary activities could be the crucial elements of a breaching plan.” He halted, out of breath, but it was clear by the look on their faces that he had made his point.

“He’s right,” Maeve concurred. “If we’re going to take on a responsibility like this we have to start being very careful—very precise.” She looked at Nordhausen.

“And get the numbers right,” Robert whispered in Kelly’s direction.

“Oh, be quiet, or I’ll send you back to the dinosaurs again!” Kelly smiled, but his point was made.

“That opens another issue,” said Maeve. “Robert thinks he has the temporal and spatial coordinates figured out for this trip to Rosetta, but who’s going?”

There was a moment of silence and Nordhausen was the first to speak. “I’m the obvious choice,” he said. “I know the history and I can read the hieroglyphics.”

“And you have a strange propensity to wander about and tip brandy with Primes,” Paul put in.

“What?” Maeve was on alert at once.

“Never mind,” Nordhausen hushed her, covering his tracks. “He’s just needling me, and I suppose I have it coming. I can promise you that the events of recent days have made a profound impression on me. I realize what we’re dealing with now, Maeve. I’ll be very careful—very precise in anything I do.”

“Of course you will,” she said. “Because I’m going too.”

Nordhausen’s eyes widened. “What? Who’s going to run the monitors?”

“I suppose that gets dumped on me again,” Kelly complained.

Robert looked at Maeve and said, “Do you realize what you’re saying?”

“Of course I do.”

“But we aren’t just going to sit in a gallery and watch a play. This is going to be dangerous.”

“Of course it is.”

“But you’re a—”

“A woman? Yes, you’ve got that right as well. And don’t try to tell me that there was no place for a woman in this Milieu, because I know the history as well as you do.”

Nordhausen gave Paul a frustrated look. “Do we really need three people on this operation?”

“Three people? Hey, who’s gonna stay and help me here?” said Kelly.

Everyone was looking at Paul, who stood with his arms folded, his brown eyes shifting from Robert to Maeve to Kelly as he sorted something in his mind. “OK,” he said at last. “Let me hear the approach scenario.” He wanted to catch up on anything he may have missed by coming late.

“Savants,” said Robert. “We’re going in as members of the philosophers, scientists and literati that tagged along with Napoleon during his invasion of Egypt.”

“Won’t the names of all the passengers who booked transport with the French fleet be in a register?” Paul probed. “Won’t they have assigned quarters, liaisons with the French Army? How will you pass?”

“There were many that landed later, coming over on courier ships and independent transport.” Maeve explained her rationale. “I’ve done some research on this, and it solves our language problem. We can say we were Americans visiting relatives in France when we heard the proclamation announcing the expedition and simply had to return home by way of Egypt.”

“Americans? Details,” said Paul. “You’ve got to ring true.”

Maeve reached into the pocket of her khaki shirt and drew out a paper. “The Perla,” she said with a smile. “A Spanish 34-gun frigate out of Malaga making a courier and supply run to Cyprus for a plantation owner there. She put into Mallorca, then ran up to Toulon, where they took on six more passengers, including three Americans . They went on to Sardinia, and then Tripoli, where one of the Americans got off. The ship hit foul water during a squall in the Gulf of Sidra and three passengers were lost, including the last two Americans—swept right out to sea and never heard from again. The Perla continued on and docked at Aboukir Bay three days before our planned entry date. She was there very briefly, before fleeing at rumors of the imminent approach of the British and Turkish fleets. She made her delivery but, nearing home on her return leg, she was caught in an engagement with a British squadron in the straits of Gibraltar and fled to the Barbary Coast, where she sunk. We can pose as those two lost souls, and just say we got off at Aboukir Bay. The ship will be gone. There would be no one to dispute our story. Who will be the wiser?”

She had a pleased expression on her face, and was glad she had taken the time to do the initial research the previous night, after leaving Kelly at the hospital. The others were all somewhat surprised to hear this.

“I stopped at the University wardrobe on the way in,” she pressed on.